Work Text:
Scara hadn’t expected to come here, and if Childe’s expression is anything to go off of, neither did he.
Dottore had convinced him to come to a reunion with their old group of “friends” they had during high school and some of college—the Harbingers, they had called themselves, because they were young and stupid and thought they were better than everyone. At first, he declined immediately, because his relationships with these people were toxic and he absolutely hated them even back in high school anyway. But then Dottore started talking about his ex’s transition progress and—
Well, he didn’t accept Dottore’s offer to give him a ride because of that, but satisfying his curiosity was an appealing bonus. Except when he stood in Capitano’s living room, getting stared at by his high school ex like he had just walked in butt-ass naked and started calling them slurs, Scara really wishes he had weighed his options a little more thoroughly.
“And look who decided to show up,” Rosalyne said, a smug smirk on her face and a cigarette hanging between her fingers. The cloud of smoke floating around her makes him nauseous, further making him regret his decision. It’s even worse when she brings the stick of death to her lips and puffs smoke in his face the way she knows he used to hate. “Was it the alcohol or the men?”
Normally, Scara would have fired back at her with full force, maybe even spit in her face and start a fight, but he was not in the mood to revert back to his teenage self with anger issues and undiagnosed BPD.
“Whatever,” he said, taking a seat on the couch as far from the others as possible, “I’m just here to get drunk.”
“So the alcohol,” she says through an amused giggle. “Although I still think it’s both with you.”
Aside from the fact that Childe took every opportunity to sneak incredulous looks at Scara, the night had been relatively normal. Rosalyne, as annoying as ever, recalled probably some of the most toxic and unflattering memories of their time together as teenagers, which caused him to down even more of that horrid mixture of rum and coke. He prefers that more than the god awful Whiteclaws that Childe kept emptying out. Scara had class, having more of a preference for wine (although usually the wine he drinks is cheap) than the mixed drinks that he had far too much of in college. Capitano told him that there was a wine cupboard in the kitchen, causing him to stand up and excuse himself immediately.
Getting up on his toes, he reaches for the handle of the cupboard. When it doesn’t work, he climbs onto the counter instead.
“I was about to ask if you needed help,” he hears, closing his eyes and sighing as soon as he recognizes the voice, “but I guess you don’t.”
Childe walks toward him, careful and slow, with the most relaxed smile on his face as if he hadn’t just spent the whole night blatantly staring at him in shock. Scara plucks a bottle of wine out and closes the cupboard, leaning against it as he sizes him up. He’s much taller now, with his ginger hair half tied up and the rest almost reaching down to his shoulders—knowing him, he’s probably been meaning to cut it, but kept getting lazy when he reached past the mullet phase. His white tank top is loose enough to show the scars on his defined chest, and there are little hints of facial hairs wisping along his jawline, which is also much more pronounced than he remembers.
“I see your second puberty happened,” Scara says as he struggles to take the cork out of the bottle. “The shot, right?”
The taller person laughs, reaching next to him to take a cork opener out of the drawer before taking it out of his hands. “Yeah, it’s been almost year.” He screws the tool into the cork almost effortlessly as he speaks. “What about you?”
The veins in his hands, his bones, and his muscles flex as he pulls it out. Scara stares down at his hands for a moment before he takes the bottle.
“Gel.” A long swig of wine. It tastes cheap. “It’s been two years now, and I haven’t stopped.”
That shit eating grin spreads across his face, and it reminds Scara about how much he missed hating him. “No growth spurt?”
He kicks him in the gut gently. It’s solid, and Childe barely budges, only moving backwards out of playfulness.
He’s really, really different.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Childe hums, leaning against the counter next to him. “Why did you come? I thought…”
… that you never wanted to see me again. But he didn’t need to say that; that had been mutually established years ago, and if they were really in the mood to argue childishly about it again, it was Childe who said it first. But they’re well past the part of their relationship where they would insist on arguing over every little thing like a pair of toddlers, so they ignore it.
“That hasn’t changed.” A lie. “Dottore promised to buy me that wine I really wanted, so I decided to suck it up for the night.”
The silence lingers, settles at the back of his throat, and he downs one last sip of wine to drown it out.
