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#blood for ts
wri0thesley · 1 year
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let’s go to bed or go to war - childe x reader (5.2k)
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tartaglia, eleventh of the fatui harbingers, has finally caught up with you - and he has several questions. if you know what’s good for you, you’ll answer - and if you don’t? well. he’s never been one to turn down a struggle.
cw: not sfw, minors dni. afab reader, neutral pronouns/no gendered terms used. interrogation, bloodplay, knifeplay. dubious consent (but reader is into it). bondage, marking, biting. masochism (both from reader and childe), sadism (both from reader and childe), but childe is definitely the dominant party. oral (childe receiving), fingering (reader receiving). pet names used include ‘sweetheart’ and ‘angel’. childe is implied to be inexperienced.
[a/n: childe is such a freak [affectionate]. my kinktober masterlist can be found here!]
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It takes a little while for your brain to kick into action. As reality comes hurtling back towards you and your consciousness slowly bleeds back through, you try to blink back the heaviness from your gaze and get your bearings back. You try to remember what it is that got you into your current predicament. 
A single candle flickers and gutters on a wooden table. Your wrists are tied behind you with rough rope that scratches at sensitive skin; your ankles, too, are attached with more loops of said rope to either side of a wooden chair. You do not recognise the setting around you; the bare, empty room that you have found yourself in. But for the table and chair, the rest of it is shadows, but you are still observant enough to see that there is no other furniture. 
This is a terribly bad omen.
But a worse omen is the fact that you are not alone. 
“Oh!” The voice sounds delighted; you see the shift of something in one of the dark corners of the room, the rustle of fabric against fabric. It’s a man’s voice. “You’re finally awake! It feels like I’ve been waiting ages. Good morning, sleepyhead!” He steps into the flickering light and your blood runs cold. “I was beginning to worry you’d never wake up, and we wouldn’t have a chance to get to know one another.”
You recognise the man in front of you. The red hair falling into bright but empty blue eyes, the cheerful smile plastered on his face, the red banner wrapped about his neck and trailing behind him, the unmistakable mask perched at a jaunty angle on his head. You have never spoken to him directly, of course - but everyone who works for your little organisation has been briefed on the appearance and the general modus operandi of every Fatui Harbinger, lest they find themselves in a disadvantageous position.
Ha. You think the phrase “disadvantageous position” must have been coined exactly for this moment. You swallow back some of the fear and hope that your voice does not tremble as you set your shoulders (as best you can with your wrists tied together). 
“Good morning, Lord Harbinger,” you say to him, your voice as icy cold as a Snezhnayan winter. “Do you come here often? Because I have to say . . .” You let your gaze dispassionately graze the empty walls, the dusty floorboards, the terrifyingly abandoned space you have found yourself in with one of the most dangerous men in the whole of Teyvat. “It wouldn’t be my chosen place for a rendezvous.”
And Childe, eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, throws his head back and laughs a deep, joyful laugh. 
“Ah,” he says, with obvious delight colouring his tone. He steps forward, closer to you, the force of his shoes making the floorboards creak. “I like you. You’ve got a bit of spark, huh? This can get so boring sometimes - but looks like you’re not going to let that happen for me.” A grin breaks out across his boyish face; this close, in the guttering candlelight, you can see that there’s a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of his nose. They’re at odds with the fact that the grin stretching out over his mouth could most accurately be described as bloodthirsty. “Mmm, we’re going to have a lot of fun.” 
“I don’t know what you mean,” you lie, stalling for time as you wonder if you can find a way to get out of this unscathed. Your cover is blown, but perhaps the other operatives that you were working with are still safe - perhaps it is indeed just you. Childe simply carries on smiling at you, though. “Do you mind if I ask what this is about, My Lord? As far as I know, I’ve done nothing wrong--”
He laughs again, like you’ve told him the most hilarious joke he’s ever heard. A hand slams out, and suddenly your jaw is being squeezed between thumb and forefinger, gloved palm pressing against your chin. 
