Work Text:
It all started on what initially seemed like a pleasant enough day. The temperature was fairly warm for winter in Snezhnaya, perfect for sparring outdoors. Childe was already looking forward to it, fighting indoors was fine, it would still be fighting after all, but there was something oddly beautiful about the sight of blood on pure white snow.
There was the bimonthly Harbinger meeting that all Harbingers stationed in Snezhnaya were expected to attend, which was definitely going to be a bore but, hey, it would all be worth it if he could convince one of the Harbingers to spar with them. Capitano was in the capital today, and if he’d agree to it then that would literally make Childe’s year. If he didn’t, then Childe could probably piss Scaramouche off enough to get him to try and beat him up.
Sparring with Scaramouche was great, the little gremlin had so much pent-up anger that every fight was always all out, no holds barred, just the way Childe liked it. It’d usually end up with Childe’s ass kicked so far into the dirt that he’d need a few days to recover, but that was a small price to pay for an amazing fight. Ah, it was almost addictive, and he’d love to spar with Scaramouche more but he’d always end up being avoided after their fights. Maybe the other Harbinger had some weird hang-ups, what a shame.
The point was that Childe was feeling kind of optimistic about the day. His colleagues weren’t exactly his preferred company, but they wouldn’t really get in the way of a good time, would they?
Or so he thought, until Pantalone burst into the meeting room with uncharacteristic glee, with an armful of identical books stacked on top of each other. Childe took one look at the smirk plastered on that sadistic fucker’s face and realised that his day was not going to go as planned. See, the only thing other than yawn-inducing topics like macroeconomics and minutiae about Snezhnaya’s national reserves that brought joy to Pantalone was watching someone get completely humiliated.
(Pantalone would always ramble about how wealth was power, and Childe wasn’t exactly the type to psycho-analyse people, he was always more of a brute force kind of guy, but even an idiot would have realised at that point that the Regrator was a power-hungry egomaniac and of course, that would come with a nasty streak of sadism.)
And the only person he dared to needle in the room was Childe and maybe Scaramouche.
“My fellow Harbingers, I apologise for burdening you with some reading material, but I am sure that the contents of these books will be of great importance to you all.” Pantalone gave out the books, smiling unnaturally widely at Childe as he passed him his copy.
He glanced down at the book, slightly bemused. It had a nondescript black cover, with the title printed on it in elegant looping font, black as well but embossed with enough gloss that it was readable. It spelt, ‘A Tale of Two Harbingers.’
Signora scoffed in disgust, “Pantalone, please, this better be a joke. I’ve seen the filth that some of our uncouth underlings write about Harbingers, but I didn’t expect you of all people to entertain such idiocy.”
This had to be … some sort of fan work of Harbingers? It wasn’t like Childe hadn’t heard of this sort of stuff before, he’d be a pretty useless commander if he didn’t keep his ear to the ground, and fan-created merchandise of the Harbingers was weirdly popular amongst the Fatui soldiers. Not quite what he’d expect from members of a military detachment, but it made sense in its own way. The Harbingers were the closest things to the Tsaritsa in Snezhnaya and the devotion she inspires tended to trickle down to them. Plus being this proficient at combat meant that most of them had a muscle-to-fat ratio that any soldier would find attractive on some level.
Childe never paid it that much mind, Signora and Capitano got the bulk of the attention anyway and Pulcinella had publicly beaten up enough creeps on Childe’s behalf that his admirers tended to be tamer. While some of the artwork was rather tasteful, others were kind of gross, so, hey, he understood Signora’s ire at the very thought of fan-related works.
He’s not fond of Signora on the best of days but he’d have a giant stick up his ass too if sweaty virgins kept leering at his chest and expected him to like it.
A book, though, that was rather unusual. The majority of the writings circulated amongst recruits were short adulations of individual harbingers, and the title suggested that this was a full narrative, which admittedly he hadn’t seen before. Still, the only question was, why would Pantalone bring something like this to a mandatory meeting between Harbingers of all things?
