The brothels of Liyue are hidden in plain sight, seamlessly blending in with the rest of the harbor shops but easily spotted by anyone with a sharp eye. None of them are marked by any distinctive factors, but it is this forced sense of normalcy that reveals their true nature: for all these supposed "shops" that pose in the streets of Liyue without any identifying nameplates hanging from the roof are the regional brothels, a fact only known to locals and the most informed of travelers.
Childe usually takes the trouble to steer clear of these prostitution houses.
If asked, he'd say that it's because his time is better spent gathering information for the Tsaritsa. He'd deliver a short speech on his devotion to the woman, all fluff and pure theatrics, with the end notion being that indulging in the whores of Liyue is a waste of time, that the Eleventh Harbinger has better things to do.
This is a lie.
A beautiful lie, delivered from smiling lips that will compel anyone to believe them, but a lie nonetheless.
The truth is that Childe avoids them out of self-preservation—because Liyuen whores are like Mondstadt wine: there's always more to be had, and one can never have enough. Childe steers clear of their ranks out of fear for himself, fear for what might happen if a man of his rank begins to favor a common whore. Such a thing could only end in disaster for both him and the prostitute in question, and so he rarely lets anyone into his life, refusing to let his own power and influence serve as a stepping stool for someone else's stratagems.
It's because of this that when Childe sees you approach, he immediately changes his direction and increases his pace.
He can tell that you're a prostitute the moment he spots you on the other side of the street. It's obvious in the way you walk, your pace marked by a languid rhythm that makes you look enchanting as you stroll. The small steps you take only add to the image, creating the illusion that you're gliding rather than walking. And though such a thing is certainly a skill that anyone could master with enough practice, the color and fabric of your robe tell Childe that you're nothing like those surrounding you on the street, the cloth almost seeming to shimmer under the orange lights of Liyue—every inch of it spun from an expensive silk that only prostitutes who wish to catch the eyes of everyone around them would dare wear, the stark red of your outfit so striking that even Childe pauses to stare.
Ordinarily, he wouldn't care. The men and women of Liyue are free to pick whichever occupation they want, and Childe is the last person who would judge them for such a thing. He doesn't look down on prostitutes, merely avoids them.
But it's painfully clear, as you round the corner and shoot a seductive smile at Childe, that you're here for him.
He tears his gaze away from you to flee from the scene.
Childe's pace is brisk as he climbs the winding stairs of Liyue, consciously choosing a path he thinks will slow you down. He enters every crowd he finds and weaves through them in the most confusing manner possible, ducking his head and even slipping into an alley at one point until he's safe in front of his usual post at the Northland Bank.
The man glances behind him at the way he came, holding his breath while his eyes scan for even a glimpse of the red silk robe he caught you wearing. When he sees nothing, he breathes a small sigh of relief, turning around to—
"Hello, Master Childe."
It is a testament to Childe's sense of self-control that he manages not to flinch when he hears your voice, sultry and sweet, call out from in front of him.
Of course, the redhead thinks. Of course, you would go straight here instead of following the elaborate trail he left. Practically everyone in Liyue knows that this is the one spot the redhead always returns to.
The Harbinger curses himself for his foolishness.
"Miss." Childe nods his head at you, not returning your deep bow as he begins brainstorming excuses to slip away. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he's had to do this: Childe has always been a prime target for prostitutes. He doesn't think that dealing with you should be too much trouble.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Childe."
It's almost disgraceful how easily Childe's naturally playful disposition slips through—an instinctive "And you," spilling from his lips with a ready smile that doubtlessly just encouraged you—but the man gets himself under control moments later, letting his smile harden into the cold mask that he faces his enemies with.
(It's strange, presenting such a face to someone who looks as harmless as you, but Childe can manage.)
"Do you have business with me? I don't think the Northland Bank ordered any..." Childe searches for a less blunt word than whore. "...entertainers for the night."
"The Mistress Ying'er sent me for you, Master Childe, not for your acquaintances in the Bank." You emphasize the sentiment with a bashful look into Childe's eyes, all too aware of how tempting you look when you bat your lashes.
It takes all of the Harbinger's self-control to keep his gaze fixated on your face. Only with you so close to him does he now realize the other subtle indications that you're a prostitute: how your collar is pushed away from your neck to expose more of your collarbone, how you stand a few inches closer to Childe than would be traditionally acceptable, how the fragrance you use is stronger than that of most women in Liyue, all of it serving to pull Childe deeper into your charm.
The man takes a step back, forcing some distance between the two of you.
You smile innocently, pretending not to have noticed the way Childe's eyes flickered with desire.
"Thank you for coming all this way, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline." Childe's words are blunt and forced, his usual tact slipping through his fingers when he recalls the memory of the fragrance you wore. He didn't recognize it. He wants to get closer and smell your skin, wants to ask you what perfume it is and where you bought it from (and then lick the spot on your skin where you applied it, something sinful whispers at the back of his mind). "I'm not interested in entertainers, but please offer the Mistress my regards."
"But that's—"
"I'd recommend trying your luck at Xinyue Kiosk." Childe clears his throat, his usual demeanor returning when he thinks about that. Nothing can quite destroy the desire that had begun to rise in his groin like the thought of old and ugly men. "A party is being hosted there tonight"—he winks—"and I'm certain that someone of your beauty can find as many high-paying clients as you'd wish there."
"I'm insulted, Master Childe." Your voice is sultry, and you step forward, that intoxicating scent enveloping the man once more. "Are you saying that someone of my beauty cannot find a high-paying client here?"
You don't think twice about invading Childe's personal space, tapping his chest with a delicate finger.
"Am I not pretty enough to tempt you?"
Ah, fuck.
You look nothing but innocent as you stare at the redhead, head cocked to the side with a hurt look on your face—but Childe knows better. He can see the fire of challenge that dances in your eyes, recognizing that no matter how sweet you portray yourself to be, you're experienced in this game. He can already tell that you're better than the other prostitutes that have cornered him with the goal of inviting him to their bed, can tell that you know exactly what you're doing when you drag your fingernail over his chest and graze over the spot where his nipple lies stiffened under the fabric.
You smile at the man's silence.
"You should know, Master Childe, that the Mistress didn't send me here to make a client out of you. We would never treat the Fatui with such disrespect. You are to be honored, revered, esteemed..." Childe holds his breath while you continue to let your hand wander his chest. "It is in our best interest to keep the Fatui happy, no?" You smile sweetly. "The Mistress sent me to you as an offer of goodwill. To show our appreciation for your presence here."
Ah, that's it.
Childe instantly understands.
You don't want him to pay for a night with you through Mora but with protection instead. This is nothing but a scheme to get on the Fatui's good graces; and your establishment has chosen to strike at the head of the serpent, going after the strongest and most prolific member of the Liyuen Fatui: the fucking Harbinger.
