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Childe isn't a prude by any stretch of the definition, but my god those shorts are fucking tiny. Scaramouche talks and acts like a grouchy senior citizen so much of the time that Childe finds himself regularly forgetting that—physically, at least—the gap between their ages aren't terribly far apart. And the shorts—yes, the shorts. The bane of his existence. He's not one to usually let the head below his waist take the lead, but all he can think about these days is slowly—agonizingly slowly—pulling Scaramouche's pants off and watching them dip around the inside of his knee and slip down his smooth calves.
He's going to be shipped off to Liyue in a month—the Tsaritsa's orders; he's to retrieve the Geo Archon's gnosis and expand the Fatui debt collecting business on the side—something which he is simultaneously grateful for and bitter about. Who knows how long the operation will be—it can be months (or even years) before Childe is able to return to the motherland, swaggering into the palace with Rex Lapis' gnosis in his palm and Scaramouche's too-short shorts between his teeth.
Wait.
Scratch that last part.
The Tsaritsa will probably not appreciate that.
"Are you paying attention? Or are you too busy being lost in your little fantasy world?"
Childe quickly hangs his imagination somewhere else, smiling sweetly at Signora. "Of course I'm paying attention. You're right—the new recruits certainly need more training before we can let them on the field. Might I even suggest that one of us do it."
"One of us?" Sandrone blinks at him, her eyes deceptively sleepy. "It is not our responsibility to oversee the fledglings, Tartaglia. You ought to know this by now."
He doesn't like to admit it, but Sandrone makes him sweat sometimes. More than one of the harbingers still treat him like he's wet behind the ears, but Sandrone... Something about her makes Childe uneasy. Maybe it's those creepy puppets she controls, and the skins that she wears. "Yes, yes. But something's obviously going wrong. There aren't such things as bad recruits, just bad teachers. Recruits are as malleable as one wills it."
"I see." Sandrone doesn't smile back at him. "Scaramouche would probably be best for that job."
"What?!" Scaramouche's voice snaps like a whip through the still air as he stands up from his seat at the meeting table. "I'm not wasting my time teaching multiplication to those jabbering jackasses."
"Oh, no," Childe says, rather sadistically. "I quite agree, Sandrone."
"I, too, find it to be a sound idea," chuckles Signora, stroking her chin.
Scaramouche's face darkens as they gang up on him. Not all of them are here today—only Childe, Signora, Sandrone, him, and Pulcinella. All of them turn to him—the most senior member in their ranks. He looks bored by the current affairs, already having spoken his piece. His hawk-like gaze flicks up and off the tabletop when he feels their eyes on him. "Do as you will. Any harbinger would bring about the results you desire." 'You', not 'we'. Because let it never be said that there are slackers or basket cases in Pulcinella's division.
It's official.
Scaramouche curses, not even bothering to do so quietly. For all that he likes to pretend, Scaramouche isn't the level-headed type. He's more meticulous than average—as all harbingers are—but he has a fuse shorter than his stature.
"Then it is done." There is a tone of finality in Sandrone's voice. "I will update the records to include this." No one dares argue Sandrone. Even Pierro and Pulcinella do not usually question her. She works more on the logistics side of things and reports things to the Tsaritsa that not even the other harbingers are privy to know about. "We will be expecting substantial improvement before the next meeting. Dismissed."
Childe feels a weight lift off his chest when he is finally allowed to go, falling into stride with Scaramouche. "So," he starts. "Freshies, huh?"
"What do you want?" Scaramouche deadpans. "Did you come here to gloat, Tartaglia?"
"No, not at all." Childe forces his eyes to stay on Scaramouche's face. "In fact, I was going to offer to lend you a hand. After all, in a month's time, I'll be in Liyue and you won't get to see me anymore."
"Perhaps, if I'm lucky, you'll get lost at sea. And I don't need your help, so kindly fuck off."
Childe chuckles as Scaramouche storms off, drinking in the sight of his legs disappearing into tempting fabric.
It starts off innocently enough, with bare skin and shorts. Then his thoughts take a darker turn. Those soft, unmarred thighs—he wants to pepper them with bites, and dig his fingers into flesh until angry bruises form. Childe wants to bite him until he bleeds, and hold him until he bruises beneath his iron grip. He can circle his thumb and pointer finger between one frail wrist, kissing the inside of his forearm until he reaches the curve of his armpit. To actually be able to stomach doing all of that, though, is a completely different story.
"Didn't you say you were going to help me?"
Scaramouche has already sent at least three recruits into the afterlife and the rest are working twice as hard to improve, so... No, Childe does not think he needs any help. With that, at least. But this...
"You called me here? For this?" Childe ogles at the sight, unsure to feel either incredibly aroused or incredibly disrespected. Both. Both is good.
Scaramouche is completely naked, though his lower half is hidden beneath the waters of the hot spring. A private one built for him and only him, meant to mimic the outdoor onsens of Inazuma.