Dottore glanced slyly at the Signora, “Oh, Signora, the title alone has already given away why Pantalone would show this to us.”
The other harbingers began, with a healthy amount of suspicion, to examine the proffered books. Everyone, that is, except for Scaramouche whose complexion was rapidly losing colour and was white-knuckling the book tossed in his direction with an intensity that kind of worried Childe.
Childe was honestly a little confused, Scaramouche hadn’t even touched the books, yet he looked scared from being confronted with the existence of these books. He’d been partnered with Scaramouche fairly regularly since becoming a harbinger, so he’d seen him too many life-threatening situations to count and not once did Scaramouche look nearly as rattled as he did now.
He flipped open the book, and everything, Pantalone’s perverse delight, Scaramouche’s sheer horror, Dottore’s mirth, fell into place with a clarity that was almost cruel. The book was comprised of pages and pages of explicit, luridly detailed porn about Scaramouche and Childe. Childe, with growing horror, scanned through paragraphs devoted to describing in detail how his own fucking dick, looked like, the hue, the length, the shape, the heat, how he looked like on a bed, trembling as Scaramouche pinned him to the headboard, and then more pages of skin slick from sweat rubbing against skin, fingers desperately clawing at someone’s back, legs intertwined and Childe begging for more, please - Nonononono.
Holy shit , this was so much worse than he ever imagined. He looked up and made eye contact with Pantalone, who was staring at him, with that sickening saccharine smile still plastered on his face. Right, no wonder the twisted bastard insisted on showing this at a meeting where all the Harbingers were presented. He wanted to publicly humiliate Childe and see his reaction.
Oh Tsaritsa , he felt blood creeping to his cheeks - he was probably already flushing, which was exactly the kind of physical reaction Pantalone had been looking for. He quickly looked down, which was a mistake because the blasted book was still open on his lap, and Childe had the misfortune of getting another eyeful of an intensely explicit sex scene.
Columbina hummed appreciatively as she flipped through the pages, “Ah, Pantalone, you really don’t disappoint. This isn’t boring at all.”
Dottore leered at him, his disgusting set of pointed teeth on full display, "The writing’s pretty good. Very evocative, and anatomically correct too, down to the inch.”
No, no, no, no, no he wasn’t going to think about what that meant.
“How - what the fuck would you know about inches?” Scaramouche spat out, still clutching his copy of the books with an odd amount of ferocity. Wow, Scaramouche was emoting a lot more than his usual constant scowling, sarcasm and the occasional bouts of unhinged laughter when he was feeling particularly mentally unstable.
Signora smirked as she fanned herself with a copy of those blasted books, “My, my, Childe’s rather whiny in this. Although I suppose that’s not very out of character.”
Columbina cooed, “Rosa’s right! Oh, look, here you’re crying but look at you, you’re still trying so hard to take Scaramouche’s -”
“Columbina, if you finish that sentence I’m going to throw myself off the highest window I can find.”
Columbina giggled, wrapping her hands around Arlecchino’s wrist, “Aw, you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed, little Childe, I can see why the author likes it so much.”
At that, Childe felt an embarrassingly pathetic sounding whimper leave his body without his permission as he buried his reddened face in his arms.
He heard a vaguely strangled sounding noise from the other end of the room, which was probably Scaramouche’s reaction to this complete shitshow of a meeting.
Where were Pierro and Pulcinella when you needed them? At the very least, they’d keep the meeting on track and shut down any inappropriate tangents.
Scaramouche drawled, leaning against the wall and picking at his nails with an air of casualness that was so obviously deliberate that even Childe noticed, “wait so you paid money for multiple copies of gay porn of your colleagues and then you read it? What a joke, that’s low even for a toad like you, Pantalone.”
“I confiscated them off my men,” he turned to Childe, his grin turning knife sharp “it wasn’t hard, more than half of them had at least one copy. You see, as Snezhnaya’s principal economist, it’s important for me to conduct market research into new, emerging industries.”