"You're tempting," Childe says, not bothering to lie as a warm smile slips onto his face. It quickly turns cold. "But the Fatui cannot be manipulated. A night with you will do nothing to protect your establishment if it becomes indebted to the Northland Bank."
A pout creeps onto your face.
"You're so confident, Master Childe, for someone who has never spent a night with me. How can you be so sure of something you've never experienced?" You continue to drag your finger to and fro on Childe's chest. He grows acutely aware of how heavy his breathing has grown. "I bet I could change your mind."
Childe is silent.
"How do you like your women, Master Childe? Sweet and innocent? Loud and responsive?" You let your finger crawl upward to the exposed skin above his scarf, and your touch is electric without the barrier of fabric holding you back. "Or perhaps you like them confident? Bold? Maybe you even like to be overpowered every once in a while?"
Those last words come out whispered into his ear, and only then does Childe realize just how close you are, your breasts mere inches from his own chest and your neck tantalizingly stretched out in front of him. Your lips linger so close to his ear that he can feel your soft breath—and he curses, wondering when and how he allowed you to get this close to him.
Childe closes his eyes, trying to push you out. Trying to quell the flames of desire that you've been fanning meticulously since you first approached him.
"You're..." His voice falters, unsure of what word to label you with. Part of him wants to call you cunning and manipulative. The other part screams seductive and beautiful.
"Good at what I do?" You finish his sentence for him, pulling back. Childe swears that the temperature cools ten degrees the moment you withdraw. "It's awfully lucky for you, Master Childe, that I'm willing to let you experience it for free."
"It's not free if you're asking for the Fatui to favor your establishment in exchange." Childe tries to fix his face into a frown, but it's incredibly hard when you smile so radiantly at him despite it.
"And what if I say you don't need to favor my establishment in exchange?" You step forward and glance at your hands as if shy, but Childe doesn't believe the act. "What if I let you make up your mind about that after you've had a taste?"
A taste, huh?
Childe's mind flashes with more lewd images than he'd ever admit to.
He considers your proposition, trying to recall his original reason for declining. He can't seem to remember it at all. He can't really seem to think, either, his mind entirely occupied with staring at the exposed hint of skin on your collarbone and how he desperately wants to see more.
You step away.
A whine crawls up Childe's throat, and it's through sheer willpower that he manages to hold it down when you begin walking away from him.
"What are you waiting for, Master Childe?" You glance behind your shoulder, lips curved into a coy smile. "Follow me. My establishment isn't a far walk."
You don't wait for him to move, merely continuing your path away from him until Childe breaks himself from his stupor and begins following you. There's a piece of his mind which screams in defiance to his actions, wondering why he's following you when he still hasn't even accepted your offer in the first place, but it's silenced by the deafening roar that is the soft melody you hum as you walk, the tune nearly as mystic and mesmerizing as you.
The route you take Childe through is nothing discreet: you walk him through the main streets of Liyue, holding your head high while the Harbinger follows.
Childe knows he ought to feel some semblance of shame right now, given that it's painfully obvious that you're a prostitute and he's doing nothing to hide the fact that he's with you, but the redhead only finds his ego stroked by the stares of everyone around him. Indeed, some of Liyue's citizens look at the Harbinger in disgust, flashing you a similar look of repulsion. But everyone else seems to watch the two of you in a mix of awe, shock, and jealousy. It quickly tells Childe that you're by no means a low-profile member of society—and he can't help but wonder how expensive a night with you really must be, for even the most wealthy-looking merchants stare after your figure with a wistful gaze, filled with longing for that which they cannot attain.
"You'll find yourself approached by many other women after today," you tell Childe as you stop in front of an inconspicuous residence on the corner of the street. "Don't accept them. They aren't worth it."
"And you are?" he jokes in return, stepping inside the establishment. He expects to see a typical whorehouse, but whatever is inside is obscured by a curtain at the end of a short hall.
"Yes," you whisper in response as soon as the door is shut, and then Childe finds himself pressed against the wall with his neck arched forward as you drag him into a long kiss.
Holy fuck.
The man is frozen for a moment when you begin to press your body against his—and abruptly, Childe can tell that you're not wearing an underrobe beneath your garb. He can feel your breasts for what they are pressed against his chest: soft and supple, moving in a rhythmic fashion as you press kiss after kiss against his lips like it's all you know how to do.
It takes the full scope of Childe's mental fortitude to finally grip your shoulders and push you away from him.
For the first time, your eyes flash with genuine hurt.
"Do you—do you not—" Your words come out in a stutter, rushed and quick, and Childe watches as you completely withdraw from him. Your eyes blaze with insecurity but you mask it with offense, your voice coming out unsteady:
"Do you actually not want me?"
Childe hates how he finds a secret pleasure in the demure look in your expression as uncertainty takes over.
How is it possible for someone to be so forward in one second and so withdrawn in the next? It's as if you're a different girl entirely, and you've already straightened out your collar so that you're wearing it properly, the inch of collarbone that had previously been on-display now hidden behind silk. You now look visibly uncomfortable, awkwardly having backed yourself into the corner of the hall, mere inches from the door.
The only thing stopping Childe from admiring the pretty picture you make any longer is the fear that you'll open the door and run away from him.
If not for that, he could stare at your hurt expression for hours.
"Relax, darling." The nickname has none of the affection it should, but you look a little less wounded when Childe steps toward you. "I only stopped you so I could take this off."
The man touches the thin, silk fabric that adorns your figure with a single finger, tracing indiscernible patterns onto it the way you were doing to him outside the Northland Bank.
The smile on his face is predatory, but you barely seem to notice it because his expression quickly fades into something softer (almost gentle, though Childe would never admit to it) when you breathe out a quiet "okay" and press a kiss to his lips, chaste and sweet.
This time, you don't press your hands to his cheek, instead biting down softly on his lower lip as you take his hands into yours and move them along your figure to where your entire robe can be undone in a single, fluid motion.
"Pull," you mumble against his lips.
Childe obeys.
You withdraw your hands as his fingers tug at your sash and unwrap it from your waist, dropping it to the floor. Your robe moves in response, exposing more of your chest, but the silk clings to your skin. It shows the man nothing of what he wants to see. He has to hold his breath as his fingers find the right lapel of the garment before he pulls back on it, opening your robe entirely.
With a single shrug, you shake the collar off your shoulders, breasts bouncing gently in response as the silk falls off your figure—and then you're completely nude, nothing hiding the soft skin that looks as if it was specially crafted just for Childe to touch.
"Do you like me?" you whisper, stepping forward to wrap your arms around Childe's neck. You lean close as if moving to kiss him but you hold your head back, stopping with your lips barely a hair's width away from Childe's own as you study his eyes. "You have to tell me, Master Childe," you press your breasts into his chest, slowly wrapping one of your legs around his figure. "Otherwise I'll think you're being ungrateful."