Well, almost private.
The hot spring is split into two—one sectioned off for the public and one for Scaramouche's personal use. Childe is currently standing barefoot in the former, holding a towel in his hand. "What am I, your servant?"
"You said you wanted to help."
"You told me to fuck off!"
"I can change my mind, can't I?" Scaramouche shoots him an annoyed look.
He cannot believe this is happening. From the loud voices on the opposite side of the bamboo fence, there seems to be some sort of celebration going on. In fact, they sound vaguely familiar... "Are those the new recruits?"
"Indeed. I find that a little praise works well with punishment."
Bringing them to the hot springs is a little overkill. But Scaramouche likes to go hard on everything, doesn't he? Let it not be forgotten that he has killed at least three of those recruits already, and likely subjected the rest to grueling training. "What exactly do you want me to do? I'm a harbinger, Scaramouche, I don't have time to wait hand and foot on you."
"Oh, please. As if I don't know that you shove all of your menial tasks onto poor, overworked Ekaterina. You're just a battle junkie, Tartaglia."
Childe grits his teeth. Scaramouche gets on his nerves most days (in all sorts of ways) but he's being particularly insufferable today. "I'm done here. Go fuck yourself."
"At least hear me out, will you?"
"What? I have no interest in helping you."
"Changed your tune quickly, huh?"
"I said that two weeks ago, you bastard. You don't suddenly get to change your mind like this."
Scaramouche looks up thoughtfully, as if the night sky will give him answers. "Treat it as an exercise in elemental control, then."
Childe gives him a look.
"My body has been feeling stiff, lately," Scaramouche explains. "And I didn't commission this place for nearly enough—they don't have any jets or any of the sort. Use your hydro to sort out the kinks in my shoulders, will you?"
"You want me to give you a massage," Childe says flatly.
"Essentially, yes."
This arrogant son of a bitch. Childe wants to break him, wants to cut him into pieces and hang his limbs on the training grounds as a warning for the others. His fingers twitch. Oh, he wants to kill him, but how can he—?
Wait.
Childe regards Scaramouche, who has put a sleeping mask over his eyes and is now sipping an iced tea as he waits for Childe's answer. Something rather devious forms in his mind, and Childe laughs, sharp like splintering ice. This is an opportunity. "Alright, then," he says, genially, starting to strip. "But you won't mind me joining you in the water, right? It'll be much more effective and comfortable for the both of us."
"Whatever." Scaramouche doesn't even bother taking off the eye-mask. "Ugh. I'm going to have to get the water changed and double-boiled after this."
Childe wholeheartedly agrees, but not for the reason Scaramouche is likely thinking of. "I'll try not to dirty your water too much." He strips down only to his boxers, which are made for wet and dry, and lowers himself into the spring. The water sucks the tension out of his shoulders, and he sighs. His fingers brush Scaramouche's thigh as he positions himself beside him, pausing abruptly when he feels fabric. So he isn't totally nude, after all—he's wearing those damn shorts.
It sends a spike of arousal through his groin, and Childe wets his lips, feeling a little hum in his body as he manipulates his hydro. Water tentacles form in the spring, rising from the surface and sliding over Scaramouche's bare shoulders.
A little sigh escapes the older man's lips as Childe begins to work his magic. "A little lower."
"Here?"
"Mm. Yes. And to the left."
Childe obeys, precise even through his raging hormones.
"You're being surprisingly well-mannered today," remarks Scaramouche, lips wrapping around the straw of his drink. Childe shifts as his boxer tents. Scaramouche lifts his eye-mask, revealing one dark eye narrowed into a slit. "If only you could be like this all the time. What a good pet you'd make. I always hate the barkers."
"A pet, huh?" Childe says, lowly. More hydro tentacles manifest beneath the water. "Interesting."
Scaramouche frowns. "What are you—" He tenses up, a tentacle wrapping up and around his calf. "Tartaglia, what—"
"Sit back and enjoy. Wouldn't want to electrocute yourself, will you?"
In the water, Scaramouche is powerless. He doesn't have his delusion on him, and if he uses his lightning, it'll cook him and Childe alive. "You motherfucker," Scaramouche hisses as Childe's water squeezes Scaramouche's thighs, tentacles holding him into place. They sneak through his shorts and fondle his cock. "Stop that! Nngh...!"
Childe chokes on a laugh. "Did you just moan? You slut." Through his hydro, he can feel every twitch of Scaramouche's muscle and the rise of his tiny dick pressing against those sinful shorts. "Any louder and the recruits on the other side will start thinking something's up. And you worked so hard to instill fear in them, too."
Scaramouche begins to leak, a wetness that decidedly isn't water covering his tip. The eye-mask is askew on his face, pushing up his bangs so that they stick out randomly. He already looks a mess, and Childe's just begun.