“That’s not going to work,” he says to you, that smile not leaving his mouth for a moment. “C’mon. I’m not a fool. I know exactly who you are.” 
“I’m flattered,” you say, and his grin goes crooked. “But could we maybe get dinner first? I’ve heard that Xinyue Kiosk is lovely, and though I haven’t dined there I’m sure your position is enough to get us a table--”
“Cute,” Childe says. “I know who you work for, too. Pity about them.”
What does he mean? Are they safe? You can now, vaguely, remember the barest details of a scuffle - but it had just been Treasure Hoarders, hadn’t it? Ambushes by the side of the road in the part of Liyue you had made your base were fairly common - you’d fought back, your vision flaring to life, and though you remember it being a harder fight than usual (that memory is frayed, at the edges of your thoughts, impossible to get a proper hold of) . . . you don’t remember anyone else being there. And, though you’re absolutely certain you’d remember the presence of a Fatui Harbinger, you don’t remember Childe being there at all. 
“A pity?” You ask him. “I’m a shop assistant, My Lord. If this is from some upset about sprouting potatoes or cabbages that go off as soon as you look at them, I’m really not the person to be airing your grievances to--”
He jerks your chin roughly, lowering his face as he makes you look directly into his eyes. They’re a very bright shade of blue, like the sky in the Harbor in summer (Snezhnaya’s sky, you’re certain, was never that hue) - but they don’t seem to reflect light properly. As if there is a pit of darkness somewhere inside of them, in shadows forevermore. 
“Don’t play dumb with me,” he says, tone remaining pleasant even as he makes sure that his smile shows all of his teeth. “You’ve tried to convince five of my subordinates to defect from the Fatui and join your little rebellion in the past month. Three of them accepted. Do you know how much time I’ve wasted in making sure they saw the folly of their choice?” He grimaces. “And they didn’t even fight at the end. No fun at all.” 
Ah. Shit. 
He really does know who you are. 
Well, if your end is coming to you as swiftly as you are beginning to fear it is, you may as well throw all caution to the wind - let this Harbinger know exactly how much you despise him and everything he stands for. 
“Apologies,” you spit out, “that begging for their lives wasn’t enough of a power rush for you.”
Childe’s knee slams into your thigh, as he uses you for leverage. You bite back the surprised noise of pain that wants to flow from your mouth, instead preferring to keep your gaze laser-focused and narrowed. 
“Nowhere near as much of a power rush as defeating them in an honourable battle would have been, no,” he says, and you stare up at his soulless blue eyes (pity they are so very blue, so pretty on someone so rotten inside), and his handsome face, and you think of how you despise him. “If they were going to betray Her Majesty, they could at least have stuck to their ideals!”
“Untie me,” you tell him, your own gaze glimmering dangerously. “I’ll make sure I give you a fight worth remembering - for the couple of seconds you’ll still be alive after it, of course.”
“Flirt,” Childe shoots back at you. But he seems delighted that you are fighting back; that you have not rolled over and shown him your softest parts, like a prey animal in the claws of a tiger. You cannot consider yourself prey; that way lies fear, and far better to go to your own death bravely than snivelling and begging. 
“You’re all talk,” you accuse him. “If you’re so very certain you could beat me, give me my sword back and we’ll see if you can prove it--!”
He squeezes your cheeks where they’re still in his grasp, forcing you to cut your words short with a grunt of pain. 
“I’d love to,” he says, sounding a little breathy at the very concept of it. This . . . you’ve heard some rumours about the eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers and his particular thirst for blood and battle, but you’ve never had reason to actually interact with him before - it seems, then, that it was not exaggeration when people whispered to you about how he seemed just a little maladjusted. “But I’m afraid that I have my orders first - and I’m not by any means a traitor to the Tsaritsa, like it seems some of my compatriots were.”
“Your orders?” You arch an eyebrow at him. “Of course. None of you Fatui are free to pursue what it is you really want, are you? You’re all just pawns in someone else’s game.”