Childe keeps his gaze trained on your eyes, waiting for the barest hint of weakness. He can tell that you're slowly trying to regain the sense of control you'd had mere moments prior by pushing him against a wall like this, but that power was lost to you the moment you willfully backed yourself into a corner and began doubting yourself.
He doesn't intend on letting you even think about taking control this night.
"I like you," Childe whispers before kissing you deeply, lowering his hand to squeeze your ass. "But you know what would make me like you more?"
"Is such a thing even possible, Master Childe? I'm the first prostitute you've ever had, according to the rumors. You must already like me a lot."
"I do." He lets his other hand move up from your ass, cupping one of your breasts and silently admiring how it feels in his hand. "But every time you call me Master Childe, I think I lose a little interest." Childe's voice turns hard, trying to intimidate you. "It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Master and Childe. Those two names shouldn't coexist."
"Oh?" You move your head away from his lips, realizing that he's not going to be tempted into kissing you. Instead, you set your sights on nibbling at Childe's neck, searching for a sweet spot. "Then," you speak between delicate kisses, your tongue creeping out to meet Childe's skin every so often. "What should I call you?"
You brush your teeth against his collarbone. "Master?"
You give the skin a lick, tongue swirling around nothing. "Or just Childe?"
You pause, a mischievous grin settling over your lips. "But I feel like you're kinkier than that." You lean to his ear, blowing cool air against the skin. "Tell me, am I right—" You press a kiss to the bottom of his earlobe before biting. Hard.
"—Daddy?"
Against his will, Childe feels his dick twitch. It's a wonder that he manages to hold himself back from bucking his hips forward and grinding against you like an inexperienced teenage boy.
"No." He keeps his expression hard and firm, knowing that if he gives in, if he chooses your petname, then you've won. And after watching you shoot him an hour's worth of sultry smiles and coy smirks, Childe just wants to wreck you for ever thinking that you could best him.
"Call me Sir."
It's the title that all the low-ranking members of the Fatui address him with, something that will doubtlessly remind him of his power and strength as he fucks you.
You smile.
"Of course, Sir." You press your breasts against Childe's clothed chest before pulling away entirely. "Would you like to be shown to the bed, Sir?"
Childe nods his head, letting you slip out of his arms as you wrap your fingers around his wrist lead him down the hall, lifting the satin cloth that had previously blocked his view before beckoning him after you.
The moment he enters, Childe understands why this was kept hidden from the outside by a curtain.
The room is made for sex. The smell that had Childe so entranced when he first met you seems to waft off the walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere, faint on his nose but impossible to miss. The walls are colored a pretty pink, a shade that should be innocent but seems downright salacious when the entire room is lit by candles with the only window obscured by a thick curtain. And the bed you lead him to, the one you practically push Childe onto before climbing on top of him, is fit for a king, large enough for at least three fully-grown adults to comfortably sleep on without ever touching.
Every square inch of the room is designed to make its occupants forget that the outside world exists: the curtain that blocks out the light from the window is so thick that Childe imagines that this room must be dark even during the day, and there are drawers placed directly next to the bed such that its occupants can fetch whatever they need without ever having to leave the clean, red sheets.
"Do you like my room, Sir?" You wriggle your hips gently as you sit on Childe's thighs, holding his torso down when he moves to sit up.
"It's...nice," the man manages to say. "Do you sleep here?"
"Only when I'm lucky enough to have clients like you," you whisper, leaning down to brush your lips against Childe's.
"Clients like me? What, do you kick the ones you don't like out and leave after you fuck them?"
"More or less." You bite Childe's lip as if warning him not to ask too many questions. "It's not my fault. The Mistress only ever tells me to entertain her most esteemed clients. And the truly esteemed are always so old and ugly..."
You lift your head to glance down at Childe's figure, letting your hands creep beneath the jacket he wears. Your breath hitches when you feel the defined muscles there, your fingers groping at them shamelessly.
"Not at all like you, Sir."
Childe knows that this is nothing more than a tactic prostitutes use: make their clients feel special, feel different, feel appreciated and valued and sometimes even loved. Yet the tone in your voice makes him think that your words might not all be a lie, and the eagerness behind your fingers as you begin stripping his top half feels genuine, as if it really is a rarity that you get to fuck someone as beautiful as yourself.
"May I?"
With his upper body now completely bare to you, your hands massage his pecs, your mouth inches away from his nipple.
Childe knows exactly what you're asking.
"Go ahead."
The red nubs on his chest are already hard when you press a wet kiss against one, your finger flying up to pinch at the other—but Childe doesn't respond much beyond a content hum. The most you get from him is a light gasp when you bite down, but that's it.
With an almost defeated look, you withdraw.
"You don't like having your chest played with?" The words are soft, not meant to make the Harbinger feel bad.
"Always been more of a dick man, myself." Childe flashes you a grin, glancing down at the obvious bulge in his pants that you'd stirred up yourself when you ground your ass against it so firmly. "You're better off using your mouth there."
"Oh, I'm sure I can fix that."
Childe wants to raise his eyebrows, wants to say Oh? and ask you how you intend to make him sensitive in a place he's never been sensitive before, but all words fall flat when your hands begin unbuckling his pants.
You keep your eyes trained on him as you slide the belt with his Vision off, watching and waiting for the slightest complaint before setting it down an arm's length away from him: on top of the drawer closest to the bed.
It's unnecessary. Childe is a strong fighter even without the blue orb; he might be letting you stay on top right now, but it would be light work to flip your position. He could probably kill you in a manner of seconds, even without the power of Hydro...but the Harbinger can't hold back a soft smile at your cautiousness with handling his Vision. It's painfully obvious that you're used to being thought of as a femme fatale, but little things like this, so innocent and kind, prevent him from seeing you that way.
"Lift your hips."
Your words are an encouragement, not an order, and they come whispered against Childe's neck after a single lick against the shell of his ear. The man shudders at the feeling, and the triumphant grin on your face when he obeys and lifts his ass off the comforter so you can slide his pants and underwear off tells him that you felt it, too.
The moment he's naked before you, your eyes never leave the sight of Childe's length.
He hears you whisper something inaudible, and either out of embarrassment or frustration, Childe immediately snaps, "What? Speak up."
You laugh, broken free of your stupor, and offer a sweet smile to the man in front of you before leaning down to kiss at the base of his dick.
"You're not especially sensitive down here either," you mumble to yourself in complaint. Childe doesn't respond, just waits for you to continue kissing up the length of his cock until you reach the tip and realize all at once that oh, it isn't that he's not sensitive—it's just that the Harbinger's body seems to have channeled every possible nerve ending into the head of his cock instead of having them evenly distributed like a normal person.
