Chapter Text
“No, I will not let you do an MRI on me for your stupid class.”
“Aw c’mon, doll, don’t be like that,” Dottore crooned, ruffling Scaramouche’s hair as they walked side-by-side down the hall toward his next lab. He was being especially irritating today, burning through what little patience Scaramouche had on hand.
“How many times have I told you I don’t have time for this,” Scaramouche muttered.
“It’ll only be half an hour! I just want a teeny tiny look inside that fucked up little brain of yours.”
“How about I give you a piece of my mind instead?”
“Unfortunately I’m not studying psychology, or I might take you up on that,” Dottore said thoughtfully. “I’d love to know what’s going on in there.”
“Well it’s gonna have to stay a mystery,” Scaramouche said shortly, speeding up slightly; Dottore, who had a good foot on him, reached out and easily dragged him back by the handle of his backpack.
“Dottore what the fuck - ”
“What the fuck are you doing?” A familiar voice echoed Scaramouche’s, somehow simultaneously making him cringe and flush.
Please Gods no…
“I fail to see how that’s any of your business,” Dottore said smoothly, giving Childe a withering glance.
“Where did you even come from?” Scaramouche groaned.
“It’s my business if you’re… harassing my friend,” Childe said, ignoring Scaramouche’s complaint. His blood was pounding in his ears, the sight of someone towering over Scaramouche’s slight frame tapping into the uncontrolled anger he’d been working so hard to curb.
“I think you’re mistaken. Scaramouche doesn’t have any friends,” Dottore said snidely.
“He’s right, I don’t. So why don’t you just - ”
“If you don’t let go of him in the next five seconds we’re gonna have a problem.”
Childe’s voice dropped just a few notes, volume lowering to an intimate level and taking on a steely quality that made Scaramouche’s heart drop into his stomach.
“Dottore, just…”
“One. Two. Three - ”
Childe didn’t give Dottore the remaining two seconds to react. His fist connected with the older man’s nose with a sickeningly satisfying crack and Scaramouche found himself stumbling forward, Dottore’s grasp on his backpack suddenly released as he brought both hands up to hold his own nose.
Scaramouche put his hands out to catch himself, slamming into Childe’s chest and finding himself stuck there when one strong arm snaked protectively around his waist.
“There, was that so hard?” Childe was all smiles, flexing his hand and laughing a little as Dottore glared at him. He could tell he was going to regret this later, the skin of his knuckles already beginning to sting where it had split open.
“What’s your name?” Dottore demanded, wincing as blood streamed down his face, staining his mouth and chin red. “By the time I’m done you’re not going to be able to - ”
“Oh, shut up,” Scaramouche said, closing his eyes and sighing heavily. “Nobody wants to watch you have a pissing contest in the middle of the hallway. Just…walk it off.”
Dottore opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Scaramouche waited a beat before turning back to Childe, his gaze wandering down to his bloody knuckles before he could drag it back to his face. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he first heard his voice, adrenaline making him shake a little in Childe’s grasp. The younger man must have mistaken it for fear, though, because he brought his free hand to cup Scaramouche’s cheek, tilting his face up and frowning a little.
“Are you - ”
Scaramouche surged forward without thinking, fisting Childe’s shirt in one hand and reaching up to tangle his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck as he dragged him down into a kiss that was more teeth than lips. Childe let out a soft sound of surprise and Scaramouche took advantage, licking into his mouth. He felt Childe tense up against him, both hands coming to grip his waist - holy shit he can almost reach all the way around, are you fucking kidding me - and drag him flush against him.
The kiss lasted too long. There was a rhythm to it, Scaramouche finding himself pressing closer and closer until it occurred to him what might come next. Childe only groaned a little when Scaramouche tugged at his hair to try to pull him away, which sent a horrible shiver down his spine. Finally he managed to stop, though, panting into Childe’s mouth as he caught his breath.
“If you ever pull that shit again I’m gonna kill you,” he murmured, and he felt Childe smile against his lips.