His knee digs in harder. He’s breathing even more heavily now. 
“Careful what you say,” he warns you, as if you have not been walking on a frozen lake this whole time, simply waiting for the ice to crack and for you to find yourself drowned, “I’m nobody’s pawn.” 
“If you’re going to kill me,” you say to him, all tossed head and fierce, righteous indignation to try and mask the anxiety you can feel flaring up in your stomach. “You may as well get it over with.”
Childe barks out laughter; he lets go of your face, finally. He reaches for his own side, and then before you know it his elegant hand is pulling from his pocket a knife that glimmers sharp and dangerous even in the little light the candle’s flame provides. You stare at it, not letting the horror show on your face. You cannot help but let the thought of it being dragged against your throat flash into your mind.
“Oh?” Childe asks, noticing how you swallow. “Aww. You’re scared now there’s a blade involved? Poor baby--”
“I meant it when I said to get killing me over and done with,” you say, through gritted teeth. You have always known you could lose your life in the pursuit of what you believe to be right; anybody who is fool enough to disobey the Fatui, to reject what the Tsaritsa says, needs to be brave enough to lay down and face death when it comes knocking. Your organisation’s goals are not for the faint-hearted.
“Too bad,” Childe chirps. The knife comes closer and closer to you; before you know it, he is using the flat of the blade to tip your chin up. The sharp edge presses dangerously against soft skin, but Childe does not yet press harder. “I have a lot of questions for you.” 
“I’m not going to rat anyone out--” You spit at him. The idea of betraying your colleagues even momentarily makes you forget about the danger that you’re in (in the form of sharp steel too close to your pulse). “There’s no point waiting for me to!”
He tuts at you, but he is still breathless. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes hazy. 
“Cute,” he breathes. “We’ll see how long that lasts, won’t we? Because I’ve got a knife, and you can’t even move--”
“Try me,” you say to him, with more bravado than you really feel colouring your words. You are frightened. But more important than your life, more important than the fear that buzzes through your veins, is the reminder of just how pervasive the Fatui’s operations have gotten. The reminder that once somebody has become a part of the Fatui, there is no leaving; the iron grip it holds over so many Snezhnayans. You joined your organisation and climbed your way up through the ranks for that; a higher purpose. If you pay for it with your life, so be it. 
“Maybe,” he muses, moving the knife from your throat, hovering it over the soft skin of your cheek, “I should start with a couple of cuts here . . .” There’s that heavy breathing again; he’s getting his words out, but the promise of bloodshed seems to have left him flustered and weak at the knees. “Your face is so pretty, I bet it’d be prettier bleeding--”
“I bet you say that to all your victims,” you huff out, and you win another throaty chuckle. 
“Stay still,” he warns you, and his other hand fastens around your face. His fingers curling around your jaw, his gloved palm close to your mouth. You know it’s foolish; you should be trying to placate him, not rile him up further. But you can hear your pulse thundering in your ears.
You bite down as hard as you can. 
Childe yelps in surprise - snatches his hand back, stares at you. The knife hovers close to your cheek, and you fear that instead of fucking around with you in this ‘interrogation’, Childe is about to call it a day and simply slam the knife directly into your heart. 
He does not. 
He does something even more unexpected.
He takes a great, shuddering breath - and then Childe kisses you.
His mouth practically slams against yours. And though you still have the taste of his gloves lingering on your lips, and though you hate everything that the man before you stands for, you cannot lie to yourself. Your heart is pounding far quicker now than it ever has for any other fumbles with any other men, rabbiting against your rib cage in the rhythm of Childe’s name. Your head is screaming at you that this is a terrible idea (that this man has you tied to a chair, had intentions to kill you, that he has proved he is not kind) - but your stomach is coiling in knots. There is a pit of desire inside of you; a slickness you can feel on your thighs, a pulsing between your legs. You kiss him back. 
He even kisses like it’s a fight. 