“Fuck me.”
Sandrone covered her mouth with her hand, smiling beatifically, “Well you certainly are in this book. Quite well, it would seem.”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up, oh my Tsaritsa -”
Arlecchino sighed, “Oh, she definitely knows by now.”
His life was over. He was just going to have to pack up and throw himself down a deep hole in the Chasm, where no one he’d ever met in his life could find him.
He swore he heard Capitano mutter something along the lines of, “why are humans like this” under his breath, and wow, he’d unpack that later when he wasn’t being confronted with explicit porn of his tiny gremlin of a coworker fucking him in the ass so hard that, apparently, his fictional counterpart was a crying, blubbering mess.
God dammit, and if this was going to happen, why did he have to bottom?
Yeah, no, this situation was rapidly approaching Childe’s limit and at this point, they’d just have to have the meeting without him. Childe made for the doors, ignoring the other harbingers’ taunts and definitely not noticing Scaramouche’s uncharacteristic silence.
Just his luck, Pierro and Pulcinella decided to finally enter the room.
“Wha- Childe, what’s wrong? Do you have a fever?”
Pulcinella was practically his guardian at this point, and he wasn’t going to stick around to see his reaction to Childe’s current predicament. Before the warmth creeping into his face could manifest in an even brighter and more obvious flush, Childe rushed out, squarely avoiding the glances of anyone in his field of vision.
Tsaritsa, what was wrong with this organisation? Childe had thought they were supposed to be the most powerful military force in all the seven nations constituted to make their archon’s heretical ambitions a reality but their members were filled with degenerate authors writing porn about their superiors and even more degenerate people buying that porn and even worse the upper echelons of their members were like gossipy old housewives, pouncing on the latest scandal instead of discussing, you know, their plan of world domination and heresy?
Someone kept mailing copies of the novels to Childe. He couldn’t escape it, it was everywhere - his office, his official residence, his fake personal residence. He could only thank the Tsaritsa herself that the actual house where his family resided had never been recorded because he couldn’t think of a conversation he’d like to have less than explaining to his parents why they’re being harassed with porn starring their son.
It was probably Signora sending them, that bitch. But, well, the novels were good. It was morbidly fascinating to read. Dottore wasn't wrong - the writing was good. It was actually weirdly hot.
He’d always thought his preference was tall men with broad chests and hard muscles, who looked like they could throw him to the ground without breaking a sweat, like Capitano who had been his first real crush, but something about the way Scaramouche (in the book, in the book, goddammit) just effortlessly dominated his fictional counterpart did things to Childe.
And, well, it wasn’t like this was particularly out of character for Scaramouche in real life.
Sweet Tsaritsa, he was losing his mind.
The next time he ran into Scaramouche, it was after fleeing another conservation with Dottore who wouldn’t stop critically analysing hardcore gay porn starring him and his coworker.
(“It’s fascinating, Scaramouche binds you with handcuffs in this one and you’re rather aroused by it. The literature does suggest that being restrained and giving up control in a sexual setting can be calming for those who tend to be overly anxious, and I’ve read anecdotal evidence that it’s something to do with the feeling of just having to accept what happens next. It would fit, you tend to overthink quite a lot in this book.”
“Dottore, stop talking about me like that - and I am absolutely never discussing my sex life with you of all people!”
“Oh, Childe, I’m merely discussing the characterisation of your fictional counterpart. No need to be so sensitive.”)
He’d collapsed on one of the benches in the garden outside the Harbinger’s quarters, idly staring at his wrists and willing himself not to think about how handcuffs would feel around them when he’d heard footsteps approaching him.
He lifted his head and spotted a familiar scowling face, half hidden behind an enormous hat.
Childe kept his gaze fixed on a stop right above Scaramouche’s shoulder. It was hard to look him in the eye, Childe’s heart was beating too quickly and his mind was all scrambled from being bombarded with mental images of him and Scaramouche having enthusiastic sex over the past few days. He couldn’t actually like - not the time to think about that. Bad brain.
