Summary:
Nobody showed up last weekend so Scout figured, no big whoop. He'll just throw his birthday party again and invite the only guy who'll come along.
Student/Teacher AU where Scout has Spy emotionally trapped.
Notes:
This is a high school AU based on Spy being Scout's teacher in Expiration Date, as well as Scout's "brief stint in high school" when "he was 23-years-old and also not enrolled in the school" in the Track Terrorizer flavor text. Only instead of trying to pick up girls, he accidentally picked up a Spy via a shitty blackmail attempt. Scout's name in this story is Ollie, and Spy's name is Basile. I highly suggest that you read Marty's version of the blackmail event! Marty also helped edit this story.
Spy's is not Scout's father in this story, because I've been in this fandom for a decade and I prefer their pre-retcon relationship. This is a BLU Spy and an unrelated RED Scout. There is no incest. But plenty of other extremely unhealthy sexual dynamics.
I hope that if you like the Scout and Spy pairing, with all its flaws and lil peeps of mutual care, you'll enjoy this story :)
Chapter 1: Olive and Basile Pizza
Chapter Summary
Scout wants pizza.
Chapter Notes
N/A
They spent Ollie’s birthday together. Not that Basile intended to, but Ollie wanted to go somewhere after he was done fucking his teacher into the school desk that day. How could a man say no to someone who could ruin his life, by simply pulling up his pornographic acting history on his phone?
So, Basile drove them to Chuck E. Cheese’s (Ollie’s choice, birthday boy!) in his little red convertible. It was a car which one could not afford with a teacher’s salary alone, and a car Basile definitely should not have driven in the South Boston projects where he worked.
A pimply-faced worker squinted at the pair as they entered the pizza establishment. It was late in the evening, dead silent save for the occasional chirp of an arcade machine. The screaming children that usually populated the pizzeria had emptied out along with their parents. There was something odd about a young man walking in, Adidas sweatpants sagging to the floor, with a much more wrinkled and visibly tired man in tow. Ollie slapped his hand on the front desk. He declared that it was his 13th birthday, and that he and his friend would very much like to take advantage of the birthday deal to get some fuckin’ pizza and chicken wings before the joint closed down. The worker rolled his eyes and said, “whatever” before ushering them to their dining table.
It wasn’t long until the same worker, now dressed in a rat costume, slouched towards their table with their food and two party hats. Ollie immediately tied one to his head. The worker drearily kicked his legs and clapped as a tinny birthday song played over the ceiling speakers, and the animatronic animal band next to them opened their eyes and shuddered to life. In the last fifty-something years of his life, Basile thought he had seen everything he could in this world. But this birthday ritual was dark and alien to him. The flashing strobe lights couldn’t hide the automatrons’ seizing, unnatural movements, nor their exposed metal skeletons jutting out from their shrunken, peeling skin. The chicken mascot was missing an eye. The yokel hound’s jaw hung slack as it mimed the movement of guitar strumming. And the fur on the rat was matted and browned with mysterious filth, no doubt from hordes of children molesting their robotic icon in celebration.
Basile briefly pondered whether having a man in a rat costume as well as a robotic rat would confuse children over which rodent was the real Charles E. Cheese. Then he glanced over at his student. Despite the abject mediocrity of their surroundings, Ollie was absolutely entranced and enthralled by the song and dance.
And as soon as the song was done, the rat-costumed worker quickly shuffled into the backroom. Ollie snapped back to attention and excitedly grabbed a handful of barbequed chicken. He blabbed about how that was so awesome, his mom used to take him here for his older brothers’ birthdays, and it was so totally wicked sick to go out for a birthday party instead of just getting high alone in his room, eating frozen pizza and watching lesbian trib porn like he had planned to do. All Basile could do was hold his head in his hands, and stare at Ollie’s flapping mouth dribbling half-chewed food.
There wasn’t much to say to the boy. Even without the blackmail threat looming over him, Basile and Ollie had nothing in common. The boy sold marijuana, and occasionally dropped into Basile’s French class to watch videos on his phone and fall asleep. He was a nuisance to simply chase off before, and now he was an active menace. Basile no longer smugly called on Ollie to out him for falling asleep or not paying attention during class. Hell, the kid actually raised his hand now and yelled “Aw yeah, I GOT DIS!” on questions he very much did not get. Coupled with the boy’s now completely jolly and attentive demeanor, it felt like public intimidation in order to assert his private relationship with his teacher. And their relationship was very simple at this point. Ollie wanted sex from Basile, and Basile obliged.