He does not simply press his lips to yours; does not delicately nibble at your soft skin. Instead, he grasps at your face. His palms press hot against your cheeks, forcing you to tilt your own head to the position that he wills it (though the fact you are still tied to a chair as he kisses you does not help matters). His thumbs find the corners of your mouth, prying your mouth open further as teeth and tongue clash. His teeth, you’re surprised to find, are just a little sharp - you vocalise a soft noise that might be pain and might be pleasure as they nick at your own tongue, in an attempt to wrestle some control. 
That attempt is short-lived. Childe seizes command of you despite your fighting back. 
You know, at least, the try pleases Childe, for he groans aloud into you even as he continues to kiss you messily and hungrily. You don’t think he’s kissed much before; but there’s something both charming and terribly enticing about his desperate hunger all the same. You feel drool slip past the corners of your mouth, forced open more than is natural. He bites down on your lower lip with more force than most would exert when kissing, and you whine aloud again. You can taste the leather of his gloves; by all rights, you should be gagging, but all you’re doing is panting. Why is this getting you so hot and bothered? Childe’s clever words? His pretty face? The lean lines of his body, leonine and dangerous?
Childe pulls back, breathing heavy, staring down at you with an unreadable expression painted across his handsome features. 
“That’s a much better occupation for that smart mouth of yours,” he says, panting. 
“I didn’t realise that telling the truth wasn’t a worthwhile line of business,” you shoot back - even now, you cannot control your mouth. You cannot let him truly get the upper hand. Childe’s mouth is a crooked, feral grin. 
“Sorry,” he says, straightening up suddenly. His hand goes to the front of his pants - where, you realise with a start, the outline of his cock is clearly visible, pressing snugly against his already tight trousers. He massages it through the fabric of the garment, his eyes going dark and half-lidded. “I’ve actually just had an even better idea for something to do with it.”
“Is that so?” You ask him, still not sure what you’re saying. “How ungentlemanly, my Lord Harbinger. We’ve barely been introduced--” This interrogation has clearly gotten away from both of you; you’re both messy and confused and panting. Childe stares down at you with his placket unbuttoned, before he says;
“Ah! Apologies. Let me make things a little more even, then--”
The flash of the knife in the air. For one glorious, shining moment, you think he’s about to slash it through the ropes at your wrists and ankles and let you launch yourself at him; give you an even playing field against him. But it appears even the bloodthirsty eleventh Harbinger is not quite so foolish as all that - instead, the blade shines sharp and true as it cuts entirely through your shirt and your undergarments. 
You cry out in shock as the fabric splits open, and cool air hits your newly bared skin. There’s a bead of blood on one of your breasts, a sharp stinging sensation; he hasn’t been as careful with the knife as he should have been. 
“There,” Childe pants. “That feels a little more fair and square, doesn’t it? I have to say, sweetheart . . . you’re very nice to look at.”
Blue irises trailing over your skin - the swell of your breast, the way your nipples have hardened and perked. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes half-lidded. You’re well and truly wet between your thighs, now - if Childe were to turn his knife to what you’re wearing on your lower half, you wouldn’t be able to preserve an ounce of your shame. 
“Oh?” You goad. “You don’t think I’d look nice covered in blood? Cut up a little?”
Shit. That actually doesn’t sound all that bad. Your own voice is breathy, your lashes fluttering, as your tongue darts out to wetten your lips. Your cheeks are hot. You have never really considered whether pain could become pleasure before - but with Childe in front of you brandishing a knife, you’re suddenly absolutely certain the two ought to stand hand-in-hand. The vision of Childe using that knife to cut patterns into your skin, laser-focused and handsome, has you feeling light-headed and dizzy. 
“Hm? That sounds like you . . . want me to do just that--”
Childe, mouth parted, moves - gently slides the knife over the skin of your breast, cutting only shallowly. But the sting of it, the feel of dark blood dripping down your breast . . . you moan aloud without realising you’re doing it, and Childe takes a great, shuddering breath. Almost immediately, he ducks his head down - almost immediately, a hot tongue drags over the cut, making it sting and ache . . . and sending hot electric sparks of pleasure back to that place between your thighs. 
