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It's plain to see that Scaramouche is pissed off and rapidly approaching the point of no return. That means one thing and one thing only:
Childe is going to get railed until he's absolutely senseless.
It's not uncommon for them to work through their issues by any means possible. Being a Harbinger comes with a unique set of frustrations, after all. Some Harbingers gamble. Some of them pick up weird hobbies. Some of them take it out on other people; fighting or fucking each other or recruits or members of the public, it doesn't matter. Most of them have multiple vices. Childe does. But more often than not, working out frustrations means picking a fight.
If Scaramouche is around, it’s a fight and then doing him against the nearest available surface. It’s a reciprocal sort of arrangement though. Childe has to admit there’s a certain thrill in being pushed around, even when he feels an urge to fight back. Sometimes he does. Last time he’d tried, Scaramouche had pulled his hair and bitten down on his neck so hard the mark hadn’t faded for an entire week; it was a dirty tactic to get him to submit, but it had worked.
Today’s frustration is multifaceted. There’s a batch of frankly terrible new recruits; one of them doesn’t seem like he can even manage the weight of the claymore he’s so insistent is his preferred weapon. Another makes the cardinal mistake of saying that Scaramouche doesn’t seem like he’s old enough to be a Harbinger and earns a zap straight to the chest for it. Another is all of sixteen years old and hasn’t learned any manners.
Childe kind of feels bad for the last one. He’s not going to last very long in a place like this; the majority of their recruits are adults who find themselves in trouble, and training is designed for that. If the regimen doesn’t kill him then someone else will.
The second frustration is simply that Scaramouche is human, despite everything, and he is not beyond getting angry when headquarters are out of his preferred type of tea.
But most importantly of all, he’s been removed from an assignment that he’d been enjoying. And Dottore of all people had replaced him. Childe can hardly blame Scaramouche for being mad about it. If anyone had tried to pull him out of Liyue before he was ready, he’d have been mad too, and only moreso if it was Dottore replacing him.
So when Scaramouche locks eyes with him when the recruits have left, prods him in the chest (and nearly smacks his chin with his goddamn hat), and says, “Come by my quarters after dinner,” Childe has no real plans to object, even if it’s different to their normal routine of dragging each other to the nearest vaguely hidden place as soon as possible.
Still, he plays the part. “And what if I don’t want to?”
“Then I’ll see if Signora is free,” Scaramouche answers, deadpan. Childe chokes on his own spit.
It’s a bluff. Surely it’s a bluff. It has to be a bluff, but Childe is in no mood to find out for sure.
“Okay,” he says, stumbling over the word as he feels something red-hot lick up his chest. He prays it doesn’t reach his cheeks, or his ears. “I’ll see you after dinner.”
“Good boy,” Scaramouche says, with something like a wicked glint in his eyes. Childe curses him for it.
*
He is antsy through dinner, impatiently tapping his foot off of the ground as he waits for his meal at his favourite little out-of-the-way seafood place. Nowhere else manages the flavours quite the same way as this one does.
He debates for an age about whether he ought to bring a portion back for Scaramouche. He even has his wallet in hand--but Scaramouche is an adult and therefore perfectly capable of getting his own food. Besides, even the best container can’t keep a whole meal warm in the bitter cold that is a Snezhnayan Winter. And besides that, Scaramouche has been in such a foul mood all day that this would no doubt not be what he was looking for. He probably has some fancy dinner routine.
So Childe puts his wallet away again, tucked deep inside his many layers of clothing. He eats his dinner, and he rushes back through the slushy streets that lead to headquarters, doing his best not to slip on the ice in his haste.
His toes feel like they could fall off by the time he’s back at their building, and he heaves a happy sigh of relief as he steps out of the worst of the cold. He tosses his overcoat to the girl manning the door and calls, “Make sure it’s dry by the morning,” over his shoulder to her.
He pauses at the top of the stairs, looking left down the hallway that would lead him in the direction of his own private quarters. Then, down to the right, where beyond several more hallways and turns and two flights of stairs, Scaramouche is waiting. Or where Childe assumes he's waiting, in any case. It is after dinner.
He makes his decision. He begins to make his way down the well-worn route to Scaramouche's room. He catches sight of himself in the reflection of a window and pauses, raking a hand through his hair in an attempt to temper unruly strands. It doesn’t do much.