Neither of them are in the mood to talk about it, so Childe swiftly moves the conversation to a new direction.
“You’re still a terrible liar,” he chuckles. It’s far from the truth, both of them know that, but with how easy it is for him to see right through Scara, it might as well be true just between the two of them.
When Childe takes the bottle from his side and puts it back in the cupboard without needing to look, Scara is suddenly reminded that he lives here as well, staring at the way he wordlessly steps between his legs to reach behind him. Even when the cupboard is closed again, he stays settled between his legs, an unreadable expression on his face as he stares back. The silence is just as tense as it was before, but it’s not as full of weight. It’s hot, physically hot, and a tight twist in his gut tells him that he’s doing this on purpose, he’s doing this to provoke him.
Scara forgot about how pretty he is.
Childe turns to face him and raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into an amused smirk. “I’m offended that you forgot.”
Oh. Shit.
The eye contact is far from romantic, with Childe’s smug gaze and Scara’s irritated glare, but neither of them dare to back out of their silent game of chicken. Up close under the dim kitchen lighting, his cheeks that are dusted with freckles are now flushed from heat, either from his Whiteclaw or something else.
“Stop me if you’re uncomfortable,” Childe mutters, a single breath away from Scara’s lips as he presses forward.
“It makes me uncomfortable that you always insist on being so gentle,” he growls before tugging him forward with the collar of his shirt to kiss him hard, all teeth and tongue and breaths between kisses.
Scara’s hand snakes up to the back of his neck, gently playing with his overgrown hair before tugging his hair free of the hair tie, his bottom lip caught between a sharp set of teeth. A surge of pride washes through him when Childe groans, low and soft, and presses closer between his legs. The pressure between his legs makes his thighs jolt, reflexively wrapping them around his waist and pulling him closer, only making him moan when the action adds to the pressure. Childe uses the opportunity to tilt his head, giving him further access into his mouth as he rolls his hips, almost enough to make Scara melt. They part when Childe starts kissing along his jaw, alternating between the gentle fluttering kisses of his lips to the sensual flat of his tongue dragging down his neck that has Scara sighing in delight.
“Bedroom,” he says, running a hand through Childe’s hair, “I’d rather not do this in the kitchen where everyone can hear.”
Another lie, but Childe chooses not to challenge him this time. He simply nods, lets him hop off of the counter, then takes him out through the side of the kitchen that doesn’t lead back to the living room and up the stairs. He’s practically running just to catch up with him at this point, grumbling in irritation when he reaches the top of the stairs and Childe is already at his door.
It’s just as neat as his old college dorm, if not even neater now that he doesn’t have books on every table surface he has. His bed is in the corner, large and comfortable, and Scara almost makes fun of how boring it is before Childe sits on the foot of his bed and tugs Scara towards him.
“I just got tested a few days ago,” Scara says as he makes a show of taking off his tight black sleeveless turtleneck, shuddering when the cold air makes contact with his heated skin. “I’m clean.”
Childe’s lips stretch around a toothy grin, shamelessly staring at the belly button piercing he used to worship so often. “What a coincidence, so did I.”
Scara only rolls his eyes before he pushes him onto his back, watching him scoot up to the pillows before he finally settles down. He follows him closely and is on his lips again when he sees his chance, a hand sneaking under his shirt. It rides up as he explores his muscles and traces the scars along his chest, pleased with what he feels. He’s changed a lot, which is unsurprising after taking testosterone shots for a year, his muscles more defined and his features more prominent than he remembers.
His fingers stop at his sternum while one hand unzips and unbuttons his jeans, sliding down, down, lower until Childe bucks his hips forward and squeezes his thighs. Scara smirks, fingers rubbing at his nipple decorated with metal studs as he pulls away.
“Open,” he demands with a rough squeeze, punching a gasp out of Childe’s chest as his thighs snap open.
A pleased noise rumbles low in his throat as his fingers continue tracing his tattoos, his other hand pressing against his clit through the fabric of his lace panties. He can feel him grow wetter by the second, muscles flexing with tension under his fingertips and pulse pounding against his lips.
With a raised eyebrow, Scara looks up at him.
Childe flushes with embarrassment. “What? Can’t a girl dress up for herself?”
