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Once a week, Master Childe is challenged by his once enemy, now (one-sided) rival in the Golden House. And once a week, Master Childe, agitated by his constant and innumerable losses, barges into an unmarked back-alley “Teahouse” and demands to see you.
Upon the public’s collective realization that the Fatui Harbinger’s presence in Liyue was longer than initially believed, your Teahouse and all other such establishments sent a … representative of sorts to court his favor. It never hurt to have such a powerful man as a client, your boss would say. Luckily for your boss, Master Childe was taken by both your beauty and your relatively bold, relentless approach.
However, while you were lucky enough to win the promises of his attention and business, he never actually made good on said promises until after the Rite of Parting. Something dire must have happened, you figured, so much so that he finally decided to seek comfort in your arms.
At first, the … appointments were purely physical. A simple business transaction, nothing more, nothing less. No disingenuous small talk beyond playful flirtation, no attempts at cuddling or sleeping in each other’s arms, and definitely no kissing.
Not that this bothers you in the slightest - the Snezhnayan is an excellent lover, even when he’s selfishly chasing his own pleasure.
Yet, the purpose of these visits is blatantly clear to you. You are nothing more than a means of venting his frustration. A way of regaining control.
But sometimes, the mask slips. You never know if it is by accident or if he just gets a rise out of your reactions. The first time, as you were buttoning up his shirt, he was chattering about local cuisine and revealed that he couldn’t use chopsticks to save his life. You let out a soft chuckle, then immediately froze, eyeing the Vision on his hip and praying he wouldn’t end your life right then and there. Instead, Childe cocked his eyebrow with something akin to interest glinting in his eyes, before leaving under cover of moonlight.
After that, he would reveal small tidbits about himself on purpose - like how Luhua Pool is his favorite fishing spot in Liyue - because the absurdity of this ruthless criminal having such mundane interests and troubles makes you smile and laugh, and he relishes in the look of your smile and the sound of your laugh. He seems to appreciate the fact that you can listen to him talk about meaningless drivel without growing bored or restless.
(In all honesty, you love listening to him talk - the way his eyes light up when the topic interests him, the slight curl of his lip when his arrogance flares, the teasing tone of his voice, gods, his voice - )
But talking is not the foremost priority of these visits.
Sometimes, you are reminded of this fact, almost painfully so. As is the case today.
Around dusk, you are summoned to attend to a special customer and you perk up immediately. You make your way to the entrance of the Teahouse and halt at the sight of Master Childe posturing at the counter, all tense muscle and silent rage. Your breath hitches at the way he tilts his head back to gaze at you, much like a predator would their prey.
Before you can blink, he’s already moved. He towers over you and grasps your cheeks roughly, forcing your lips into a pout. You try to control your ragged breathing when he moves in close and whispers, nearly growls, “I hope you’re ready for me. I’m gonna make you cum until -”
“Excuse me, Master Childe!” shouts a guard stationed at the entrance, hand hovering over his weapon, ready to protect a Teahouse worker from harm. He manages to take half a step forward before he’s utterly frozen by the icy glare Childe shoots over his shoulder. The Harbinger’s upper lip curls into a sneer as if daring anyone to test his patience, on pain of death. Quickly finding his sense of self-preservation, the guard gulps and backs up to his post, looking away pointedly.
Then, Childe turns his attention back to you. He drops his hand from your face and whirls you around. His lips ghost over your temple as he walks you through dimly lit hallways toward your assigned bedroom.
“What was I saying again?” There’s a sort of dangerous undercurrent to the playful levity of his voice that has you trembling with every step you take. Whether out of fear or anticipation, you don’t know. He pushes the two of you past the heavy double doors into your room, and gently backs you into a wall, caging you in with his arms.
“Ah yes, I remember,” he purrs. His eyes rove over your body, taking in your heaving chest and imploring gaze with a slow lick of his lips. “I’m gonna make you cum until you’re begging for my cock. I’m gonna fuck you so hard until you can’t cum anymore, then I’m cumming inside you. Now doesn’t that sound nice?” His teeth graze over the shell of your ear down to the column of your neck, and you arch into the warmth of his body.