Scaramouche sighed and sat next to him. They sat in silence for a few seconds, and then Scaramouche cleared his throat and, in the mildest tone he’d ever heard Scaramouche use in his life, said, “Idiot, the others keep bringing those books up because your reactions are so extreme every time.”
He kicked Childe’s leg lightly, “If you don’t react, they’ll get bored.”
He blurted out, “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one bursting into tears and begging for a hard cock up his ass every other line.”
Shit. He shouldn’t have said that.
Scaramouche turned bright red and spluttered, “w-what the fuck, you’re reading it?”
Childe scrambled for an excuse, “I had to know! Dottore and Pantalone won’t shut up about it, and it’s me in that novel.”
Scaramouche’s mouth hung open through Childe’s flustered slew of excuses and eventually, Childe pushed past him and muttered, “shut up, I was curious.”
The anonymous author kept releasing more and more short novels, all of them starring Childe and Scaramouche. Childe would almost respect the author’s dedication if it wasn’t causing him so much goddamn embarrassment.
The novels were still absurdly popular amongst the soldiers and Childe began to take a special kind of joy in beating up the ones who didn’t hide their copies of the novels well enough from him.
Childe, because apparently somewhere between falling into the Abyss and joining a military detachment-cum-quasi-religious cult, he had lost his goddamn mind, obsessively kept up with the releases. The mailed copies had stopped coming but it was fairly easy to swipe one from the confiscated goods office without anyone knowing. The writing had gotten, impossibly, even better. Childe’s fictional counterpart kept his propensity for being an absolute mess in the bedroom, but at least outside of it, he gave as good as he got, which, once you got past the inherent existential discomfort of knowing that this was what someone perceived you to be, was kind of entertaining.
Scaramouche grew more and more tender, the lines whispered to Childe in bed so affectionate and sugary sweet that Childe in real life had to put the book down and physically take a breath to recover from the heat creeping into his face - and um, other parts of his body.
Childe would bet that the mystery author was a soldier from either his or Scaramouche’s division because the characterisation outside the bedroom was eerily accurate. There were times that the fictional characters reacted in ways and said things that felt so true to themselves that it was honestly freaky.
Of course, the real difference between Scaramouche and Childe’s relationship in the books and in real life was that they didn't have devastatingly hot sex in between sniping insults at each other.
Not that not having sex was an issue. Nope. Childe had absolutely no desire to know if Scaramouche really was like his fictional counterpart in bed, and he didn’t wonder about what kind of noises Scaramouche would make, or how he would look above him, or - Anyway. The point was, he hadn't missed a single release since Pantalone first lobbed a copy at his head over dinner.
There was no way he could let the other harbingers find out. They’d already gotten bored of needling him with them, but the moment they caught wind of his new reading habits, he’d be exposed to a whole new world of humiliation.
(He swore that he saw Columbina toting a newly released copy around, but she didn't mention it to him and he didn't dare to say anything about it either.)
The only option was to keep it in his childhood bedroom, which was its own brand of risky but comparatively, much, much less dangerous. He crammed them in a box and threw it underneath his bed, which should have been enough to keep anyone from finding them.
Well, at least he thought so until he entered his room after one of his missions to see his mother standing over a very familiar box, with a very familiar book in her hand, the page flipped to the blurb, which from experience he knew was very far from family-friendly.
She made eye contact with him, and he barely survived it, her face a mask of shock and bewilderment. Childe felt like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped on him - His poor, innocent mama, exposed to his filthy porn about her own son by his hand.
Childe was, possibly, a worse son than he already thought he was.
“M-mama, I swear I can explain - It’s not what you think - my colleagues sent it to me - I -”
After ten minutes of panicked explanations, and his mum staring at him bemusedly without a word through it all, she put a hand up and sighed, “It’s fine, Ajax.”
It was?
