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Childe dreams of rubbing Scaramouche all over. He imagines how the pretty boy’s moans would sound—angelic, probably—and how his face would be covered in red, his eyes half lidded as his lips quiver. Childe imagines how his body would feel once he’s rolling his hips against Scaramouche, thrusting into the smaller male’s warm insides.
He wakes up, chest heaving and his entire face suffering a blush. Scaramouche is beside him, against the wall, waiting for someone. They’re both waiting outside for someone.
He asks Childe, “what’s wrong with you?”
Childe’s blush intensifies. He doesn’t respond. He stays silent.
They’ve cornered an enemy of the Tsaritsa. In the heat of battle, Scaramouche fights fiercely, aggression laden in each swift movement.
Childe’s hydro-blade slashes across the neck of his enemy, finishing them off. When he glances over at Scaramouche, his gaze lingers. He’s amazed at the elegance in the way the beautiful boy moves. The calmness, the quiet ferocity of each throw from the electro daggers he conjures, the way his hair flows with each twirl, it makes Childe hungry for something primal. He realized he’s gotten hard.
A literal second before Scaramouche’s eyes were on him, he turned around. He needed to hide it or release it—
“I’ll be back,” he exhales, chest heaving again like earlier today.
He thinks of how Scaramouche’s naked body would look bent over. Soft skin, warm to touch.
He imagines how their sweating bodies would stick together as they stay locked in an embrace of bedroom hugs and kisses; the male below him wrapping his arms around Childe. How hungrily he would grip Scaramouche’s ass and thrust himself as deep as he could go.
His downcast gaze studies his hand.
Moist, covered in his own cum.
His arousal came from the mere existence of Scaramouche, no less.
He frowns.
“Why him?”
‘Scaramouche is irritating. He loves to talk too fucking much and his holier than thou attitude needs a reality check. Someone ought to teach that pretty mouth of his a lesson.’
Childe let’s his thoughts run wild once more before he returns to his coworker.
The next day, they have a casual conversation while eating at the outdoor tables in Quingce. They’re waiting for the other two harbingers who will assist them with today’s mission, Columbia and Arleccino.
Through each second Childe is sweating and his lower body boiling with arousal when Scaramouche speaks. He hates that he loves his voice. He hates that he wants to pin him to the table and ram his cock inside that pretty little body. He imagines that, his chest heaving. People gasping in horror at the display of public sex.
Scaramouche doesn’t look at him, choosing instead to study the scenery…
…but Childe is certainly glaring at him
Seething.
‘Look at me.’ Childe says in his thoughts.
Scaramouche keeps talking, about god knows what. Childe doesn’t fucking care.
’Look at me.’
Scaramouche’s gaze remains averted.
’Look at me.’
For a second, a purple eye look his way. Did he hear those thoughts??
Scaramouche frowns, then turns his whole body to properly face Childe.
“Why do you look so pensive?” He asks.
Childe responds without any usual sarcasm in his voice, “I’m thinking about you.”
Scaramouche inches back, a scowl on his face.
Childe continues, “and how you could use your daggers on our next mission. It’s another artifact hunt. Its inside the Tenryou Commission warehouse. Close quarters, just the way you like it.”
Scaramouche’s head lowers, his attention back on the plate of food before him.
“So fucking weird,” he mutters.
They eat in silence.
The other harbingers don’t show up.
They must’ve been moved elsewhere without warning, again.
Childe beams, bending to give Scaramouche a pat on the shoulder. "Looks like the rest of the day is ours!"
Scaramouche shrugs him off. "No. It's yours. I am going home."
Back at the palace, the harbingers meet. Childe is thankful for the reprieve this meeting provides. He doesn’t have to focus on Scaramouche.
Until…
“Tartaglia and I eliminated the group in Brightcanyon two days ago. We found no signs of the artifact. We also didn’t get any assistance in Quingce today. Again.”
Why is he blushing? Scaramouche is just giving a status report.
—but the seriousness of his delivery…why is it so hot? Why is HE so hot? Adorable? Pretty?
Childe covers his mouth, his arm trembling.
Signora notices his predicament, “what has you so flustered?”
Dottore wears a coy smile. Hand on his hip, he laughs. “Seems like Tartaglia needs a check up.”
Childe hisses, “I do not.”
Pulcinella speaks, “if you are indeed suffering from some ailment, stay away from us and get yourself cured.”
Childe sighs, brushing a hand through his hair, “it’s not contagious.”