“I know, but lace panties tonight?” He clicks his tongue, an eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me you were expecting me or something.”
Scara had forgotten about how pliant he becomes with enough heat and just the right amount of pressure in the right spots. How Childe has such a dominant presence in a room full of powerful people, yet he’s still such a perfect picture of sin under his gaze just from some well placed kisses. He looks the way Scara would imagine temptation would look, all masculine facial features and a feminine body, redefining androgyny enough to give Scara vertigo if he weren’t already used to it, perfect enough to make a grown man question his sexuality just at the sight of him (he genuinely knows how that feels; he already went through it once, and Childe still manages to put him through it, but he would never actually admit that).
He almost wonders if anyone else has seen him like this, almost lets himself get jealous at the idea of another person having a chance to see such a sight, but he forces himself to forget about the thought before he can even process it. He has no right to be jealous.
Roughly, his hands move to tug his jeans. and Childe lifts his hips to let him. He expected the shorter man to ask for the toys they used to use, straddle his hips and ride him with the same roughness he had gotten so used to years ago, so he can’t help the surprised noise he lets out when Scara settles between his legs, placing a pillow beneath himself to get comfortable. He seems to notice his shock, letting out an amused chuckle. He makes a show of slowly slipping the thin piece of fabric off, treating him with care and setting it down on the bed when he’s done and god, Childe would have stayed around if he knew he would be like this.
Scara hums against the sensitive skin of his thigh, two fingers gently pressing against his folds, earning a sheen coat of slick as he shudders. His fingers start to stroke him in circles, slow and hard, slowly increasing his pace as he sucks dark marks along his thighs. Bruises start to form on Childe’s hip where he holds him down, forcefully stopping him from bucking forward against his fingers.
The noises Childe makes are almost melodic, rough around the edges with his pleasure, jaw hanging open as he stares down at Scara. It eggs him on, encourages him to move his fingers lower, even lower, pressing past his folds and entering him with two fingers in an angle that makes Childe let out a high-pitched whine of delight.
“Ahh.. Ah, hnn..!”
Scara keeps his fingers still for a moment while Childe rides out the overwhelming stimulation, chest rising and falling rapidly, walls pulsing as he squeezes around his fingers, pulse thundering so loud in his veins that Scara can hear it as he kisses along his thigh.
When his breathing steadies and his walls stop squeezing, Scara speaks again. “Okay?” he whispers, uncharacteristically soft and considerate, making Childe want to reach out and kiss him, but he shoves the thought away before he can linger on it.
Instead, he nods. “I’m okay, just… do that again.”
With a small noise of acknowledgement, his fingers start to move, stirring his sensitive bundle of nerves and pressing hard. Childe has to throw his head back to keep his whole body from jerking forward, thighs trembling as a hand starts to tangle in Scara’s silky hair. And if that wasn’t enough, wet warmth starts to circle on his clit, and oh fuck he’s seeing stars.
“What the f— fuck..!” he hisses in surprise, and through the aroused fog in his mind, the smirk on the other’s voice as he eats him out makes him want to rip his hair right out of his scalp, but he doesn’t have the strength to even try.
Childe is writhing now, and Scara doesn’t even stop him, letting his hips guide his tongue as his fingers continue to rub at that same spot, setting his skin alight with each torturously slow stroke. He can feel himself dripping with his own fluids and Scara’s spit, and he can just barely see the mix of drool and slick dripping down his chin in the moonlight peeking through the curtains. His ministrations are slow, tongue circling his nerves the way he likes it while making sure to constantly keep him on edge with his fingers.
“Fuck, fuck, Kuni,” he whines, fingers digging into his scalp and thighs tensing as he forces the burning sensation in his gut to die down.
He’s going to stop, Childe thinks to himself, anticipating for the pleasurable build up to die down just as abruptly as it began. Scara is going to get mad and leave and never come back.
To his surprise, he doesn’t.
Instead of pulling away, yelling at Childe for overstepping a boundary, Scara starts thrusting his fingers with his wrist, curling his fingers upwards as he rubs against his core with each stroke. Childe lets out a startled cry, thighs pressing against either side of his head as he gasps for air. His tongue stops and he pulls back just enough to see his face, kissing the sensitive skin of his thighs as drives the ginger off the edge, brows furrowed and pupils blown wide with pleasure.