It doesn’t take long for him to leave a matching cut on the other side of your chest. For him to lick at that, too - for him to smear his mouth with your blood, for him to graze his teeth across the soft swells, to map out the line of your collarbones with his lips. For him to carefully, carefully, use the blade to split the seams of the rest of the clothes you’re wearing. 
He takes a harsh, shaking breath in when he sees your underwear. Thin white cotton soaked through and saturated with your own slick. 
“Oh,” he breathes. “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He uses the point of the blade once more to drag up your thighs - to oh-so-gently press against the seam between your legs, that same thin cotton the only barrier between the cruel razor blade of the knife and your slick, sensitive folds. You swear you can feel your sex buzzing with need. Your head lolls back on the chair, as you drag in your own deep breath. He presses the flat of the knife against you fully, hard enough that you can feel cool steel on the heated petals of your cunt. 
“Shall I use this to take your underwear off?” Childe asks, low and dangerous, eyes glinting wildly. “I can feel how warm you are.”
“Go ahead,” you manage to hiss out to him, through gritted teeth, though the breathiness in your voice and the wetness that leaks out of you with every tiny shift of your body in its bonds is damning. “If you think you’ve got the control for it--”
Your sex is bared just as shamelessly as your breasts and your thighs had been. Childe’s eyes are glued to that place between your thighs; the way that your ankles have been tied to the legs of the chair ensures that he has rather a good view of your sex slightly spread apart, and how it glistens with beads of arousal and pulses around nothing. He swallows thickly. 
“Well,” he manages. “We’re even now, aren’t we? I should get . . . back to what I was talking about. How about you open that smart mouth of yours and let me put it to good use?”
He’s just as flustered and turned-on and unsure as you are; aware that he shouldn’t be getting off on this, but still doing so anyway. This is the very definition of ‘sleeping with the enemy’, you suppose - if only the enemy wasn’t so damned pretty, and if only the enemy’s tastes and yours didn’t align so well . . . You open your mouth for him, as a hand fastens about the back of your neck and Childe’s pretty, flushed cock presses against your lips. 
“Open up, angel,” he says, the pet name barbed but fond at the same time. “Let’s see that tongue of yours in action--” 
It probably says a lot about you that your first thought isn’t to bite. Your first thought isn’t about how he has put his most sensitive part right in front of the only weapon you still have full access to. Your first thought, when it comes to getting a leg up over Childe, is instead: I am going to make this man see Celestia. 
So you do not go gently. No kitten licks, no shy kisses to the weeping head of his cock, no demure little licks. You envelope as much of his shaft into your mouth as you can, and let the head bump against your throat as you look into his eyes with a fierce challenge in yours. His taste lingers on your tongue as you begin to suck in earnest.
“Archons--” Childe is surprised, the moan coming out choked, his own lashes fluttering and his throat bobbing. “I was right, this is a much better use for you--” 
You’re messy and drooling around him; suckling his cock, working your tongue over the prominent veins that run over his shaft. Sliding the tip of it just beneath the head and making him groan aloud again, his hips rutting into you against his will. Whether he had any intention of being vocal or not, your mouth is forcing him to make sure you know what a good job you’re doing. 
“Shit,” he’s breathing - and a gloved hand is fumbling with the knife. A shaking wrist brings it down to your thigh. 
You cry out as he begins to cut you as you suck on him, but it is not a cry of pain - at least, it is not entirely a cry of pain. Mixed in with that pain is savage pleasure, as the short sharp shock of being used as a canvas makes your cunt throb around nothing. 
“Haa,” he sighs, “s-someone’s needy . . .” 
Once more, the world fades into nothing but the feel of your throat bobbing along Childe’s length and the slow, torturous drag of a blade in your sensitive skin. Pleasure and pain all meeting at a pinnacle inside of you that makes you ache for how empty you are. Need shivers across your spine, makes your thighs tremble. 