“M-Master Childe -”
His eyes narrow. The flickering candlelight casts dangerous shadows on his face. A downright menacing aura emanates from him, engulfing you.
He presses a gloved finger to your lips and tuts. “I don’t want to hear that alias right now. Today, you’ll address me as Sir… or Master Tartaglia.” In his eyes, there’s a brief flash of something - perhaps embarrassment or regret - that doesn’t escape your notice, which makes you think that he surprised even himself with that admission.
But you repeat after him anyway, forming your mouth around this new name as if you could taste it. He sighs, the expression on his face almost tender. Grinning, he bites the tip of his gloves and slowly pulls them off with a tilt of his head, rather enjoying your flustered reaction. Then, he drops to his knees in front of you and slides his bare hands up your outer thighs.
Heat rises in your cheeks and you squeal as you piece together what’s about to happen. “Master Childe - wait, um, Tartaglia, sir,” you stammer, frantically smoothing down the fabric of your high-cut slit dress and pressing your thighs together. He swats your hand away lightly and spreads your legs apart with ease, then tucks the fabric of your dress between your back and the wall. A low, content hum sounds in the back of his throat at the sight of your undergarments, or rather, lack thereof.
You avert your gaze and try to focus on anything other than Tartaglia’s warm breath on your core. Right about now, you figure that your cheeks match the red of the heavy curtains adorning the room, and you bury your face in your hands.
“Eyes on me,” he snaps, tightening his grip on your soft thighs. Wincing, you peek between your fingers and find him peering up at you through his eyelashes. “I want you to watch me as I make you cum with my mouth.”
Oh gods, how are you supposed to do that without combusting?
It becomes increasingly harder to obey Tartaglia when he lifts one of your legs to hook your knee over his shoulder. The swift and fluid motion throws you off balance, and you wobble a bit before your hands drop from your face and anchor in his hair.
“Hold still,” he commands, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your raised knee and thigh. These kisses travel closer and closer to the sweet spot between your thighs and you hold your breath in anticipation. Then he leans forward, hoisting your leg higher than before and forcing you onto your toes.
“Sir, I… I’m supposed to be the one pleasuring you -” you protest weakly, delirious from the delicious sensation of his hands rough on your skin and his breath hot on your cunt. Warmth builds in your belly and spreads, making you tingle from head to toe.
He gives your slit a long, slow lick, shallowly prodding at your wet entrance then dragging a flattened tongue up to your clit. You nearly collapse.
“Seeing you at my mercy like this is pleasuring me, sweetheart. Now remind me, what did I say I was going to do to you tonight?”
“Make me c-cum,” you say, voice quavering as he spreads apart your labia and places a light kiss on your clit. Your hips jerk forward at the sensation.
“Until?”
You bite your lip, shuddering in embarrassment. Damn bastard, really milking this for all its worth. He studies your glistening, twitching cunt with smug satisfaction then raises an eyebrow at you expectantly.
“Until I… b-beg for your cock, sir.”
“Good!” Then, with rapt attention, he watches your lips part into a pretty little “o” as he slowly sinks a long and slender digit into you inch by inch. “Let’s get started.”
It takes all of your concentration to stay upright like that, perched on one leg, clinging desperately to his head without hurting him (not that you could) while Fatui Harbinger Tartaglia is on his knees before you, tongue worshipping your clit, finger massaging against your inner walls with near clinical precision. Somewhere in the back of your hazy mind, you register that the high, whiny moans sounding throughout the room are coming from you.
Pleasure rolls over you in short bursts as he continues. He switches his mouth and hand, now spearing you with his tongue while rubbing gentle circles around your clit with a moistened finger. All of your muscles wind tight like a spring, ready to release.
You glance down at him, only to be met with the image of his head buried between your thighs, eyes shut tight in concentration, and mouth flush against your pussy in an effort to lick as deep in you as possible. The scene is so mesmerizing, paired with the wet slurping sounds of your arousal and his low throaty groans, that something inside of you snaps.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream and your eyelids flutter shut. Every part of your body constricts, then releases in jerky, shuddering waves.