Scaramouche gives his input, “you’ve been acting really weird all day. If I catch whatever you have…” he pauses for a moment, thinking, “hmmm…I am overdue for a vacation.”
‘You’re the reason I’m like this.’ He doesn’t voice that thought. Childe says through his teeth, “it’s. Not. Contagious.”
“Let’s not forget the purpose of this meeting,” says Signora, visibly irritated by this off topic shift.
“Thank you. Ugh,” Childe huffs.
After the harbingers report their findings, they leave the spire one by one, heading to their rooms. They are allowed rest tonight. Tomorrow, the search resumes.
Childe follows Scaramouche, his eyes dead set on the male in front of him. At first, the boy doesn’t notice, but then he takes a hint when they pass by Childe’s room and the other male doesn’t go in. He looks back, slightly, and stops at the door to his room.
Childe’s eyes are still on him.
Scaramouche catches a glimpse and is internally mortified by his coworker’s current state. He looks paler than usual, with bags under his eyes. His dull eyes are somehow a more muted color, nearly grey.
Scaramouche enters his room.
Childe closes the door.
Scaramouche begins, “what are you—”
And immediately he is grabbed by the taller male, and a kiss is pushed upon his lips.
‘How dare he—’ is the thought that immediately fills his head, muddled with anger, surprise and…relief?
Childe pulls away, his spit trailing off Scaramouche’s lip. That wasn’t enough.
Eyes glaring back at the redhead, Scaramouche wipes it off aggressively.
“What the fuck are you doing, Tartaglia?”
Childe’s fingers card through that short, blue hair, petting the shorter boy. He lays his feelings bare, plain and simple, in a tone so serious Scaramouche could’ve sworn Childe was talking to an enemy.
“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”
“Excuse me?!?!”
His fingers grab those soft locks and pull back, causing a yelp from Scaramouche. “AH—”
He tries to pull Childe’s hands off his hair, but he is pulled back with such strength and ferocity—how strong is he?? His eyes meet those dull blue hues and the mild gleam caught within; he notices its the same way his eyes become full of life during a good battle.
Childe yanks down Scaramouche’s pants, marveling at the sight of uncovered skin that he never thought he’d get to see. He's actually going to invade the body of his superior. What a day this has become.
“Enjoying yourself?” Scaramouche breathes, his fingers still trying to uncurl Childe's hand from his hair. His chest heaves, anxiety and anticipation growing in him. He could flee, but he doesn’t want to. He could use his power to punish Childe for handling him so roughly. What would be the consequence for killing a fellow harbinger? The Tsaritsa wouldn’t care, right? Scaramouche could kill him with a fraction of electro. He isn't the Sixth for nothing. Or, is he afraid of damaging him beyond repair?
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
Childe lets go of Scaramouche's hair but claims a tight grip on his arm. His fingers wander downward, finally finding that prized hole. He struggles to get one finger inside, causing a lot of discomfort for his soon-to-be bedwarmer. The lithe male winces, “Ahhh—be gentler! That fucking hurts, you idiot!”
Childe grows frustrated. He throws Scaramouche onto the bed. From his pocket he takes out a small, hand-sized bottle of a jelly-like substance. It's flavored with Amakumo fruit. He knows Scaramouche absolutely hates those, and would rather it be lavender melon. He unscrews the bottle top and a sweet smell permeates the air. Scaramouche's nose wafted at the scent. "You know I hate those."
"Mmhmm," Childe pays him no attention, yet.
Scaramouche grits his teeth, while tiny sparks of electro circulate in his hand. He wants to punish Childe so bad. If he were so afraid of hurting this human, he could have used his delusion, but…
His hesitation makes him question himself.
Do I really want to punish him?
Hundreds of other thoughts and screaming in the back of his head, screaming for him to make every dirty request he’s kept secret, to stay, to enjoy it, to kill this dumbass where he sits for thinking he can overpower him.
He asks, “why are you doing this? —and to me of all people? Go fuck Signora. She’s pretty,” he lied.
Childe takes his time moistening his fingers. “You’re prettier.”
“If you leave me in pain I’ll have your vision and delusion confiscated! Remember, I am your superior, Tartaglia."
Childe doesn’t heed Scaramouche’s warning as he pulled down his pants, moistening his member.
Scaramouche is doe-eyed. ‘ Why is it…that size?’
“If you’re not gentle, I’ll make sure Pierro fucking kills you.”
Childe still doesn’t care. “No he won’t.”