It’s bold of him to call you needy when he’s trembling, too - when you can see that beads of sweat are rolling down the elegant column of his throat and he’s biting hard into his bottom lip, his cheeks fair crimson with flush. The cant of his hips is almost awkward, desperate chasing after his own pleasure; his hand about the back of your neck rough. If you didn’t know what you were doing and you weren’t giving back to him so enthusiastically, the pace would be almost choking; as it is, though . . .
His cock twitches inside of your mouth. His precome floods your tongue, ready for him to finally give in and come properly. You urge him forward with the embrace of your lips and the hollowing of your cheeks, and Childe lets out a noise halfway between a moan and a wail as he jerks his hips and ropes of his release coat the back of your throat. 
He pulls out whilst he’s still coming, letting some splatter over your face and your mouth. You’re breathless and fucked out, but Childe demands to you;
“Show me your tongue.” 
You do. His come lies heavy on it, in white pools - he stares at the view of you, mostly naked and bleeding and tied to a chair, and he shudders in pleasure. 
“C-cute,” he says, stuttering only a little bit. You wonder how many times he’s done that before. “I think . . . you deserve a reward for being so good, huh?” A surprisingly tender hand comes up to your face; a gloved thumb wiping away a bead of his own release. Childe is staring at you like he’s realised something; tender, despite the situation you have found yourself wrapped up in. “You’re leaking all over the chair.”
“Can’t help it,” you pant out. “People bleed when you cut them.”
You let your gaze drift down to your thigh, expecting to see a collection of shallow cuts all over it from the sharp edge of Childe’s knife (not that you’re complaining). You’re surprised, then, when you realise that even with his cock in your mouth and shaking and whining and thrusting, the Harbinger has managed to use his knife to cut something actually legible into the skin. 
It’s an “A”. 
You don’t have time to question what it is the ‘A’ stands for - because Childe is kissing you again, tucking his knife into a pocket. This time, he doesn’t use his thumbs to pry your mouth apart (he’s clearly already staked his claim of your mouth thoroughly enough) - instead, hands come up to squeeze and palm at your breasts. His thumbs pinch and pull at your nipples, hard enough to send a shockwave of pain through your body that somehow still manages to morph into pleasure at the apex of your thighs. 
He maps out the curves and lines of your body after he’s had his fill of massaging and squeezing your chests; the curve of your waists, the shape of your hips, right to between your thighs. One hand dives between your legs - a gloved thumb dragging through your folds, finding your clit with only minimal fumbling. 
Two fingers press against your entrance, sliding inside of you with minimal fanfare. Childe is still clumsy with his movements, but he’s a good judge of your expression - the moment those fingers curl inside of you and hit your sweet spot, Childe notices the way your eyes go glassy and quickly begins to exploit that newfound knowledge. 
The sensation of the gloves on your heated, sensitive parts, is strange and unusual - but certainly not unpleasant. His thumb rubbing circles over your clit, twinned with the sensation of teeth nipping at your lower lips and the fingers inside of you mercilessly battering against the spongy spot inside of your walls that makes you feel like you’re on fire - it feels far better to have your enemy’s hands on you than you’d ever imagined.
Heat and pressure and desperate, desperate want all begin to knit themselves together inside of you, fed by the slick noise of Childe’s fingers working you open and the unyielding way he’s fucking you with them. You shake and tremble, sweat rolling down your collarbones, stars spotting in the corners of your vision. 
“F-fuck!” You’re crying out, breaking the kiss yourself. “Ch-Childe! Tartaglia--!”
He chases your lips as you pull away, mumbling heavy in needy breaths against your mouth; 
“It’s Ajax--”
And then he’s kissing you as you come on his fingers, squeezing around him, your walls pulsing and sucking him further in. The ropes dig painfully into your bare wrists as your back tries to arch to no avail - and you bite down on his lower lip to try and stifle the noises somewhat. Your orgasm rips through you almost painfully, your hips shaking and thrusting as well they can, whilst waves of pleasure crash over you like you’re drowning in the open sea.