You brush your tongue by his slit.
Childe gasps a shuddering breath in response, hips flinching into your touch.
A soft chuckle leaves your lips at that, an adoring look settling in your eye when you realize how incredibly responsive he is here, and Childe's entire cock twitches when he feels your warm breath against him.
"Your body is beautiful, Sir." You press another kiss to the tip of his dick, leaning back to admire the curve of it. "But I have something to make you enjoy this more."
"Wha..." Childe can only find it in him to speak when you bring your lips away from his thighs, when you're hovering on top of him once more with an eager look in your eyes. He swallows. Hard. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Don't be nervous," you tease, pressing a quick kiss to his chest. "I'm just going to make you a little more sensitive."
Childe doesn't bother asking what you're doing, merely letting you reach over his shoulder to let you pull open a drawer next to the bed. He's massaging your thighs, pressing indents into the skin with his thumb, when you finally withdraw with a red, glass jar.
"Just a little bit of this and you'll feel completely different," you say, beginning to open it. "Stay still while I put it on you."
Holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
Childe's fight or flight instincts take over instantly, the man's eyes flashing with danger as he rips the jar from your hand and flips you over. In this position, his knees are on your thighs and he's completely trapped you beneath him, but there's nothing sexual about it. His one hand grips both your wrists and the jar you were holding above your head, his hold so tight he knows it must be painful while his other hand wraps around your neck in a silent threat—and his eyes lose the carless glint they had earlier. The man glares down at you without mercy, instantly forgetting who Childe is and becoming Tartaglia.
"What the fuck," he growls, "were you about to put on my body."
The words are meant to be a question, but the end of the sentence falls flat.
You stutter to find your words, utterly confused as to what brought this change about.
Childe makes use of your momentary stupor to snatch the jar completely from your fingers. He opens it and studies the color, even daring to smell it.
It's unfamiliar. Unlike any of the poisons he's acquainted with.
"Who sent you?" Childe demands, closing the jar and turning his glare back onto you. "How much money did you get for accepting this job? Or are you not getting paid until you're finished with me?"
"I don't—what are you—"
"Don't play dumb. Who sent you to poison me? Who gave this to you? Tell me what's actually inside this jar, and maybe I'll think twice before killing you in this bed."
"It's—it's not poison, Master Childe!" Your eyes widen with fear, quickly realizing why the Fatui Harbinger is looking at you like you're the most despicable thing in the world. "It—it's just an aphrodisiac! T-to enhance your experience! We use it all the time when—"
"Did you seriously think that I would let you smear some unknown substance on my body?" It takes all of Childe's self-restraint to not reach over and grab his Vision, to not trap you in water and let you feel just how close to death you are if you try to lie to him. "Do you know how many people want me dead? How fucking suspicious this makes you look?"
Your desperate gaze seems to soften at that, and it only serves to make Childe angrier. Why are you staring at him with pity?
"Master Childe," you whisper, cautiously arching your neck upward. He's no longer holding you down, but his gaze challenges you as if daring you to move an inch closer to him and see where it gets you.
You dare.
"Master Childe—Sir—" you break off into a breathless laugh, one that steals the tension from Childe's muscles against his will. "I'm not an assassin, I promise. My services may be for the elite, but only in...in endeavors like this."
You lean forward to press a chaste kiss against Childe's lips, closing your eyes even though he doesn't close his.
"Trust me," you whisper against his lips, reaching your arms up to massage the tension from his shoulders—and slowly, the redhead finds himself relaxing in your hold. He lets you continue to kiss him, lets you cup his cheeks like a lover, lets you wrap your legs around him and begin grinding your hips against his dick once more.
"Prove it." His words come out in a whisper, nervous and distrusting.
"Hm?" Your tone is languid, and it's obvious that you're trying to force Childe to relax by setting an example through yourself.
"Prove that your—that your aphrodisiac really isn't a poison." Childe's grip tenses around the delicate glass in his hands, but you reach a hand over and wrap yours around his.
You smile sweetly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lip, his chin, and then his jaw, before lying down completely on the pillow and nodding your head.
"Okay, Sir."
You keep your fingers wrapped around his as you open the jar, pulling out a spoon the size of Childe's pinkie and telling him to use it. "It's strong," you warn him. "So only use one or two spoonfuls."
You don't give him any warning beyond that, effectively giving him free rein over your body as he pinches the tiny spoon between his forefinger and thumb before collecting some of the substance inside. Childe studies it carefully, then, silently wishing that the room were illuminated by something better than candles as he tries to detect anything amiss in the clear liquid. Eventually, though, his mind catches up with his heart, and he realizes that it probably is nothing more than an aphrodisiac, that you really must be nothing more than a prostitute.
That reluctant conclusion is all it takes for Childe to spill the spoonful over your breasts.
You gasp as soon as it happens, flinching beneath the man but managing to hold yourself still after a few seconds, and the two of you watch in unison as the liquid glistens over your chest, shining especially bright over your nipples. After ten seconds, the shine fades and your skin is left looking flushed in the areas where the aphrodisiac once stood, and your breathing turns jagged in response.
It's mesmerizing.
Childe doesn't hold back as he collects another spoonful and spills more of it onto your breasts, delighting in the small whimper you give as you scrunch your eyes tight and wait for the sensation to pass.
Closing your eyes is perhaps the worst decision you could have made.
You should have kept watching the man in front of you, shouldn't have trusted him to stop there: because Childe is a man of strength and Mora and power and indulgence. He cannot withstand the call of temptation in your presence, cannot hold himself back from taking what he wants.
And in the present moment, he wants you.
Easily, the Harbinger splashes another spoonful onto your stomach, eyes lighting up with joy when your back arches and the liquid begins to crawl down your sides. Then, he sets his sight on your thighs and the pretty cunt that seems like it's been tempting him from the moment he pulled your robe down—and there's nothing holding him back.
"S-S—hah—Sir! You c-can't put—" your voice breaks into a moan when Childe carefully pours an entire spoonful on your clit, the little bud fluttering and quivering and trembling in response. "Too much!" You cry, bucking your hips up. When Childe covers your clit with the spoon, you wail at the sensation, your eyes scrunched tight with your mouth arched into a silent scream as you grind against the metal and cum to its touch.
Childe thinks it's the hottest thing he's ever seen.
"N-no more," you call out weakly, eyeing the jar in Childe's hand warily. It had been three-quarters full when he first picked it up, and now, there's less than half inside. It doesn't sound like much, given that the entire jar is small enough to fit in Childe's hand, but it's clear that when you called the liquid strong, you meant it. And Childe doesn't know exactly how many spoonfuls of the aphrodisiac he poured on your body, but it was doubtlessly more than the one-or-two that you recommended.