Tartaglia does not slow down. Instead, he presses his tongue even deeper into you, as if trying not to let a drop of you spill past his lips. His nose bumps against your clit, sending little jolts up through your already spasming body. Before you can even come down from the first, you’re on the crest of another orgasm.
“Master Ch- Tartaglia, I- please, my - ah!”
Your leg is about to completely give out when he hoists your other knee up onto his shoulder and supports your bottom with both hands, pinning you to the wall and letting you rock your hips against his face until completion.
Face flushed and chest heaving, you let him maneuver your limp body out of your dress and into his arms. Then he carries you to the sprawling, plush bed in the center of the room with such ease one would think you’re weightless. You sneak a peek at his face, but he catches you, licking his lips, eyes narrowed with fierce amusement.
“You taste divine, sweetheart. Don’t worry, we’re not quite finished.”
Tartaglia drops you unceremoniously onto the silken sheets, unbuttoning and discarding his shirt as he crawls over you, nudging your knees apart with his own. You're feeling very much again like prey before a predator, but the feel of his warm, hard chest grazing over your bare and hardening nipples makes you sigh in comfort. He nibbles at your neck for a little before asking, “Would you prefer my fingers? Or perhaps my tongue again?”
“Sir, I - I don’t - ahh!”
You can hardly process his words before he answers for you by slipping two fingers into your sopping, sensitive pussy.
“Don’t what? You don’t know? Or you don’t like it?” he croons, using his other hand to tilt your chin up to look at him. His lips are full and red and wet with your cum, and he looks delectably kissable, if only he’d let you.
When you don’t respond right away, his grip tightens on your face and the next thrust of his fingers into you is rough, impatient. “Answer me.”
“I do, I like it!” you wail. He grazes the pad of his thumb across your tender clit, and you squirm beneath him.
“Like what? Say it.”
“I like - ah! - like your f-fingers in me, sir,” you say dizzily, grinding your hips eagerly against his hand.
He laughs, the joyful smile on face not at all matching his indecent actions. “I know you do, sweetheart. Just look how wet you are for me, and I haven’t even fucked you properly yet,” he teases, churning his fingers inside of you in a beckoning motion and increasing the pressure of his thumb on your clit. He releases your chin and rolls one hardened nipple between his fingers. Your head swims as Tartaglia forcibly drags you, once again, closer and closer to release.
Your eyes start to roll back and your thighs try to squeeze together and you’re right there, you’re about to cum-- Then he suddenly pulls his fingers out of you. Before you can protest, he sucks and bites at the nipple he’s not pinching and rubs at your clit insistently, urging you on, bringing you right back to that precipice, and you finally cum, harsh little gasps falling from your lips as your cunt squeezes rhythmically around nothing.
“Master Tartaglia, wha- what -”
“Sshh,” he soothes, slipping the fingers that had just been inside of you into your mouth. “Suck.”
And you do, lips sheathed over your teeth, tongue laving over his fingers slick with your juices. He hums appreciatively and says, “You like the taste of yourself, hmm? I know I certainly do.” His opposite hand travels down, stroking over your belly and the swell of your hips before tapping at your clit. You jump and your jaw clenches slightly, your teeth meeting his fingers oh so briefly.
He flashes a humorless grin at you - a challenge, you realize - and hisses, “You can bite if you want me to bite back. And believe me, I will.” No doubt Tartaglia would ignore the Teahouse rules that forbid leaving lasting marks on the workers, but you’re more worried about the actual feel of his bite rather than its consequences.
You realize he’s only playing with your sensitive bundle of nerves, leaving you maddeningly empty, and only ever dips lower to prod shallowly at your soaking entrance before returning to your clit with a freshly moistened thumb. You give a muffled moan around the fingers exploring your mouth. When his other fingers glide over your dripping hole, you lurch forward, longing for deeper penetration.