You don’t know how long it takes you to come back down afterwards, as the pulsing and rolicking pleasure fades away.
He pulls back, his mouth stained with a mixture of both of your blood. Fingers are dragged out of you.His gloves glimmer with your own release. 
“Okay,” he breathes out. “I . . . Time's getting away from me.” He fumbles. 
One more terrifying moment as the knife gleams in the candlelight. He’s going to kill you, you think, as you stare at the way his grip slides on the handle and the blade of judgement descends upon you--
Childe’s shaking hands slash the knife, finally, through the ropes. He’s still staring at you, dazed and ruffled and despoiled - and you, wearing absolutely nothing but your own blood and Childe’s come on your lips, look just as bad. 
“There,” he says, hoarsely, as he steps back and admires his handiwork. Some droplets of blood have splashed on the floor. Your thighs are still shaking as you drag yourself up, standing on wobbling legs. “I’ll tell my superiors that the leads were a bust. Nobody to interrogate. You’re far too much fun to just kill and move on.”
“Oh?” You ask him, breathing heavy still, heart pumping hot blood through your veins. His cock is still out, but it’s twitching to life even as the two of you stare at one another. “Do you intend for us to meet again, my Lord Harbinger?”
Childe grins. 
“Of course,” he says to you. His eyes flicker to where the “A” has been carved into your thigh. “You and I are birds of a feather, and I’ve laid claim on you. Huh. We can battle properly next time.”
“Next time,” you say to him, wicked glint in your eye, “I’ll get to you first, and you’ll find yourself the one tied to a chair and at my mercy.”
Childe takes a deep, shuddering breath. A smirk curls the corner of his own mouth - and you’re reminded just how handsome the eleventh Fatui Harbinger is. Oh. You want to get to know him better. You want to wrestle for dominance properly; want to pin him beneath you and bounce on his cock, his wrists in your grip. 
“I like the sound of that,” he growls. “Is that a promise?”
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connorjesup · 2 years
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Yim Siwan as Ryu Jinseok in Emergency Declaration (2022)
The people on this plane, I want them all to die. Shall I repeat myself? I want everyone on this plane to die! Every single one!
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maedaeme · 2 months
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rough day buddy
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abneyart · 2 years
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dyscalculia
(instead of doing a s5 fix-it fic like a normal person, I’m doing a comic)
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batrogers · 2 months
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Art from my fic, Murder With Benefits. Fierce Deity design borrowed from @kifaprokumiv
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compendiumhistoria · 7 months
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Been thinking abt some old-ish D&D faces I have once or once planned playing, and some sketches got outta hand abt it,
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kedreeva · 2 years
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rapidly realizing i know nothing about blood transfusions
UPDATE: Rapidly learned the things I needed to know about blood transfusions, thank you
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ordinaryberry · 2 years
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is destruction all we're worth, goddess?
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shredsandpatches · 2 months
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Cheating but for the WIP game: Mephistopheles
(If you want a non-cheating option, "light")
– Casey (heroticisms)
I am going with the non-cheating option because most of my active WIPs have Mephistopheles in practically every other sentence and it would take way too much time (and spoil my fic even more than I usually do!) to post them all. 😈
(unless I restricted it to dialogue appearances only? Hmm)
So, light. A couple from the Helen of Troy fic:
The dark, heavy air grows palpably warm and shimmers about them all; in the light of the single remaining candle, the trails of smoke swirl about their heads and gather in the center of the room, twisting and dancing about one another, bright and insubstantial as moonlight as they gradually take shape. A plume of smoke billows like the fold of a skirt, another like a glistening lock of hair, another like a graceful white arm—and then they dissolve into the radiant light cast by the seeming flesh-and-blood woman who stands before them all—who turns to Faustus then, and the rose-red curve of her smile, the piercing blue of her eyes, pulls the breath from his body and he stands helpless before his own enchantment.