"Guess I went overboard, huh?" A sheepish grin crosses his face, and he sets the jar on your drawer, tossing the spoon with it.
"Y-you guess?" It's clear that your voice was meant to come out sarcastic and annoyed, but you sound nothing but needy with your body writhing so desperately beneath him. All the confidence from earlier has been replaced with desire, and Childe can tell that you're not going to be able to hold back much longer.
"Aw, I'm sorry," Childe mumbles into your skin, pressing an apologetic kiss to your neck. The way you arch your back to press your breasts against his skin isn't lost on him. "I had to make sure it's not a poison, though. Couldn't be careless."
"I might—" you break off to bite back a moan when Childe's hands begin massaging your thighs. "I might die anyway because of how much you used on me. I don't think anyone has ever—"
You stop talking completely when Childe's hands begin toying with the folds between your legs.
"Do you like that?" he breathes into your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, trying to lose yourself in the sensation.
"Sir," you whisper, resting your forehead against his. Only now does he realize that your hands have moved up to begin playing with your breasts, shamelessly groping and pulling at yourself with your eyes closed, as if not looking at Childe will stop him from looking at you.
Archons, the Harbinger thinks, internally offering them thanks for gracing him with the sinful image splayed out underneath him.
Childe isn't sure if you're this wet because you want him or because the aphrodisiac made you want him, but your body is begging to be filled, your slick clinging to his fingers as if trying to suck him closer, deeper.
"Please—"
The word is nothing more than a whisper because you doubtlessly know that it's not right. That your place here is to make him feel good, not the other way around. But Childe indulges you to the fullest, sliding two fingers into your cunt and savoring the rich moan that spills from your lips.
"Master—I mean, Childe—I mean—"
It's clear that your brain is foggy, that all the sultry tact you'd used to bring Childe here has been buried alongside his reservations about taking a prostitute into bed. It takes a full minute for you to recall the name you're supposed to be calling him.
"Sir," you finally manage to say. "L-let me."
Childe watches as you slowly shift your position so you're on top of him. You shoot him a single look, one heady, lust-filled smile, and then you're trying to take over completely, rocking your hips and riding his fingers while pinching your breasts in a reckless pursuit of pleasure so desperate that the man can only watch as you get yourself off on his body.
It's so lewd.
Childe wouldn't trade it for the world.
He can't resist the urge to help you, his mouth quickly finding your nipple and swirling his tongue around it while giving you a third finger to fuck, generously jerking his fingers upward inside you every time your body rocks down. It gets to the point where you're not even riding his fingers anymore, you're just rocking your hips while he takes care of the rest: Childe relentlessly pumping his digits inside of you and circling your clit with his thumb, continually pressing against the one spot that has you seeing stars, abusing the nipple in his mouth until you're grinding down on him with tears streaming out of your eyes, and then you're desperately whimpering, "I can't hold it back, Sir—I'm—Sir—Sir—SirSirSir—"
Your walls clamp down on his fingers with a needy call of his name, as if unable to recall anything other than him and how he's making you feel this way.
When you finally gain enough awareness to raise your hips off his fingers, you look embarrassed.
"That was hot," Childe murmurs, pressing a kiss to your ear. "You're hot."
Half an hour ago, you might have smirked at the man and asked him if that's it, if he didn't think any better of you, if his compliments were truly so mundane. With the aphrodisiac in your system, though, that's all out the window, and it's all you can do to gasp a quiet "thank you" his way.
Cute.
Childe can watch, then, as you go through varying levels of mortification in your post-orgasm clarity. After the immediate bliss comes surprise, as if unused to ever having a client cater to your pleasure rather than theirs. Next is embarrassment, and you're doubtlessly thinking about how loud you were. After that comes something nearing discomfort as you shift your hips on the mattress because the friction seems to have been too much for your sensitive body, and the train of emotion comes to a close with a look of muted acceptance as you glance at Childe.
"Why would you..."
The redhead doesn't let you finish your question, his hand flying to your neck to pull you into a deep kiss. You're quick to indulge him, moaning lightly when Childe bites on your lip.
The sound makes his cock throb.
He pulls back, gaze flitting down to his own length. It stands proudly. The pink walls and candles make it look more flushed than it is, giving it the image of something angry that demands it be attended to.
You smile at the sight, glancing up at Childe for permission.
One look into his eyes gives you the confidence you need to proceed.
"Hands or mouth?" you mumble into his ear, brushing the tip of his dick with your forefinger.
"Mouth" is his immediate response, but he soon thinks better of it: "I mean, hands. Wait, I mean—"
"How about both?" you seem to decide for him. He nods instantly, liking the idea better than anything he was about to suggest.
You flash the man a final smooth smile before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, giving it a violent suck the moment your tongue reaches out to greet it.
Childe keens.
That seems to motivate you, and, soon enough, you've set yourself at a delicious pace, bobbing a loose fist up and down the base of his cock while you suckle at his oversensitive head, flooding it with so much sensation that Childe has trouble stopping his hips from twitching. There's no doubt that you're good, easily the best mouth Childe has ever had, and he can't help but think that this must be where you get all your confidence from because surely, surely, there is nothing else in the world that can feel this good.
The man finds himself with his eyes scrunched tight as you swirl your lips around the head. It's unlike any of the blowjobs Childe has ever had before. You seem to know his body, recognizing that deepthroating him like most Scheznayan whores will do nothing to offer him pleasure when the head is where he's most sensitive, instead devoting your mouth solely to worshipping it like a lascivious priestess that refuses to offer anything but the most pleasurable of experiences.
You overwhelm the man so quickly that he isn't even aware of how his voice tangles in his mouth, how all his gasps become moans, how his words are slurred and incomprehensible as he tries to tell you fuck, you're perfect, please for the love of the Tsaritsa, don't stop.
It's pure luck that Childe manages to snap open his eyes to see that the one hand you aren't using to pump his dick is dipped between your thighs, scissoring your cunt and massaging your clit in a way that Childe instantly memorizes, storing away for future use. It's downright lewd, and you'd doubtlessly halt your actions if you realized how carefully the redhead was watching you get yourself off; but you don't, and Childe is grateful for it, finding the sight even more erotic than the maneuverings of your tongue. It pulls him ever closer to the edge you're driving towards, and Childe is your ready passenger, obliging, allowing, waiting for you to push him over the brink.
"I'm—"
Close.
He can't get those simple two words out before you swirl your tongue around the head again, and then he's interrupted by his own moan, loud and debauched.
No matter. He's certain that the idea he was trying to express is articulated to you anyway in how his moans have grown louder than ever, in how his hips' twitching has increased in both frequency and force, in how both his hands are now tangled in your hair, not pulling or pushing you anywhere but simply holding, clinging to the assurance that your mouth is going to bring him to completion.