She smiled wryly, “I should have expected this. You’re almost twenty now, and, I suppose that this is a normal part of growing up.” Her gaze flicked down to the blurb of the book in her lap, “Well, as normal as this is. Still, I thought that, well, after everything, I wouldn’t exactly get to experience seeing you grow up.”
Childe sat shock still in mortification.
Her expression grows sterner, “But, Ajax, you better make sure you hide these kinds of things better. You know that Teucer and Anton come in this room when you’re gone too long, and both of them are curious little boys. If I find out that they’ve seen any of these things, my rolling pin will find its way to your head, understood?”
“Y-yes, mama.”
She kissed him on the forehead, “Good. Now, I’ll make yushka for dinner tonight as an apology for snooping, I know it’s your favourite. And don’t try to tell me nonsense about a warrior never caring about their choice of food, I’ve fed you for more than twenty years, I know what food you like.”
As they sat across each other after a debriefing by Pierro, who had definitely caught onto what was happening if his vaguely amused glances were any hint, Childe couldn’t help but stare at Scaramouche.
“Childe?”
He’d never really looked noticed before but Scaramouche’s features were really delicate, almost girlish when not scrunched up in a scowl or a mocking smile. Still, Scaramouche’s face was an odd blend of harsh lines and gentle planes, a mix that he found oddly captivating. While Scaramouche wasn’t quite the massive hunk of muscles that was Childe’s type as a teenager, he could definitely kick Childe’s ass and look devastatingly good while doing it. Even the unhinged laughter was kinda hot sometimes, which admittedly reflected more on how Childe’s taste in men had been irreparably warped by his time in the Abyss than anything but still .
“Hey, Childe.”
Celestia save him, he was probably going insane. Whatever, it was fine. Who needed sanity anyway? No one that he’d met in the Fatui or Abyss that’s for sure.
“Hey, idiot - are you deaf or stupid? What are you staring at?”
He realised he’d been staring at Scaramouche blankly, for a full uninterrupted 30 seconds.
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, tsking, “Welcome back to the waking world, loser. You were staring into space for the past minute. What are you, brain dead?”
Childe’s mouth clicks shut. This was probably the part where he was supposed to cheerfully respond with a barb of his own but he couldn’t help but notice that the tips of Scaramouche’s ears were red. Cute. Wait - oh no.
Scaramouche exhaled through his nostrils, “Don’t tell me this is about those stupid books.” He glared at Childe with an intensity that almost took Childe’s breath away. “Why would you even care? It’s just what one horny degenerate’s opinion is, I didn’t know you were that sensitive.”
Childe’s face burned, “It’s not that. I just - was distracted. That’s all.”
Huh, Scaramouche must’ve also been keeping tabs on the releases as well, otherwise how would he even know that there was only one author? Sure, they had a pretty distinctive writing style, which had led to most readers assuming it was just one author, but Scaramouche wouldn’t have known that unless he’d read it himself and even if he did, there was just no way anyone could know for certain that it was one particular guy.
Well, Scaramouche could have just assumed and even Childe referred to whoever was writing the books as a singular person out of convenience. Still, Childe might not be a particularly cerebral harbinger, once again, his speciality was brute force, but any good fighter needed good intuition, and they needed to trust that intuition.
And that intuition was reminding him of how Scaramouche was behaving right when Pantalone showed them the books. Childe had been watching as he’d reacted even before he opened the book, like he’d already known what was inside.
(It was strange to realise that his eye had always been drawn to Scaramouche, even before his porn-related realisations of his attraction to the man.)
“Hey, did you know about these novels before Pantalone brought it up to us?” Childe asked tentatively. He was fishing for something but he didn’t quite know what. But if there was any non-fighting related skill that Childe had perfected, it was fishing. All he needed was a little patience and adaptability.
Scaramouche scowled, “I thought you just said that you weren’t thinking about it.”
Oh, right. Childe grinned as sheepishly as he could manage but he decided not to say anything. After a pause, Scaramouche sighed and he turned to face the window, “Of course I didn’t, asshole. Why the fuck would I?”