He finds himself hesitating outside Scaramouche’s door. He eyes the golden number 6 affixed to dark wood, runs gloved fingers along cool metal before curling them into a fist at his side. There’s no reason to feel an ounce of trepidation; nothing is going to happen tonight that they haven’t done with each other before.
So then why does he hesitate?
Is it having to invite himself in, rather than being half-pushed and half-dragged down the very same hallways he’s just made his way through? Is it the delay between the initial frustrations and the part where they work it out?
His hand hovers by the door halfway to a knock for several long moments, but before he can even make a decision, Scaramouche yanks the door open and stares up at him. “Are you going to just stand there all day? Forgot how a door works?”
His brain just about short-circuits. Where he had expected Scaramouche clad in his usual Winter gear—long-sleeved cable knit sweaters and full-length pants—instead he finds, as his eyes flick down, that Scaramouche has taken it upon himself to answer the door wearing absolutely nothing at all.
Childe can only stare, blinking stupidly, until Scaramouche huffs an impatient sigh and pulls Childe into the room by his collar.
"Shoes," Scaramouche says. Childe looks down at his feet for a second too long, because he continues, "Take them off."
He is not careful with his things then, shucking his jacket as he toes out of his shoes.
Once done, he is dragged out of the entryway and into the bedroom. He is tossed onto the bed and not too gently—but that's okay. Scaramouche follows him, tossing a leg over to straddle Childe's waist. Childe isn't ashamed that he feels his cock stirring already. Who could possibly hold back when Scaramouche is right there and ready to do Celestia knows what?
“Too many clothes,” Scaramouche complains, starting with the buttons on the bottom of Childe’s shirt while Childe starts with those at the top. Their hands meet in the middle and Childe tries to act like he hasn’t just been shocked.
He lets Scaramouche push his shirt off his shoulders, relishes the way Scaramouche trails his hands along his arms. He tosses the shirt away and does not care to see where it lands (there are more important things, after all). He reaches up to place his hands somewhere—anywhere—on Scaramouche's body, but Scaramouche catches his wrists and holds them in place. It's a loose hold. One he could break out of easily, but one which Scaramouche is trusting him not to.
He lets his hands be guided down to his chest. Scaramouche doesn't have to say, "Touch yourself," in that tone of voice where he absolutely will not accept an argument, but he does it. Childe cannot do anything but follow the instruction.
He does his best to put on a show, trailing his fingers down to his nipples. He runs his thumb in slow, gentle circles around each nub, coaxing them to attention. He watches Scaramouche. Watches the way he watches Childe right back, hands loosely resting in fists against his thighs.
Childe knows that Scaramouche watches him—and often. It is not uncommon for him to glance over during a spar with a recruit or in a meeting and see Scaramouche looking back. But never has Childe felt quite so seen.
It sends a shiver through him, one that he can't stop, and it exits his body as a shaky sigh. He looks up at Scaramouche, but he looks so bored. So unaffected. It sends a ripple of something like—shame, maybe—through Childe’s body and he can feel his cheeks heat. He only hopes he's still nipped pink from his time outside so it isn't too noticeable.
In any case, he amps it up, just a little, teasing at his nipples just enough to send pleasant little shockwaves down his chest. He bites on his lower lip to keep from making too much noise—but breathy little rasps escape him anyway.
He isn't quite sure when his eyes slipped closed, but they must have, for he feels rather than sees the way Scaramouche leans forward to lick a long stripe along his collarbone. His eyes flick open at the sensation of lips on the tender skin where his neck meets his shoulder, and he raises one hand to tangle in amongst Scaramouche’s hair.
"I didn't tell you that you could stop," Scaramouche murmurs, breath hot and close to Childe's ear. It isn't particularly aggressive, but it doesn't need to be, and besides which—outright aggression has never made his cock twitch quite the way this does.
So Childe relents. He disentangles his hand. Scaramouche rewards him with a series of kisses along his neck, stopping to nip and suck seemingly as he pleases. Childe will have marks in the morning, he is sure; Scaramouche is careful never to let him leave these trysts without them. Scaramouche works his way along Childe’s jaw, his chin, to the point that Childe thinks Scaramouche might actually kiss him on the lips. His breath catches in his throat at the idea. Instead, Scaramouche pulls away and sits back with a devious little smirk. “Did you think I was going to kiss you?”