Your movements grow more intense in response.
The way your tongue laps at his head stays the same, but you begin attempting more adventurous motions, dipping your tongue into the slit at the head of his cock, taking him an inch deeper into your mouth and swallowing around his length—all this and you're still pressing your tongue flat against the underside of the tip, massaging the most sensitive spot on Childe's body.
He feels it all happen at once.
His grip on your hair seems to tighten mere seconds before you add pressure to the fist that had been loosely bobbing his dick this whole time, your mouth performing some kind of sucking maneuver that Childe couldn't explain if he tried because he cums instantly, the entirety of his load spilling into your mouth.
When you pull your mouth off him, cautious to make sure that none of his cum dribbles down on his cock, Childe finds that all the strength has left his limbs. He can't even hold himself upright, the Harbinger falling back onto the bed with a drained thwump.
The sound is roughly equal to how he's feeling.
Childe thinks you might have sucked a little piece of his soul out from through his dick just now—his body feels spent. Tired in a million places, exhausted in muscles he never used. His groin still tingles with the memory of your mouth, wet and generous, against his skin.
He wonders, absentmindedly, if you really are an assassin. Now would be a most ideal time to raise a knife against him, after all. Childe doesn't think he'd even mind anymore, not after experiencing that.
"Don't tell me you're already done."
Your teasing voice comes to him in a daze, and it takes all of Childe's effort to glance down at your figure.
You've crawled on top of him, straddling his abdomen while remaining cautious not to touch his flaccid cock. It's obvious that you're trying not to overstimulate him, but also abundantly clear that sucking him off made you needy.
The aphrodisiac, he thinks.
Your skin is still flushed from it. Childe feels guilty and amazed by its effect on your body.
You don't even try to be discreet about how you drag yourself forward and back against his torso, gently rubbing your clit on his abdomen with the steady rock of your hips.
It's mesmerizing to watch. Hypnotic, even. The sight of you on top of him is relaxing in a strange way, and the redhead finds his eyelids growing heavier as he watches you, almost as if your presence alone makes him feel safe enough to sleep.
You pull him into a kiss right as the man closes his eyes.
Childe expects to be lulled into sleep in the moments afterward. Your breasts are already so comforting where they rest against his chest, soft and full, and he suspects that your arms are about to embrace him and truly pull him in for the most restful slumber he's ever had—but you don't. You keep your lips pressed against Childe's, and he finds himself staying in the realm of consciousness solely to see what you'll do next.
"You're not sleeping."
Childe slowly opens his eyes, a lazy version of his usual charismatic grin donned. "Not yet."
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay," you repeat, smiling as you kiss Childe's nose. Your head arches upward, and the man's eyes flutter shut just as you press a soft kiss against each of his eyelids. "Relax. Don't be afraid to fall asleep. Don't be afraid to stay awake. Just..." you reach up, brushing some of the hair out of Childe's forehead. "Do what feels best, okay?"
Childe doesn't nod. Doesn't move. Doesn't give any indication that he heard you.
Immediately, he feels himself creeping towards sleep once more, his body genuinely exhausted after whatever you just did.
But when he feels your lips against his once more, soft and gentle, he finds himself unable to fully give in to the temptation of slumber.
Your kisses are slow. Soothing. Gentle. But every single one of them seems to breathe the life back into Childe, your touch rejuvenating him until he's no longer just feeling your kisses against his lips but has begun to accept them.
Within minutes, his lips are moving against yours, slow and steady, and his hands creep up to hold you by the small of your waist.
You seem to smile when you realize that the man isn't falling asleep, that he's slowly returning to normal. You only continue your ministrations, kissing him like a lover would, squeezing and massaging his chest as you grind against him.
It feels like hours before Childe manages to open his eyes, but the moment finally comes when you've taken to biting his lip like before, sucking on it before letting your tongue out to ease any pain that might have come with the action. The redhead finds, when he slowly surveys your form, that your eyes are now shut as well, and you seem to be taking your time. Your hips have exchanged their forward-and-backward motions for a more subtle pressure against his torso, and the expression on your face is peaceful. Flushed from sex, flushed from the aphrodisiac, but peaceful.
Childe can't help but think that you really are beautiful.
His groin stirs the longer he watches your expression as you kiss him, an odd sense of pride settling in his stomach when he sees how content you seem to be. Is this merely a show? Is this something you do with all your clients? Childe desperately hopes not. The picture you make is something he wants to keep for himself, prettier and sexier and lovelier than anything anyone on this planet deserves to see.
The idea of another man seeing you like this—feeling you like this—touching you like this puts a bad taste in Childe's mouth.
This sense of desire, of possession, of vicious jealousy, is what snaps the last of Childe's exhaustion away. Instantly, all he can think about is the fact that he hasn't yet made the most of this night—the fact that he nearly passed out in your arms earlier without properly touching you—the fact that he's been in your bed all night and he still hasn't fucked you.
He bites your lip to alert you that he's awake, and a single look into his eyes is all it takes for you to understand what he wants.
"I thought I had broken you, Sir~"
Your voice comes out in a teasing coo, emphasized by the coy smirk on your face.
When Childe slides you lower on his body, his half-hard erection pressed against your ass, it only seems to make you happier.
"You're big." It's a sentence that falls from your lips with every man you've ever entertained, probably. Childe suspects that you aren't merely saying this to stroke his ego, though. You reach behind you to hold Childe's length in your palm, failing to wrap your hand around the whole of it. "I won't be able to take you without something to make it easier."
"So?" He pulls you closer to him and sits up, and your position on his lap has him looking up at you. He hopes you can see the impatience in his eyes. "Get what you need out. I won't stop you."
You roll your eyes, playful.
"What I'm saying"—you emphasize the word with a downward roll of your hips, expression lighting up with pleasure when you grind your clit against Childe's thigh. "Is that I'll need to use oil. An unknown substance in a bottle. Something you'll probably think is a poison."
At the back of his mind, Childe knows that it's a terrible idea to let you use any kind of product on him. It's too risky, too illogical. A stupid way to die, a stupider thing for someone to have to tell the Tsaritsa: hey, your strongest Harbinger was just poisoned because he wanted to get his dick wet with a prostitute.
All this occurs in the young man's mind, and still, he says:
"Use what you want. I won't stop you."
The surprise is evident in your features. You must have expected the Harbinger to put up a fight, to flip your positions and maybe even fuck you with no lube but your own slick, and Childe feels offended that you don't hold him in higher regard before remembering that he threatened to do something much worse when you last tried to apply something on his skin.
Still, you don't ask any questions. Childe is grateful for your silence on that front, his muscles relaxing when you reach over his shoulder to fetch an ornate bottle of oil.