“W-Wait, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum— Scara, nnh!”
It only takes a few more quick brushes to his core for Childe to topple off the edge, a loud moan ripping out of his throat as his whole body trembles with the intensity of his orgasm. Scara lets him ride it out, stroking gently and being careful not to press against his sensitive nerves too much. He kisses his thighs until they no longer clench around his head, sucks and bites marks onto them until his walls stop clenching around his fingers and he starts to whine from the overstimulation.
It somehow feels like something has clicked back into place, and Childe can’t tell if he deflates from the relief or from the exhaustion after an orgasm.
Pulling out, Scara lifts himself up to crawl over Childe, straddling his lap and kissing him slowly as he comes back down from his high. His blissful expression when he cums is hot, but the relaxed smile on his face right after is the reason why Scara became so eager to please him when they started dating.
“Fuck, I haven’t cum that hard in a while,” Childe says breathlessly against his lips, and he knows that Scara is beaming with pride at the praise despite the unfazed expression on his face, melting when he feels hands grasping at his hips. “You think they heard me?”
“You didn’t even last long, I doubt they noticed. Besides, who cares?” he says as he pulls away, ignoring the way his partner chases his lips. “They’re probably fighting or accusing Dottore for planning this out, some chaotic shit like that.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Childe chuckles, tracing circles on Scara’s hips with his thumb. “By the way, the strap’s in my drawer if that’s what you’re looking for.”
He leans over to open the drawer without getting off of him, takes the harness, and tosses it at Childe’s face, who sputters and slaps his thigh in retaliation.
“Wha— Fuck you!”
“That’s the plan.”
Scara takes it as a cue to climb off, both of them taking off the rest of their clothes and Childe struggling to put the harness on. They make quick work of it, using the muscle memory they had built up years ago without wasting any time. He almost makes fun of him for the toy he chose—a semi-transparent purple dildo that has more girth than it has length—because it matches the color of his hair, but then Scara sinks down, takes all of it in his mouth in one go, and pulls it out with a string of spit hanging off of his bottom lip.
“Well shit,” Childe chuckles nervously, and he swallows his spit so hard it’s almost audible.
Scara smirks as he gets comfortable on the pillows. “What? Never seen me take cock before?"
“Mmm.. No, I probably have at least once,” he hums, pretending to seriously give it thought. “It just made me wish I had a dick more than I already did before.”
He rolls his eyes but decides not to respond, placing a pillow underneath himself before he finds a comfortable position, laying down on his back with his legs spread wide open.
Childe gets up and crawls over him, pressing kisses all over his porcelain smooth skin. His hands are gentle, feather-light as he traces his sternum with one hand and gently grasps his waist with the other. Kisses that leave promises instead of bruises bloom across his chest, causing a wretched emotion to flutter in Scara’s stomach. In comparison to his own rough hands that leave fire in their wake, Childe’s touches are careful and sweet even now, when there’s nothing but years of built up tension while they’re tiptoeing around another argument.
He would find the action cute, even romantic, but he feels guilty to think so now after all these years.
“Tartaglia,” he warns, and Childe almost flinches.
He opens his mouth, perhaps to apologize for his habitual actions, but instead decides to pretend nothing happened, and shuts it just as quickly.
The warmth fades until only Childe’s hand is pressed against his stomach, a thumb rubbing soothing circles as he sits between Scara’s thighs and lines himself up with his hole. He gasps at the tip of the toy that presses against his entrance, rubbing gently and collecting his slick as Childe continues to trace patterns on his stomach.
“Just fuck me, you stupid dickwad,” Scara hisses through his teeth, letting out a sigh as he rubs his clit.
“Patience, all that stress will give you wrinkles.”
When the shorter man huffs, Childe laughs right in his face. He’s about to playfully shove him in response before he starts to push forward, causing Scara to throw his head back and with a loud moan as his hole easily accepts him.
“You wouldn’t be this wet if you didn’t like me teasing you,” he hums as he kisses along his jaw, his hand still firmly planted against his stomach.