“No.” Yes, but that isn’t something they do. It’s been months now and they never have. It’s an unspoken rule that kissing is too intimate.
And that’s fine. It’s not like Childe wants to kiss him, even if Scaramouche does have pretty lips that he knows are softer than they look.
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe the answer. Childe can’t possibly let him think that he’s won. So he presses up with his hips to change the topic; his cock needs attention and the pressure even through layers of clothes is enough for now.
“Ah ah ah,” Scaramouche scolds. “We’ll get there when we get there. You don’t get to set the pace here.”
Childe lets out a whiny noise of complaint and Scaramouche just laughs, like he’s enjoying this. He probably is. It’s annoying, for all Childe can do is squirm underneath him and hope he gets some respite soon.
Scaramouche leans in. Close, too close, almost like he’s going to—
But he dips away at the last second, with something like mirth in his eyes, and he knocks one of Childe’s hands aside to suck a nipple into his mouth.
It’s not where Childe wants Scaramouche’s mouth, but asking for it where he wants it is just going to get him scolded. It’s not bad like this anyway, and it’s especially not bad when Scaramouche nips with his teeth. Childe’s breath catches in throat and escapes as a needy little whine which only gets higher and louder as Scaramouche grinds his hips down. He's hard.
Childe doesn't get to relish in the sensation for all that long, for Scaramouche is moving, licking long stripes down his chest, down his abs. He nips with his teeth. He kisses at ticklish spots which make Childe squirm. He only relents once he's reached the waistband of Childe's pants. When Scaramouche tugs at the layers of clothes, Childe obediently raises his hips to let him toss the fabric away into the corner of the room.
Then, Scaramouche is on him again. He laces their fingers together, pins Childe's hands beside his head. Pins, but Childe could break out of it any second he wanted to. He could call this whole thing off, if he wanted to. It's just that he doesn't want to. It's mutually beneficial.
Still. Scaramouche has pink dusted across his cheeks, and up close like this, Childe almost thinks he can see the faintest of freckles scattered across his nose. Have they always been there? Had he just not been paying attention?
He's pulled out of his wondering as Scaramouche cants his hips. Just once. Even the briefest of attention to his cock sends a jolt down his spine; Childe cannot help the way he jerks his hips to seek more of it.
Again. Again. Again. He wants.
And this time, Scaramouche lets him have. He leans in to lavish attention on Childe's neck; it's always one of his favourite things to do, and Childe can't say he minds, not when it feels good, not when it's almost nice to walk around with the remnants of the night before visible to anyone—
Scaramouche bites down hard enough to draw out an, "Ow, fuck," but Childe can't deny that it's a good kind of pain. The kind where he wants to slip out of his own head for a while and just take it.
Scaramouche lets go of one of Childe's hands and slides it down his chest, down towards his cock. It’s a horrible moment as Childe thinks he's going to tease him some more, taunt him with the promise of a small hand and a firm grip and then not deliver.
Scaramouche sits himself back upright—Childe resents the loss of attention to his neck—and runs his finger through the precome pooling in the dips of Childe's abs.
"Look at you," Scaramouche says, low and breathy, and Childe can't work out if it's irreverent or something like wonder. "Such a mess."
Childe wants to point out that this is not entirely his fault, that this could be avoided if Scaramouche would hurry up and fuck him already, that Scaramouche is only adding to the mess since he's leaking too, and that he's making it ten times worse with the way he's smearing it around. He wants to point this all out, but he says nothing, for there is far too high a risk that Scaramouche will call this whole thing off—or keep going but make sure that Childe gets absolutely no satisfaction from it. He isn't sure which option would be worse.
He opens his mouth to say—something, anything. The second he does, though, Scaramouche pounces, placing two precome-coated fingers right into Childe’s mouth. Childe can barely resist the urge to clamp his teeth down, and he catches himself just before his teeth slam shut.
“Suck,” Scaramouche tells him. “Clean up the mess you made.”
Childe’s gaze does not leave Scaramouche’s. Not as his lips close around those fingers. Not as he runs his tongue between slick knuckles and around coarse fingertips. Not as he swallows, not as he lets an obscene noise rise from his throat, not as he does his best impression of really sucking him off.