You take your time, then, carefully spilling the liquid into one palm before rubbing your hands together to warm it up before reaching over to cup dripping the fluid onto Childe's length. The man gasps every time your fingers brush by the head of his cock, but you relax the tension in his muscles with a soothing kiss to his collarbone, never losing focus of the goal at hand. This process repeats, your hands meticulous and precise in their efforts with the oil, until Childe's length is gleaming with the liquid. You pump him three times more times before you're satisfied with your work.
"Still think it's poison?" you tease, a smirk settling over your features.
"Shut up." Childe's face burns when he can come up with no better response.
"Aw, I could never." You tilt Childe's chin up with your index finger, turning his gaze away from your pussy where it hovers mere inches from his cock and towards your own face instead. "After all, wouldn't you be miserable if I stopped talking?"
"Not as miserable as I'll be if you keep talking."
"You're awful!" You manage to laugh as you straighten your hips, now poised directly over Childe's cock. "You're can't insult someone who's about to have sex with you, Sir!"
"Why not?" Childe offers you a rare smile: rare not because he doesn't smile often (because he most definitely does), but rare because this smile is real. "You must get enough people telling you that you're the prettiest girl in the world. Shouldn't someone take you down a peg?"
And though that absolutely was meant to come across as an insult, Childe realizes a moment too late that he just revealed that he thinks you're the prettiest girl in the world, and the man can't even take his words back because a second later, your lips are crashed against his in breathy laughter and he forgets all words.
Your oil-slicked hands come up to cup his cheeks but Childe doesn't care about the stickiness, his mind abruptly preoccupied with the feeling of your hips slowly lowering onto him.
Holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
There's a choked gasp from his lips when he feels your pussy slowly enveloping his cock, a shudder running up his spine when your hands fly from his cheeks to his shoulders to support yourself.
He instinctively grips your hips, helping you fight gravity so that you're lowered at your own pace.
"That's..." You take a shaky breath as soon as he's fully sheathed inside of you. "Big."
Childe's heart drops.
It's clear that you're in pain. The jagged pace to your breathing is the most obvious tell, but the way your nails are practically digging into his shoulders and the way you're biting your lip to hide any pained whimpers make it even clearer that Childe should have prepared you for this better. That he should have fingered you after you sucked him off, should have helped you stretch yourself out. Maybe even eaten you out.
The weight of his regret only builds when he hears you take a deep breath and raise your hips mere seconds afterward, and it's clear that you're trying to set a pace that your body won't be able to take.
"Slow," Childe whispers, hands squeezing your hips.
You shoot him a confused look. Why? you seem to be asking, something akin to fear lurking in the depths of your eyes. Do you not like it?
Childe presses a chaste kiss to your lips.
"Don't push yourself."
It comes out in a whisper, sounding almost weak.
"Thank you."
Another whisper. Just as faint, but the sentiment behind this one is strong.
You take a moment to collect yourself, then. Childe waits patiently, forcing his hips to remain still every time he feels the urge to jerk upwards, and his efforts are rewarded when you slide your hips upward only to pull them down, eliciting a sharp hiss from the man.
You repeat the motion once. Then you do it again. And again. And again. And you keep rising and falling on Childe's cock at these uneven intervals until one angle has you gasp out an unexpected moan.
You and Childe lock eyes.
You repeat the motion, head rolling backward when you come down and another breathy gasp spills from your lips.
And then the slow, tentative fucking completely stops and you're riding Childe's cock without abandon, fingers digging into his back as you moan freely.
Childe finally allows himself to give in to the temptation of jerking his hips upward to meet you halfway, accidentally doing it once and adoring the sound that comes out of your mouth—and then it seems that the full extent of his training as a Harbinger is being devoted solely to bouncing you in his lap at this angle, all his muscles working in tandem to keep you gasping and moaning and clenching and enjoying everything the redhead offers you.
"P-p-please—" you gasp out. Your voice is broken by the jerks of your body as Childe drills his dick into you at an alarming pace, and the Harbinger doesn't know what you're asking for, so he delivers everything all at once, mouth latching onto the breasts that bounce so tauntingly in his face while the hand that isn't gripping your waist goes down to circle at your clit—the man increasing the force behind his thrusts at the same time, determined to give you exactly what you're looking for.
The loud wail of pleasure you gasp with in return tells him that whatever he did, he did it right.
He can feel something building in your body, your cunt beginning to tighten around him, and you roll your head back as Childe continues to bounce you in his lap. Your back is arched so tightly that the man worries that you'll hurt yourself in this position if he fucks you any longer.
The Harbinger watches your figure cautiously, trying his hardest not to shatter the moment, but he finds it impossible when all he can think about is how dangerously your head hangs, how he fears that it's going to roll off if he continues this vicious pace.
He slows his movements.
Childe lets your nipple fall from his mouth with great reluctance, and even you whine at the loss, eyes widening in a desperation the Harbinger can't help but label as cute when he finally slows to a halt inside of you.
"What—what are you—"
Childe shushes you with a kiss, his hand running over your body to massage some of the tension out of it.
"Just—that position looked—it was—" The man fumbles over his words, unsure of how to tell you that he genuinely thought he was going to fuck you to the point of injury if he kept you in that position any longer. The words sound stupid in his head, he now realizes: stupid and arrogant and dumb, and a flush rises to his cheeks as he tries to talk his way out of it.
"I want to be on top" is the genius explanation he finally gives as if it's any justification for why he abruptly stopped things when you were so obviously about to cum.
"Yes—" you blurt immediately, tugging him by the shoulders and rolling over on the giant bed so that his figure hovers above yours. "Yes, whatever you want, just please just don't—"
Don't stop.
Childe knows your words before you finish saying them, proving so by fucking into you before you can finish your sentence. The sweet moan you let out tells him that you don't mind being interrupted as long as he continues doing this, your legs wrapping around his hips instantly.
The Harbinger finds that he likes this position much more, finding that he can admire your body better this way: the bob of your tits, up and down every time Childe slams his hips into yours; the flush of your skin, still glistening and sensitive in the spots where he once applied the aphrodisiac; the creamy expanse of your neck, smooth and unmarked because Childe knows it's not proper etiquette to leave hickeys on prostitutes; the drool on your lips, a perfect complement to the blissed-out expression on your face.
"You're—ngh—" Childe is interrupted by his own thrusts, his breathing broken and heavy with the monstrous pace he's set as he pounds into you. But the man is determined to finish his sentence, determined to get this thought out: "You're beautiful."
Childe swears that the look in your eye goes soft when you hear that, your dumbfucked expression turning into one of sweet adoration as you purr out a "thank you" so seductive that it's a miracle the man doesn't cum then and there.