Childe bit his cheek to stop himself from smiling. Got you. Scaramouche definitely lied.
Now to reel in the prize catch, “I don’t know. Because you seem really certain that there’s a singular author, but how would you know that?”
Unless he’d read the novels. Childe watched at Scaramouche as his head snapped back to face Childe, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly, greedily taking in the shock on Scaramouche’s face.
I did this, Childe thought with satisfaction that he didn’t quite understand.
Scaramouche had read the novels. He must’ve been, like Childe, a reader of the whole thing, and he’d kept it a secret. Childe wasn’t exactly sure why he was pushing so hard but again, intuition.
Scaramouche swallowed, his features contorting into outrage, and he opened his mouth, probably to begin protesting, but Childe wasn’t done.
“Or, how about, the fact that you already knew what was in the books before Pantalone showed it to us? I know because I saw how you reacted even before you opened the book. And then you lied about it just now.”
Scaramouche’s mouth hung open, soundless. Not a bad look on him, all things considered.
It was time for Childe to show his final card, he watched as panic overtook Scaramouche’s features, but Childe had to finish before Scaramouche denied it, “You read those novels. No, you’re not just any reader, you’re an avid one because you were one of the first fans of the books.”
And at the same time that Childe thought he was laying down the final blow, Scaramouche opened his mouth, and let out a veritable bombshell, “Okay fine - I wrote them, happy?”
Wait, what? For a second, Childe was sure that he hadn’t heard it right. His heart was hammering against his chest, his entire world felt like it had shifted imperceptibly.
“What? ”
“Y-you hadn’t guessed?”
“What the fuck, of course I didn’t! I just thought you read it too! Why would I even think that, that’s completely absurd.” Except, clearly it wasn’t, because Scaramouche had just admitted to it.
“Wait - too ?”
“Is that really what we’re going to focus on? Between the two of us, writing the porn a way bigger deal than reading the porn !”
They probably both looked ridiculous, standing in one of Zapolyarny Palace’s ostentatiously decorated sitting rooms, on their feet, pointing at each other and gaping.
“Oh my god. This isn’t happening.”
“Oh my god, indeed. This is so happening.”
“Fuck this, I’m not staying.” Scaramouche abruptly turned and made for the door.
What the fuck, Scaramouche couldn’t just leave now. Look, the catch was different than he thought it would be, but it was still a big catch, bigger than he’d even thought it’d be when he first started. But Childe had practice, he was adaptable.
Without even thinking, Childe grabbed his wrist, “Please don’t leave.”
Scaramouche turned back and stared at him expectantly
Shit. Childe hadn’t thought that far. He had no idea what he was even going to say.
So, you think about fucking me so much that you needed to write seven novels and counting about it? That’s great because I’m weirdly into it, what do you think about maybe doing it in real life from now on?
That was probably a no-go, it was a guarantee to get him electrocuted, which ordinarily he’d be more than okay with, but right now he was trying to get laid, goddammit.
Scaramouche’s gaze flitted away, refusing to meet Childe’s stare, “What, are you going to laugh at me? Call me a pervert? Ask Pulcinella to beat me up? Whatever. The moment everyone found out I realised that that was probably going to happen.” He laughed somewhat wetly, “I’m surprised it took so long, you’re getting a little slow, Childe.”
For once, Scaramouche looked almost small, sinking back against one of the plush walls and shrinking back from Childe. He wasn’t tall, but he’d always carried himself with such confidence and authority, that the sheer intimidation force of his presence made him loom larger than life. Seeing him like that felt almost wrong, but something in Childe rejoiced at the knowledge that only Childe had faced this side of Scaramouche, only Childe had experienced such a rare sight. It felt like this was a part of Scaramouche he got to devour and keep with him forever.
Childe’s grip on Scaramouche had loosened considerably, it would have been so easy for Scaramouche to pull away, but he didn’t.