He holds Scaramouche down by his hair, pulling his lower body up enough that he could perfectly slide in if he wanted to, but first he has to spread him out. He whispers into Scaramouche’s ear as his fingers dip in and out of the male’s ass, “I meant it when I said I’m going to fuck you hard. I’ve been feeling like this all day, because of you. I won’t hold back.”
Scaramouche’s body trembles under Ajax’s hand. His fingers grip the covers, pulling, as he tries to block out the discomfort. He’s never had anyone in his ass—especially not like this! Well—maybe that one guy but that was hundreds of years ago. His legs twitch at the feeling. “You don’t know how to be gentle, do you?”
Childe stops, displeased. He won’t be able to stretch him gently if he’s flailing around like this.
Fuck it. The tighter the better, right? He manages to grab Scaramouche’s wrists once more and hold his upper body in place.
His tip enters, then the upper half pushes through, widening Scaramouche's hole.
“AH—!” Scaramouche’s shout quickly becomes a whispered moan. He doesn’t want anyone to hear. His eyes are clamped shut while every inch of him shudders in euphoria.
Childe pushes deeper, slowly, because of how small the other is. Scaramouche’s body isn’t entirely human. His hole tightens repeatedly around Ajax’s cock, in convulsions.
Scaramouche moans out—he hates that he enjoys this. “Ajax, you bastard!”
“Hmm, I sure am, Balladeer.”
His hips slam into Scaramouche’s body, and again, as he finds a pace he’s satisfied with. Any semblance of gentleness is lost, replaced with fulfilling a hunger he carried throughout the entire day.
Each hit sends pleasure shooting up Scaramouche’s spine. He wheezes, trying to catch his breath as Childe gradually increases speed. He steadies his breaths, breathing in-time with Childe’s exhales. Inside, his body remains tight around his cock. He’s still afraid to fully accept him.
Childe grinds faster, and Scaramouche—he's wordless, but panting.
The haori is pulled over Scaramouche’s shoulders, exposing soft pale skin. Childe presses his lips against, sucking gently, then harder, until lips are replaced with teeth. He bites hard enough to draw blood.
Scaramouche exhales a long sigh, his face flushing red.
Childe's arms encircle him, tightly, their bodies rubbing together like in his fantasy. He sucks bruises and bites into Scaramouche’s shoulders, while his cock rams inside the quivering male under him. He pulls him upward, gasping as Scaramouche sunk deeper onto him. He feels the other man's body twitching in his hold, and hears him call out.
Scaramouche doesn’t care about keeping quiet. He’s too focused on the pleasure. Loud, lewd moans come from his mouth, a melody that keeps Childe going.
Now that he's on top, Scaramouche could administer some pleasure of his own. He rocks backward and forth, in-tandem with the thrusting. He figured, 'this is another form of dance, I can do this.' Another part of him questions why he wants to.
"This isn't so bad now, is it, my doll? You're having fun."
Scaramouche leans forward, biting Childe's ear for that stupid remark.
From the door, a figure had been watching.
Dottore smiles, pleased that his drug has worked after many iterations.
He closes the door, leaving the two males to their own devices.
Childe surmised that whatever drove his frenzy must’ve been the elixir he took that morning for his migraine. He obtained it from Signora, but why would anything she have cause his body to act like this?
Whatever. He didn’t care. He was in bliss plowing through Scaramouche like the doll he is.
Everything Childe did to him garnered the same reactions from Scaramouche: adrenaline, a little bit of panic, a smidge of pain, and a fuckton of pleasure and enjoyment. The Balladeer's dignity had eroded to the point of begging for more, and Childe delivered every time.
“Please, go faster.”
Childe would thrust hard and fast into that small frame.
“Bite harder, you idiot—”
Childe would bite his sides hard enough that blood would seep down his lips and chin.
“R-Right there—”
Childe would continue hitting that sweet spot at the perfect angle, leaving Scaramouche a moaning, writhing mess.
The reason for Scaramouche's failing dignity could be that, with each sloppy, disgusting kiss Childe gave him with his tongue, a little bit of that elixir's drug would be transmitted to the hungry puppet.
What else was there? Oh right! He bound Scaramouche's arms and legs with hydro ropes. He didn't even know he had it in him to conjure such a thing. Scaramouche didn't protest either. He shifted a bit, but he received whatever action Childe did to him while he was bound; like being fingered into oblivion, hard smacks to his ass, Childe slamming into him—reaching a little deeper than before. It all leaves Scaramouche in a moaning tizzy.
Next? Being choked with that scarf? Check! Childe had tied it around his neck and pulled, not even letting go when Scaramouche's fingers pawed at the fabric constricting his breath. He might’ve gone unconscious sometime after.