He leans forward to kiss at your neck, teeth aching to bite, yearning to leave marks that will tell all your other clients that you belong to someone else. He thinks about doing that, thinks about how you'd try to hide the bruises and would probably fail, thinks about how every elite in society would then know that he's fucked you and claimed you. He thinks about hoisting you on his lap and assaulting the valley between your breasts until the skin is bruised in the shape of his name (an arduous task, he decides—the first letter will have to suffice). He thinks about fucking you from behind while sucking a hickey high on your neck and then taking you out to dinner like that, showing the mark off to everyone who dares glance at you.
He thinks about making you his.
The Harbinger is careful not to articulate a single one of these thoughts out loud, instead pressing his head deeper into the crook of your neck and deeper into you. He inhales sharply, and suddenly he's surrounded by the scent which first enticed him so, flowery and rich and smooth and comforting.
Around his waist, your legs tighten.
Childe feels the beginning of your orgasm before you warn him of it, your body going rigid right as your nails begin to dig into his back. You clamp your thighs around Childe's waist as if trying to lock him in place so he doesn't move, but the man continues fucking you, and this is what has you gasping when he pushes you to your climax with a single perfectly-aimed thrust.
You keep your eyes open as you cum, cunt spasming around Childe's dick while you make awestruck eye-contact with the Harbinger, lips stretched wide in a silent gasp of thanks for the man making you feel this way.
Childe swears that the look on your face is what pushes him over the edge after you. Not the way your walls are clamping down on his cock. Not the way your nails are scratching so deeply into his back that the pain feels good. Not the way your breasts brush against his nipples with every jagged breath you take.
Just the look in your eye.
Blissed-out and content.
He stares at you the whole time as he hits his own orgasm and empties his load inside you, the eye-contact somehow feeling more intimate than anything the two of you have done in the short time frame you've known each other.
Childe doesn't look away from your eyes for a long time.
You don't look away either, and it really feels like you're frozen in place for a few seconds, the two of you mutually silenced by the sheer intensity of the pleasure you just felt, both unable to so much as move while Childe remains inside you and you continue to cling to his body.
The Harbinger refuses to ruin the moment.
Instead, he lets the two of you ease out of it together, the man slowly lowering his raised hips until he's half-pulled out of you, drawing you in for a slow kiss as he unsheaths the final few inches.
The moment you're empty, you pull Childe closer as if trying to make up for the lost contact. Weakly, you bite at his lower lip, but the strength you had from before seems to have faded after being fucked so thoroughly, and it's all you can do to hold the plumpness there between your teeth.
Only when Childe pulls his lips into a lazy grin does it escape your grasp.
"You were right," he tells you, eyes fluttering shut as he rests his sweaty forehead against yours.
"About what?"
"About changing my mind. I'll do the thing you wanted. I'll tell the Northland Bank and the Fatui to leave your establishment alone."
"You don't have to go through all that effort," you mumble, eyes closed.
"...What? I thought the only reason you—"
"It's just an establishment. I don't even like it. I won't be too sad if it falls out of practice." The two of you seem to open your eyes at the same time. Childe, in surprise. You, solely to meet his gaze. "And besides, I've always thought you were handsome, Master Childe. I chose to accept this assignment, you know. I wanted to be here."
For a moment, Childe doesn't say anything. He finds the sincerity in your gaze too entrancing.
"If you talk like that..." the Harbinger finds it difficult to voice his next words, as if you hearing them makes them truer. As if giving you the chance to deny them makes them crueler. "I might think that you actually like me."
"Maybe I do," you whisper into his ear. "You're a likable man, Sir."
Childe's eyes shoot wide open at that, and the Harbinger instantly wants to know what your words mean—whether you're merely teasing him or whether you're being genuine—but your eyes flutter shut right as a question is about to roll off the tip of his tongue.
Seeing your exhausted face, Childe holds back.
There will always be another time to ask, the man thinks, pulling your body closer to him. When we're not exhausted.
"Roll us over," you whisper—and for the first time since entering this room, Childe finally understands why the bed is so obscenely big. Easily, he holds you in his arms and pulls the two of you to the opposite end of the mattress. On this side, the sheets are cool and clean. The filthiest things here are the two of you.
"Should we clean up?" The redhead whispers, asking more than suggesting because he doesn't know what to do. He's never heard of a prostitute sleeping—slumbering—with a client, and whatever etiquette there is (if such a thing even exists) is lost on him.
"Just sleep," you mumble, rolling closer to Childe, easily draping your body across the flat of his chest.
The redhead feels his heart beat faster the moment you do so, internally relieved that he chose to lie down in this position and not something that might have prevented you from snuggling up so effortlessly against his body.
"Okay," he whispers, closing his eyes. But even with his limbs aching from exhaustion and his mind yearning to give in to the same temptation you've already fallen into, he can't sleep.
All he can think about is the fact that you're sleeping with him. Not fucking, but actually sleeping, your head weighing down on Childe's chest without a care in the world, trusting this man to the fullest with your defenseless body. It's unbearably wholesome, and the man peeks at your already-slumbering expression with a single eye before closing it because his heart instantly hammers at the sight. All he can think about is how gorgeous you look even when you're not trying, a perfect mix of bold and bashful that the man can't seem to decipher no matter how much he reflects on your actions today.
Childe struggles to calm his heart, desperately trying to get it under control because you're lying mere inches from the organ and he fears that he'll wake you up with the sound, but then another wave of blind happiness washes over him because you're lying so close to him. All he can think about is the calm pace to your breathing, the rise and the fall that he pays close attention to so he can stabilize his own breath, something which happens quickly because, for all his faults, Childe finds himself instantly calmed when he pays such close attention to you.
All he can think about is how you might laugh if he told you such a thing. Would you tease him for it? Childe can already imagine your rich laughter, joking and joyful, right before you'd press a hand to his chest and whisper something playful into his ear. Childe would blush, then, and he'd give up his tough act to let you take over completely. He wouldn't mind doing that. He's not a hard dominant, never has been. Though he suspects that you're the same, based on how you readily played the role required throughout the night. That trail of thought leads him down another line: how similar the two of you are, as if meant to be.
All he can think about—
Oh.
Childe realizes the truth, the mental checklist he'd been traveling down ending completely when he realizes the one thing the brings it all together. For a dumb minute, he thinks about everything that just ran through his mind—the thought of you sleeping with him, the thought of your body lying on top of him, the thought of your calming breathing, the thought of an imaginary future with you—and then even he can't deny the truth any longer.
He takes a steadying breath, lifting his hand to hold your naked hip as if reminding himself that you're here. That you're with him. That you're by his side. And then he confesses to himself his final thought of the night.
All he can think about is you.
Word count: 11.9k
Notes: my first piece in the fandom on this account :D lmk what you thought! don't hold back if you have criticism ;) there's a chance i might make a part 2 but i'll leave it at this for now
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I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.