“Look, I’m sorry about what happened in the meeting. I just - I thought you wouldn’t find out. I’d only made one copy - but - nevermind. I didn’t know other people would print more, and I didn’t know that the stupid fucker Pantalone would find them and show everyone.”
Childe flushed at the reminder of the pure mortification that was that particular meeting. Scaramouche finally looked Childe in the eye and his gaze was almost gentle. “I’m sorry I humiliated you. I promise I’ll stop, and I’ll leave you alone after this, okay? You won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
Absolutely not. That was the last thing Childe wanted, the idea of Scaramouche avoiding him almost sickened him. “ No, you don’t need to - why did you even start?”
Scaramouche drew back, violet eyes lighting in anger and he hissed, “How are you this stupid? Do I have to spell it out for you? You’ve clearly read my stupid writing, you should know what kind of impact you have on me.”
Childe could barely breathe, he didn’t even know what to think at this point.
“Do you even know how you looked like when we spar? After we spar? I can barely control myself, and you keep asking me to spar, and I’m too much of a fucking idiot to say no even though you’re clearly not interested in the way that I am .” Scaramouche shuddered, and he stood there, chest heaving, wrist still limply being held by Childe.
And suddenly, the words came to Childe. “I’m interested too, you sad sack of shit. This whole time I’ve been stewing in the sheer embarrassment of feeling like a complete degenerate for reading porn about my coworker fucking me and knowing that I had a thing for you and now I found out that you fucking wrote that porn to repress your feelings instead of saying something about it like a normal person so that we could have done something about it!”
Silence rang out after Childe’s exclamation, and the only thing he could hear was his and Scaramouche’s harsh breathing, with they’d both said evidently taking its time to sink in.
He’d really gone and kicked the proverbial bee’s nest with his prodding, hadn’t he? He hadn’t really known what he’d been looking for when he started probing into Scaramouche’s odd reactions, and now here they were, staring at each other in shock, barely able to breathe after basically screaming confessions at each other.
Tsaritsa, what a roller coaster of a day.
Finally, Scaramouche opened his mouth, and choked out, “You want to - with me? Are you an idiot? Do you even know what I am?”
Childe rolled his eyes, “Scaramouche, most of our colleagues aren’t human. Heck, I had the biggest thing for Capitano for literal years and half of the Fatui think he’s an eldritch creature underneath his cloak.”
Scaramouche suddenly drew closer to him, eyes darkened, and hissed, “don’t talk about Capitano right now.”
Shit. That should not have been as hot as it was.
“What are you, jealous?” Childe teased, “Aw, you wanted to do all sorts of things to me so bad you had to go and write about it.”
The tips of Scaramouche’s ears reddened again, and Childe felt a thrill knowing that this was how Scaramouche reacted to being embarrassed. He couldn’t wait to learn what Scaramouche’s other expressions and reactions looked like.
“Don’t act like you’re not a degenerate either, you read every single one of those books.”
Childe bats his eyelashes at Scaramouche exaggeratedly, “Well, why don’t you show me a practical demonstration then?” Childe wrapped his hands around Scaramouche’s waist, “Don’t tell me all you’re good for is writing.”
Scaramouche pulled Childe even closer, his fingers inching closer to Childe’s neck, “Stop making those ugly faces, you horny idiot.”
“You wrote seven full novels of you aggressively fucking this horny idiot, don’t pretend that you’re not into this.”
Scaramouche smiled at that, feral and full of teeth, just how Childe liked it. “Shut up.”
Childe’s grin widened, “Make me.”
Scaramouche growled and grabbed the lapels of Childe’s jacket, aggressively sealing his mouth over Childe’s. He bit into Childe’s lips, forcing his mouth open, and it was intoxicating finally knowing how Scaramouche tasted after spending so long wondering. Childe desperately pressed back, barely able to breathe from how intense the kiss was.
And wow, this was better than anything Scaramouche had put to ink, even if this meant that the rest of the harbingers were going to mercilessly tease him for the rest of his life.