Scaramouche wakes up in the middle of the night. His throat parched and his lips dry. He doesn't bother trying to speak. His voice gave out a long time ago. He sits up, feeling aches in his back and pulses of pain from the various bite marks on his body. He realizes he’s wearing Childe’s red shirt. He doesn’t remember putting it on? There’s…cum caked onto his ass. That idiot must’ve used him as a canvas.
‘Disgusting,’ he thinks, but he’s also disappointed he missed that.
He looks over at the human menace sleeping soundly, or rather, snoring soundly.
"I should smother you," his croaky voice mutters. It wouldn't be a bad idea. He questions how he slept through that loud snoring.
"Hmm."
He guesses, he was so inundated with pleasure that it put him to sle—oh right. His memory's returned. He went unconscious when Childe choked the crap outta him with that scarf. Some water would be good right now but he can't walk. Childe actually came through on his promise.
Scaramouche knows Dottore will suspect something if he catches him limping. Signora? She'll definitely know. Columbina? That overly perceptive shrew will know if she catches the slightest change in his personality, cause right now he feels like a new man.
This is embarrassing.
Yet, a part of him wanted to experience it once more, under better circumstances of course. No drugs.
His fingers brush over his neck, his thoughts wondering about that scarf. He wouldn’t mind experiencing that again, too. Remembering how it felt, barely being able to breathe but all the pleasure that tingled his body, and Childe’s strength as he pulled his neck so far back—
“Damn it.”
He hates that he desires that.
If he doesn’t want to desire him anymore, he could eliminate him. Zepar wouldn’t care. Hopefully. She could always find a new eleventh harbinger.
Scaramouche carefully climbs atop Childe, sitting on his chest. Pillow in-hand, he presses it gently over the other's face.
Press harder.
He could.
He sighs.
He won't murder him tonight.
He’s actually a little bit happy.
Next day, the two of them are sent to Mondstadt. Tsaritsa's orders. They don't say anything to each other. Grey clouds had already formed in the sky. Either rain is coming, or it just left. Possibly the latter.
Scaramouche sniffs the petrichor in the air. Rain is something he’s somewhat grown a fondness for, except when it’s accompanied by thunder and lightning. Fuck that.
They follow the intel, scouring Wolvendom for clues.
Childe suggests, "we should split up."
Scaramouche says nothing, still.
Childe leaves, taking his own suggestion.
It's nearly half an hour when Scaramouche finds their objective hidden in a bush: a glowing medallion imbued with the Tsaritsa's power.
"Did they really think we wouldn't find this here?" He wonders, flopping the item between his hands as he inspects it. He feels a faint chill. It must be colder in the hands of a human. Curse Raiden for giving him broken touch receptors, but of course his insides can feel every little everything.
He senses a disturbance, and as he turns around, Childe zooms past him, hydrospear ready. One hit and the shield of the pyro abyss mage is gone.
"I'll take care of it," Scaramouche steps forward. The pitiful creature attempts to get its bearings, swaying from side to side. Scaramouche harnesses the electrons in the air to cast pillars of electro that sear the pyro abyss mage, charring it into dust. Thank Baal it recently rained.
Where there's an abyss mage, there are Hilichurls. A group of them fire their weapons, but together Scaramouche and Childe make quick work of them—without speaking.
Nothing remains but dust, carried by the wind.
"Thanks," Scaramouche hardly shows appreciation.
"Right."
Scaramocuhe rolls his eyes, sighing, Do I have to be the adult in every situation?
"About yesterday," he starts, "don't let anyone know."
Come back again tonight.
Another sentence is at the edge of his lips. His mouth opens, but none come out. Is he really going to start another fling with a human? How long has it been? If he doesn’t let Childe know how he feels…
"Come back tonight."
Quickly, he departs back to their rendezvous point, not wanting to hear Childe’s response. He seems to have forgotten they both came here together.
Childe finally catches up with him and is comfortable enough to talk. "I take it you enjoyed our time together?"
"Don't push it."
"Have I left such an impression that you're wanting more of me? Should I do more obscene acts to your body, like-"
"I swear on the archons, Ajax, I will kill you if you finish that sentence."
"Hah! Whatever you say, my doll."
Scaramouche pauses, unsure how to react to that. Hearing it this time, in such an endearing light...that's not a blush on his face!
He clarifies something to that overly excited ginger, "this doesn't mean we are together. I'm letting you know that now."
Childe just waves him off. "Sure thing, Balladeer."