Childe pushes further, watching Scara writhe and whine beneath him. The angle makes it so that he rubs against his core no matter what, and the palm that presses gently against his stomach makes him feel even tighter, makes him press harder against that tight coil of nerves. His legs tremble all the way until his bottoms out, dragging out desperate noises from his throat that cause Childe to laugh even more.
“You okay?” he asks, tucking his hair behind his ear as he grinds his hips in circles, making Scara’s head spin.
“Yes,” Scara hisses much sooner than he meant to.
The only response he gets is a grin and a chaste kiss to his lips before he starts to move his hips, immediately setting a steady pace that he knows he likes. Slick gathers at the base of his cock with each thrust, which he stares at shamelessly. The air is knocked out of Scara’s lungs each time he moves, legs trembling where they’re hooked over Childe’s shoulders. The pace he moves in is fast and hard, rough enough for his body to rock with the force and for the bedframe to creak and knock against the wall.
Unlike Childe, Scara prefers to be handled roughly, getting fucked like a doll until the only thing he can say is his partner’s name, organs thoroughly scrambled and limbs weak from exhaustion. So he gives him just that, both hands wrapping around his neck and squeezing the sides just enough to make him lightheaded.
“Shit, Ajax,” Scara whines, hands reaching out to claw at his wrists. He’s sure he used his name as a reflex, but something thick and fuzzy coils in his gut, and Childe can’t help but smile to himself over it.
The ginger groans quietly as he speeds up, looking down where they’re connected to watch the way he tightens and clenches around him. His thighs are shaking, his whole body jolting with each trust, hands reaching for any sort of purchase.
“Ajax, I’m—”
Before he can finish, Childe stops moving completely, taking Scara’s lips into a kiss and swallowing every whine and cry as he licks into his mouth. He twitches under his touch when one hand around his neck slides down to his chest, circling and teasing his nipples as the other one takes hold of Scara’s wrists and pins them down above his head.
“Fuck you, you fucking bastard..! I’m going to kill you, fucker,” Scara whines, voice muffled against Childe’s lips.
Instead of continuing, he grinds his hips to keep him on edge, presses his hand against his stomach a little harder to keep him from getting too much relief.
“I could pull out right now,” Childe mumbles into his ear, “make you walk back downstairs and spend the rest of the night with the others without even getting to cum.”
When Scara’s eyes widen with rage, he continues with a laugh. “I could tie you up and put you on display like a present, or maybe plug you up with a vibrator and edge you until everyone else leaves. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Go f-fuck yourself,” he sobs, sounding more needy than threatening.
Childe stills Scara’s hips with a bruising grip; his actions are cruel and rough, but the kisses he presses against his pulse and his clenched jaw are gentle, apologetic.
“You already did that for me,” he says with a grin.
Scara lets out a loud, frustrated groan that turns into another desperate sob. He throws his head back, and Childe stares shamelessly at the way his chest heaves with each shallow breath, a slight sheen of sweat and his own spit from earlier, marks littered along his pale skin in places where he knows Scara will hate covering up in the morning. He looks so pretty, stuffed full of cock and trying his best to keep from losing his mind while being left on the edge.
Slowly, Childe pulls out, earning a confused whine from Scara as he goes back to his drawer. The shorter man curiously tries to peek at what he’s doing, but he doesnt have the energy to actively try to get up and look. When he comes back and Scara finally realizes what Childe is doing, his eyes widen.
“That’s a nice face you’re making,” Childe says with a grin, placing the vibrator down beside him as he settles back in his spot between Scara’s legs. “I’m glad you still remember this one.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
Of course he remembers that toy; Childe had gotten that as an anniversary gift years ago, and just when Scara was going to criticize him for buying him a vibrator as an anniversary gift, he had quickly realized that he bought it purely to use it on him all day.
“Perfect.”
Childe shifts Scara’s position so he can spread his legs wider, which isn’t that difficult thanks to his surprising flexibility, and gives his thigh a harsh smack before he enters again. Scara accepts him with little resistance, whimpering quietly as he readjusts to the new angle.
Before he can finish catching his breath, there’s a familiar buzzing between them before Scara is hit with another overwhelming wave of pleasure, and he can hear a strangled noise that he vaguely recognizes as his own voice. Childe chuckles, moving his hips slowly. The new angle aims his thrusts right up against Scara’s bundle of nerves, making his head spin with the constant stimulation.