(The above are consecutive sentences in context; the following is from a very different scene)
There is blood all over his clothing and the desk, ink-black in the candlelight.
From the redemption AU:
A room like this should be lit by fire, and yet it is as bright as daylight, even though he can see the stars through the arched windows.
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sokkarang · 1 year
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i watched 478 episodes to get to this one scene and boy was it gay as shit
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wri0thesley · 1 year
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my vampire diluc fic is not going in this direction at all so please imagine; a yandere vampire diluc. perhaps he saves you from monsters in the middle of the night, brings you back to the winery all ripped and torn and bleeding, desperately fighting back his own desires to place his mouth against your wounds and drink. gives you over to adelinde to be looked after, convinces himself all will be fine. perhaps he has killed innocents, in mindless thirst, before he knew what he was and how to control it (now, of course, he tears open the throats of the fatui and feasts on their blood without remorse, considering it retribution for the crimson spill of his father’s life force as he bled out in diluc’s arms) - and you, rescued and lively, are somewhat of a penance. you stay in the winery manor whilst recovering. diluc sees you everywhere. scents your blood on the air and covets it like he is a child sneaking gingerbread from the kitchen maid. longs to touch the silky swell of your breast and feel your blood thrumming through your veins until you let him nip at your throat, let your life force slide into his mouth like carmine ambrosia.
you are ready to leave. recovered. but diluc tosses and turns during the day and imagines you set upon by more monsters - comes to you the evening before you are due to depart and draws you to him with an inhumanly iron-like grip. you cannot go, he says, hand on your wrist. you are not safe.
protests die on your lips at the cast of diluc’s eyes. has he not protected you, he asks, desperation in his tone. has he not fed you and ensured you had a nurse and made sure you received only the best care? do you not owe him?
you know what kind of favours young men like diluc sometimes ask for; wonder if his hands would be so bad, pawing at your dress. swallow down protestations and beating heart and offer yourself to him - and are most surprised indeed when, instead of tearing at the laces of your corset to bare your chest, he dips his lips against your neck. you whimper aloud as fangs slide into your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath the skin, as diluc pulls you into his lap and rucks up your skirts and you can no longer tell where you end and he begins.
that, of course, seals your fate utterly.
because now you know his secret. and he has absolutely no intention of letting either you or the secret out past the winery walls.
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connorjesup · 1 year
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Gannibal + Blood
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immortalled · 2 years
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          “Ah-ha... Great.” Nathan’s laugh came out as a wheeze. The grin on his face didn’t match the wide-eyed shock in his eyes. “I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure this all this is s’posed t’ stay on the inside.”
          He turned his palms up. His hands were slicked red and blood was quickly spreading through the fabric of his shirt. 
          “Should probably... put a plaster on that.”
          Nathan swayed, falling hard against the pavement where he then wilted with a muted groan.
          “Ugh... I rrrreee...heally... liked this shirt, too...”
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kingofattolia · 6 months
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Honestly I cannot overstate how much seeing Hayden as TCW Anakin changed EVERYTHING. Matt Lanter's Anakin is a frat dude. He wears a backwards baseball hat and says vaguely offensive things without realizing, while being a fundamentally chill and outgoing guy at heart. Hayden's Anakin is... not that. His voice. His expressions. His physical presence. It's off somehow. It's just left of normal. It's completely unremarkable and yet deeply uncanny for reasons you can't quite describe. TCW Anakin was always a flatter, blander portrayal, but I don't think I realized until now what exactly was missing: the serial killer energy. The inarticulable conviction that SOMETHING unhinged is going on behind those eyes.
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andichoseyou · 3 months
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2023 (Taylor's Version)
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kedreeva · 2 years
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Took Aris and Corona's (infertile) eggs away since we're not breeding this year. Forgot to grab gloves and thought fuck it, I can just grab them real quick since it's nighttime and she can't see me. I was wrong. Aris continues to be full of rage untempered by blinding darkness.
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