Humming, Childe goes lower, tentacles groping his plush ass and sliding between his cheeks. He deliberately avoids his hole, content with watching Scaramouche struggle against the ministrations of his dick for now. They wriggle wildly in his shorts, seeking to touch as much skin as possible. More pre-cum mixes with the water. "Huh. You're so wet. Like a fucking girl." He punctuates the comparison with a tentacle probing Scaramouche's rim.
"Erk!" Scaramouche arches his back, mouth falling slightly. "Don't! That's enough, Tartaglia—leave now and I'll forget this ever happened."
"Aw, but that wouldn't be fun. Besides, like you'd ever let this slide. Might as well go all the way now that I'm here."
Scaramouche's ears burn red. "You fucking horndog!"
"Technically, I haven't even touched you myself yet. I'm not the one seconds away from coming in my pants. Who's the horndog, now?"
"Y-you...!" Whatever insult was about to come out of his mouth turns into a soft moan instead, the tentacle at his ass finally breaching his entrance. It's small, nothing huge—all he feels is a vague discomfort. "N-no..."
Childe flexes his fingers.
In an instant, the tentacle's girth and length expand, knocking the wind out of Scaramouche's lungs as it fills him. "Too full...!" He chokes on his spit, barely registering Childe reaching through his shorts and pumping his dick with his hand to help him along. The tentacle moves up and down, forming bumps and barbs to rub against his walls occasionally. Scaramouche grabs the edge of the hot spring, spilling his drink all over the floor. "Fuck."
"Hey."
Lust glazing over his eyes, Scaramouche turns.
Childe claims his lips roughly, nibbling on his bottom lip.
The tentacles chaining him to the pool loosen, but Scaramouche makes no move to escape, letting Childe loom over him. He holds Scaramouche up with his arms, the sole tentacle still stretching his ass wide. "You fucking fuck," he moans into Childe's ear, cum spurting from his cock as he finds release. His spend is squished between their torsos, a string of white connecting them as they push and pull. "I'm going to murder you for this."
"Really?" Childe teases as Scaramouche keens, the barbed tentacle grinding against his sweet spot. His hand roams, tugging at the waistband of his shorts. "I find that quite hard to believe, no offence. You should really see yourself right now."
"Fuck you, I hate you so fucking much—ngaaah!"
In one swift motion, dispels the tentacle and replaces it with his cock. It's bigger than the tentacle was, and Scaramouche sobs as Childe bottoms out inside him, a thick and heavy presence. "Serves you right for being such a bitch," Childe pants as he ruts into him, balls smacking his ass. "Throwing your weight around. You can dish it out, but can you take it?"
"S-stop!" His nerves are on fire, having just cum moments ago. "T-Tartaglia—!"
This is worlds better than whatever Childe has ever conceived in his mind. His hands grip Scaramouche's narrow hips firmly, sure to mark him for the next day. Scaramouche's walls flexes around him like he was born to take cock, to be used as a human sleeve. Eyelashes fluttering, he ceases the taunting, preparing for pleasure to wrack his body.
Scaramouche, still squashed between his arms and chest, whines when his cockhead pushes into his prostate mercilessly. It's gone suspiciously quiet on the other side of the onsen, but neither notice.
Shit, he's going to cum. This is the first opportunity he's had in weeks, constantly swamped by work.
Childe is quiet when he reaches orgasm, hips still slamming into Scaramouche as white fluid shoots into the smaller man. There's a lot to unload, Scaramouche twitching as cum fills him to the brim, bubbling from the tiniest gap between his stretched rim and Childe's length. Sighing, the muscles in Childe's body relax, and Scaramouche falls against him, trembling, red-faced, and thoroughly used.
As Scaramouche gathers his bearings together, dick at half-mast and head lolling against the crook of Childe's neck, he freezes.
There is a hole in the bamboo fence that only he can see.
And a lustful eye meets his horrified, shameful gaze.
Fucked and completely debased in front of a recruit. Of all of them, if the lack of noise from the public section is any indication.
A chuckle rumbles in Childe's chest. "Whoops."
"You," Scaramouche croaks, "You knew?"
"I had my suspicions. Gave them a good show, didn't we?"
Scaramouche pulls himself away from him, flinching as he feels his ass clench around nothing now that Childe is tucking his dick back in his pants. He flails in the water for a moment, falling to his knees. "You... You arrogant, touch-starved cunt!"
Screaming is cut short as lightning descends from the heavens, striking and cooking every single recruit on the opposite side. Weeks of hard work gone in just a snap of his fingers. With a shaking finger, Scaramouche points at Childe, rage contorting his youthful features. "You're next."
"Might wanna put on some clothes first."
Swearing under his breath, Scaramouche tries to haul himself out of the hot spring, only for pain to rip through his lower half. "Kkh!" He sucks air between his teeth, reaching for something to hold on to.
"Need some help?"
"I've had enough of your help."
Childe, the bastard, just laughs.