“Yeah, ok.”
“I - have class,” Scaramouche said, pulling back further and breaking Childe’s hold on him.
“Yeah, ok.” Childe blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings when Scaramouche stepped away as suddenly as he had kissed him.
“Gods, you suck,” Scaramouche said, suddenly realizing just how far out of his control he’d let the situation go. Nevermind that he’d been the one to initiate, that Childe had in fact been a perfect gentleman up until the moment that Scaramouche had let his hormones take the reins a moment too long.
“Yeah, ok.” Childe could feel himself grinning like an idiot, a giddy feeling almost making him laugh out loud as he looked down at Scaramouche’s flushed face. The way he was blushing made his scowl significantly less intimidating. His lips were slightly swollen, turning Childe’s thoughts to static as a hundred incredibly lewd images flashed through his head. He wanted him to kiss him again, wanted to -
“Do you know how to say anything else?”
“Uh, not right now,” Childe said sheepishly. “Can I - ”
“I’ll text you. Maybe.” Scaramouche couldn’t meet Childe’s eyes, glaring at the floor as he said it. Humiliation made his face burn; he was sure whatever look Childe was giving him would only make it worse. “I have to get to class.”
“Yeah, ok,” Childe said again. He recovered more quickly this time, though, adding, “See ya, Scara!” as he watched him walk away.
Scaramouche flipped him the bird without looking back, biting back a smile as Childe’s laugh echoed down the hall.
The walk to Childe’s dorm was mercifully short, though it felt like hours before he managed to get inside and deadbolt the door, hoping against hope that Lyney wouldn’t be back anytime soon. The last thing he needed was to be walked in on by his perky, extremely observant roommate before he’d managed to get a handle on…well.
His hands shook a little as he unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down just far enough to pull out his painfully hard cock. He tipped his head back against the door, eyes sliding closed as he lost himself in the echoes of Scaramouche’s touch - soft lips and warm body and the sharp tug at his hair that had made him want to do unspeakable things in the middle of the hallway, decency be damned.
Childe’s hand flexed. It was still sore; it had been a while since he’d hit someone outside of full hockey gear. But beneath the almost pleasant ache, he could still feel the imprint of Scaramouche’s palm on his more than a week ago, his slender fingers against his own. He couldn’t resist measuring as he wrapped his hand around his length, mind racing as he calculated - would he even be able to hold me in one hand?
Not quite. Childe swallowed hard.
He tried to pace himself. Really, he did. But the Scaramouche in his mind egged him on, leaning in to whisper in his ear, jerking him off with slow, teasing motions.
All this over one kiss? Archons, you’re easy…
“Fuck… fuck, Scara, just like that - ” Childe cut himself off with a groan, hand speeding up as he tumbled over the edge and rode out the wave of pleasure that hit him. His hips bucked into his fist and he pushed himself past the point of pain, breath catching as he gave one final, rough pump to his still half-hard cock. “ Fuck .”
Scaramouche would probably do the same, he thought. Before, he’d imagined something else, the brat with the bad attitude just asking to be put in his place…maybe even begging for it before Childe took over and made him come til he cried.
But then Scaramouche had kissed him. Now he knew how Scaramouche kissed, and everything he’d been imagining went out the window. There weren’t many people who would even think about taking charge with a six foot hockey player, who could meet his eye without flinching or fawning or posturing somehow. But Scaramouche was anything but afraid of him. His indifference was an act, but his confidence was real; and it made Childe desperate to shatter that disaffected mask and make him move again, to react and show more of the terrifying, mesmerizing creature beneath the porcelain-perfect exterior.
Euphoria quickly became tinged with embarrassment as Childe looked at the mess in his hand, tucking himself back into his pants with a wince. He undid the deadbolt on the door and slipped into the bathroom, washing his hands vigorously and splashing cold water on his face for good measure.
I’m fucked, aren’t I? He realized, and he couldn’t help but grin at the thought.