Scaramouche still wears that same neutral expression, but Childe can see something dark in his eyes. Desire. Want. Scaramouche licks his lips, just the quickest flash of pink. He pulls his fingers from Childe’s mouth and wipes them on his bare chest as he asks “What if I just fucked your mouth?” It’s a rhetorical question, surely, but Scaramouche quirks an eyebrow as he gets that familiar little half-smirk. “Is that what you want, Childe?”
It’s what Scaramouche wants, clearly. Childe wants—anything. And if he’s good, then maybe Scaramouche will be good back.
So he nods, hoarse as he answers, “Yeah. I’ll suck you off.”
The smile that Scaramouche gives him is all too satisfied. “Is that so.” It’s not a question. "You're so eager to please."
He is. Scaramouche is correct, as he often is. Childe opens his mouth to respond, but the words are foggy and difficult to find.
"Good boy," Scaramouche murmurs, wholly different from when he'd said it earlier like a taunt. This time, it's reverent. This time, Childe believes it. His cock aches.
He cannot help the punched-out "Please," that slips out.
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. "Please what?"
"Please," Childe repeats, unsure if he's quite able to find many more words at all. "Fuck me."
"Okay."
Okay. Okay. Okay.
Childe thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest. Does it show on his face, how much he wants this? His cheeks feel hot. He can feel strands of hair sticking to his face. He can feel precome rapidly cooling as it sits on his stomach.
Scaramouche sits up on his knees. He's enticing and dangerous all in one, and Childe knows he's about to feel the worst of it. But he wants it. It feels good to acknowledge it. He wants it. He wants whatever Scaramouche will give him. He wants it.
So he watches Scaramouche, cannot tear his eyes away from the display before him even for a second. Is he going to have his mouth fucked? His ass? Between his thighs? They've done all of it before. Even if today has been odd, this is one thing that cannot go too differently—
Scaramouche reaches behind his back. Childe furrows his eyebrows as he looks up, staring at Scaramouche's face to see if he can figure out what on earth is taking so long—and he's radiant. Eyes closed, perfect pink lips dropped open into a small little o.
Childe only realises what's happening when Scaramouche lets out a sharp exhale. His eyes drop from admiring his face to between Scaramouche's legs. He's just in time to see Scaramouche finish pulling out what looks like a heavy glass plug.
It happens quickly. The plug is tossed aside, Scaramouche wraps a hand around Childe's cock to line it up with his hole and sinks down onto it, inch by inch until he's fully seated like it's easy.
It takes everything Childe has not to come right away. It's good, it's so good, but of course it's good, this is them. And when it's them, it's special and—fucking hell. Scaramouche rolls his hips in a lazy sort of circle, biting on his lower lip and looking down at Childe through long lashes.
He is beautiful.
The realisation hits and it’s the most disastrous timing, because how is Childe supposed to figure out what to do when he's compromised like this? Is it even a thought he would have had if he wasn't balls deep? He knows sex makes people do and say stupid shit. Sometimes he even thinks he might like—
Scaramouche lifts up, up, almost right off of Childe's cock entirely. He sinks right back down again and there's that familiar punched-out noise. It means he feels good. It means that even like this, Childe's doing something right.
His hands have lay useless by his sides for too long, but they're itching to touch pale thighs, to rest on Scaramluche's waist, to pull him down and get a proper taste.
Childe goes for the thighs. Scaramouche catches his wrists and holds them away from his body, keeps them up in the air as he figures out his rhythm—slow and torturous, at least for now.
"You don't touch—" He rises up, "—Unless I tell you to," he sinks back down. "And you don't come,” up, “until I say so,” down.
Childe is, actually, going to go insane. He's already at his limit with the tight, soft, slick heat of it all, and now he can't even finish until Scaramouche says he can? This is a form of torture.
“That’s not—“ Childe tries to say.
“Not what?” Scaramouche asks, ceasing in his movements entirely, and that’s the torture instead, he thinks. Childe doesn’t want to engage in fucking cockwarming.
So he shakes his head. Scaramouche smiles at him, and it is pathetic the kinds of things Childe would do to keep that smile on his face.
Eventually, Scaramouche drops his hold on Childe’s hands, and Childe curls them into fists into the bedsheets instead. “Good,” Scaramouche tells him, and Childe cannot help the way he jerks at the praise, the way he buries himself even deeper inside.