Childe whistles, chuckling darkly as he tilts his head. “Not so talkative now, hm?”
Scara knows the vibrator isn’t at its full intensity, but with Childe pounding him steadily and the hand that now creeps up his torso and wraps around his neck, it’s all too much for him. His heart hammers in his chest, his chest heaves with each weak, shaky breath he takes, and his limbs tremble with tension at each brush of skin against his own skin.
As if Childe could read his mind, he speeds up his hips as the hand around his neck squeezes a little tighter, and that’s enough for Scara’s orgasm to hit.
“N-No, no, no, too much, please, I—!”
He can barely feel his muscles shake with the force of it, his throat straining either around his shallow breathing or his own voice, tears threatening to fall out of his eyes as he rides out his orgasm. Childe slows to a stop, mesmerized at the amount of slick that gathered at the base of his dildo and how more of it drips from Scara’s hole as he starts to pull out. His tongue darts out from between his lips with his urge to go down and lick him up, but seeing his thoroughly fucked out and absolutely exhausted expression, Childe decides to save it for another day.
No, he scolds himself. Scara won’t be back for another day.
Childe starts to clean them up, taking off the harness and going to the bathroom to clean himself up. He comes back with a towel soaked in warm water, and Scara is still slowly coming down from his high, breathing slowly and deeply. Childe cleans up the slick between his legs, the sweat and tears on his cheeks, and brings the straw of his water bottle to his lips to make him drink some water.
When the gentle touches and careful taps have stopped, Scara has half of a mind to worry that Childe has left him before he feels a weight fall beside him on the bed. Confused, he turns to his other side to investigate the new presence and groans when he’s faced with a familiar view of pale skin and scattered scars.
“What? You’re the one laying in my bed,” Childe mutters tiredly, although his lips are curled into a teasing smirk.
Scara glares at the person beside him but continues to lean into the warmth of his torso. “If you fucking snore again, I’m leaving.”
“Cute. Need me to carry you? I can even drive you home.”
“I would rather die of radiation poisoning.”
Childe laughs, a gentle, fluttering sound that resonates where his ear is pressed to the side of his chest. The sound brings back memories that Scara wishes he could forget, makes his heart pang in ways that he wishes he couldn’t feel.
He shouldn’t stay here.
“But seriously, are you sleeping over?” Childe asks, his voice uncharacteristically small.
Scara hesitates, holding his breath. “I don’t have a ride.”
The answer earns him another laugh, this time quieter. Awkward. Pained.
“So you really meant it when you said you’d rather die, huh?”
“No.”
His response comes faster than he can even think to stop himself. Childe looks at Scara, confusion and surprise evident in his gaze as Scara searches for something to say.
“No. I just don’t think anyone else is sober enough and I…”
… don’t want to be alone with you any more than I need to.
Childe seems to understand it so well that Scara wouldn’t be surprised if he had heard it somehow. For a long moment, the room is silent. Scara lays deathly still, listening to Childe’s faint breathing. He shudders subtly with each inhale, and his exhales are shaky.
Honestly, Scara is thankful that he can’t see his face.
“You know I’m still here for you, right?” Childe says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Scara opens his mouth, like he’s about to answer him. Like the word ‘yes’ is sitting right on his tongue, ready to be released as soon as Scara wills it. His chest fills with a bitterness that feels heavier than water, sticky and dark as it sucks the air out of his lungs.
And yet somehow, Scara’s throat still feels too dry to speak. In the back of his mind, he’s glad for that.
He slips out of Childe’s embrace, forcing himself to ignore the gentle hands that reach out and chase after his warmth. He forces himself to ignore the longing stare pointed at his back as he puts his clothes on. He forces himself to ignore the way the moon seems to shine on him through the window like a spotlight as he turns around to face Childe.
“I’ll just call Kazuha.”
Scara forces himself to ignore the way Childe’s expression seems to decay like a wilted flower, ignore the way his bottom lip quivers as Childe stares at him with glossy eyes.
“Get home safe, then.”
As he steps out of the door, Scara forces himself to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest and the boring hole beneath his stomach.
Scara forces himself leave.