“Yo, Mistah Ess, when’s your birthday?”
Basile shook himself out of his thoughts to meet Ollie’s expectant stare. A string of cheese hung down from the boy’s mouth. Monsieur Scylla was the current name Basile went by, one of many, but the boy insisted on calling him Mister Ess. in that bawdy accent.
Ollie often asked the older man questions as they cleaned up after sex. Basile never answered. The boy didn’t need any more blackmail fodder than he already had dug up on his phone. Shit, the internet was a mystery to Scylla. Could the kid uncover more of his past with a simple Google search? Things he had spent decades covering up? Unravel the delicate fabrication that formed the framework of his current perfectly mundane life? Well, if Basile didn’t answer, Ollie always went on to idly chatter about something else. The boy’s poor attention span was predictable.
But the silence persisted. And those eyes kept staring, big and brown and unblinking, like a newborn kitten that couldn’t quite get the hang of looking straight ahead.
Basile exhaled, and replied carefully.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Aw sweet, y’said somethin’! And defensive too, huh?” Ollie grinned and placed a slice of pizza on Basile’s plate. “I bet it’s ‘cause you’re like, a freaking dinosaur! You was prolly alive when that Napoleon guy was still riding around on his gay lil’ horse. Yeah, that’s right, I know ‘bout Napoleons and shit. I been payin’ attention!”
The boy grabbed another slice of pizza, and pointed at the trail of cheese melting off the slice. “Check this shit. It’s fuckin’ frommage! Learned that from your class, man.” He tapped his own head as he beamed widely. “I ain’t just watchin’ cartoons the whole time in class y’know! And, and--” Ollie gesticulated wildly with one hand at the sagging pizza he was holding. “There’s olives! That’s French, right? And uhh. I dunno how to say this in frog, uh… basils! On this here thing. Y’know, kinda like our names!”
Basile sat stone-faced as Ollie grinned at him proudly. After a few moments of no reaction, the boy deflated and picked up Basile’s slice from his plate.
“Hey, you gonna eat this?”
Ollie slapped their pizzas together with a resounding thwack, and scarfed down the makeshift sandwich. He sucked the grease and cheese off his fingers sloppily. Basile winced as he remembered the earlier events of the day. Ollie had Basile manually finish him off after the usual ass-ramming. Once the deed was done, the boy shoved Basile’s fingers in his mouth and sucked his own semen off. Tongue tracing down his fingertips, lapping his palm, smiling, buck-toothed grin, slinking up, drooling down, dripping cum off his tongue and into Scylla’s ready and open mouth.
Basile’s stomach turned as he recalled the sensations. His hands were sensitive, he wore gloves whenever he could. Remembering the tongue on his hand drove him mad. It had felt good.
Smacking his lips and wiping his face on his hoodie sleeve, Ollie sat up and looked down at Basile. “Anyways, just wanted to ask ya birthday, y’know? In case you wanna do somethin’ together. Like we’re doin’ right now! I mean you came to my birthday, that means I gotta go to yours, dummy! Even though you didn’t get me a present or nothin’. Hehe.”
Basile retrieved his wallet from the back of his pants to pull out some bills. Ollie’s mouth opened slightly, and he shook his head.
“Yo, not like that man. I got dis.” The boy reached down into his sagging pants and shoved his arm up to the elbow into the pocket. It took a second for him to sort through god knows what else he kept in there, but he finally fished out his own wallet. Basile observed that the fabric was full of holes and fuzzy, possibly from getting thrown in the dryer too many times, as well as patterned with the Red Sox logo. It was also fat with dollar bills.
Ollie slapped a crumpled, dirty twenty onto the table. He winked and elbowed his teacher lightly. “I ain’t a kid, you know. You ain’t the only one with a job, Mistah Ess! ‘Sides, I didn’t even tell you today was my birthday til I was halfway sliding my dick outta yer ass after school. It’s aight. You can do me somethin’ else.”
As much as Basile detested it, he had been waiting for this something else all night.