How Scaramouche keeps his cool, Childe doesn’t know. He feels like he’s falling apart, like he’s coming undone with every roll of Scaramouche’s hips, every little flutter where Scaramouche squeezes around him, every soft little, “Ah,” that falls from between Scaramouche’s lips.
He wants to kiss Scaramouche so badly, wants to swallow up each and every one of those noises and find out if they taste as sweet as they sound.
The noises come thicker, and faster, and harder and louder as Scaramouche picks up the pace. He goes from soft, high breaths to deep gasps every time he slams himself back down onto Childe’s cock, like he’s forcing all the air out of his lungs. It’s filthy, the ever-building crescendo of Scaramouche’s moans mixing with Childe’s and the slap of skin on skin.
Scaramouche looks like there is only one thing on his mind, and it’s chasing after his own release. Childe is but a means to an end, and if this is all he ever is then he will make his peace with it.
He never thought that would be something he would have to make peace with.
“I’m—I’m gonna—” Scaramouche is babbling, reaching out to cling onto, to dig his nails into Childe’s shoulders as he fucks himself stupid. His eyes are screwed shut, his cock is practically gushing precome and has been for what feels like an age, he’s losing every sense of rhythm he had, and he looks like he might just die if he doesn’t come soon.
Some small part at the back of Childe’s mind relishes the fact that it’s his cock that gets Scaramouche like this, red in the face with his pupils blown wide, chasing his release like it’s the only thing that matters—and that thought is enough to have Childe breaking nearly every rule that had been laid down.
He touches. His hands cup Scaramouche’s ass, and between that and his own hard thrusts up, they maintain a rhythm, hurting towards the peak of a crescendo—
Scaramouche cups Childe’s face and plants his lips on Childe’s as he comes.
Childe follows suit all too quickly (for he’d stay forever here if he could) and with no permission given. With one final jerk of the hips and static in his veins, he spills, long and deep inside.
It’s only then that he even realises that he’s kissing back and has been the whole time. Those lips are just as soft as he imagined. Just as sweet. Scaramouche is kissing him like he’s wanted this forever. Wouldn’t that be something?
But Scaramouche pulls back—not fast enough, for Childe chases after his lips for one more short little peck—eases his way off of Childe’s rapidly softening dick, then slumps forward on shaky legs to rest his head in the crook of Childe’s neck. He doesn't even flinch when Childe drapes an arm over his waist.
“Good boy,” He says breathlessly, one more time, reaching up to stroke his fingers through Childe’s hair. It’s soft. It’s almost tender. Childe could convince himself that Scaramouche meant it instead of it being something that is only happening in the heat of the moment.
“What the fuck was that,” Childe asks, but he’s so wrung out that he’s not even sure it’s come out sounding like a question.
Scaramouche doesn't say anything for a long time. Childe can't blame him—he's clearly trying to catch his breath. Childe is thankful for it—maybe Scaramouche won't hear the way Childe's heart is pounding.
"A surprise," Scaramouche finally says, murmured low against Childe's ear. "And it fucking worked, didn't it?"
The kiss? Answering the door like that? The plug? Childe isn't sure what Scaramouche is referring to. Perhaps it's all three. Perhaps it's just one. Does it matter?
"We don't kiss," Childe murmurs into Scaramouche's hair. It's true. As a general rule, they don't. Kisses are vulnerable. Intimate. Anyone can fuck, but not just anyone can kiss.
Childe can hear the rolled eyes as Scaramouche talks again. "Too late for that."
"Why’d you do it?"
Scaramouche goes very, very still. Childe is not sure that he's even breathing.
"I," He ventures, carefully. "wanted to." He stops for a second, softness drifting away and then he returns, indignant. "And this is my turn. I get to do what I want. You knew you were coming here for whatever the fuck I wanted to do to you—"
Childe cuts him off, emboldened by the frankly terrible excuses. All he does is turn his head and lift his free hand to tilt Scaramouche's chin, and they're kissing again. And kissing Scaramouche might be the easiest, most natural thing in the world.
"I like you too," Childe says, like that's the easiest thing in the world as well.
Scaramouche practically squawks his protests, and he wriggles to try and get out of Childe's grip.
But Childe just loops his hands back around Scaramouche's waist, and he swallows the protests in their third ever kiss.