He clicks his tongue in admonishment and pushes his fingers even deeper, almost into your throat, until you nearly gag. “What’s that? You want something inside your cunt?” Still swirling his thumb over your clit, he slides the tip of one finger into your pussy and makes sure to keep it there, even as you thrash and whine and rock your hips forward desperately. “So needy! Does the needy little slut want something to fill them up? Huh?”
Tears well up in your eyes as he continues to play with only your clit, circling around it, pinching it, rolling it between his fingers. You try to protest, forgetting your mouth is full of his hand, and drool leaks from the corner of your mouth. He’s going to make you cum around nothing again, you just know it.
Frustrated, you try to squeeze your thighs together and trap his hand there, but he catches on quickly and nudges your legs even further apart with his knees. Being spread open and on display under his greedy gaze makes your heart flutter in your chest and your eyes shift out of focus.
“You wanna be filled up? I have something even better for you than just my fingers.” Tartaglia pulls his hand from your mouth with a wet pop and, with practiced ease, unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants to free his erection.
You moan at the sight. His cock is long and thick and throbbing, and you want nothing more than to feel it inside of you. He strokes it a few times before resting it against your entrance, groaning as he slides the swollen head up and down against your wet heat. Having already taken mental note of your reactions, his other hand continues to work at your clit expertly, pinching and pulling and rubbing.
Sometimes you wonder if all of this is merely an exercise for him - how well can he manipulate and control the human body. He continues on. He knows you’re close to coming.
“I said I was going to make you beg. You know to beg, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“I-I do! Sir, please,” you whisper softly, unable to look at anything other than his hard cock, the tip teasing your entrance.
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me,” you say, a little louder this time. He tilts his head at you, a condescending grin wide on his face as he drinks in your shy desperation.
“You can do better than that,” he sneers, angling his dick against your pussy enough for you to feel the pressure of it, but not enough for it to slip inside. You whine pathetically.
“I beg you, Master Tartaglia, please fuck me!”
“I’ve already been fucking you, haven’t I? With my fingers?” he feigns confusion, pulling his cock away to slip a finger into you once more. You nearly cry, a mix of loss and relief, as the walls of your pussy clench and unclench around this solitary finger, trying and failing to bring it deeper. “Be specific.”
Then he curls his finger inside of you and you practically explode.
“PLEASE!” you scream as you cum, back arching off the bed, hands gripping the sheets until your knuckles whiten. Just like last time, he doesn’t let up, fingering you harshly as you sob, “Please, Master Tartaglia, oh please, your cock, fuck me with your - ah! I want to, ah please, inside me, your cock, AH -!”
“Good! Don't worry, I'll give you what you want,” Tartaglia says sweetly, satisfied with your begging. He pushes your legs up until your ankles are on either side of your head, lines himself up at your entrance, then sinks into you slowly.
Stars explode behind your eyes and your mouth falls open and your head swims at the exquisite feeling of his cock stretching you, filling you completely. You suck in little shaky gulps of air as your body twitches, feeling your pussy throb and spasm around him, accommodating this thick intrusion.
“Did you cum just from me putting it in, sweetheart? How lewd,” he jeers. He furrows his brow in concentration while he pulls out slowly, until only the tip remains inside you. Then he snaps forward a little faster, a little rougher, dragging another wanton cry from your lips. “How many times is that now?”
“I don’t - I can’t,” you pant, trying your best to angle your hips up even though you’re folded in half beneath him. Hands tight on your legs, he thrusts forward a few times before finding the spot that makes your face contort in pleasure, then steadily drills into you with unyielding precision.
When you’ve stretched to the point that he can fit all of himself in you, can finally bump his hips against yours, his strokes become harder, more frenzied. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, and your brain melts to mush. You can only babble incomprehensibly at the feeling - you’re so wonderfully whole.
“You feel so fucking good. So hot and tight, just for me,” he rasps in your ear, biting on your earlobe in a way that makes you shiver. You arch and writhe beneath him - almost as if to get away from the constant stimulation - your head thrown back onto the pillows, moaning loudly, jerking up to meet him with every thrust.
The muscles of your abs contract again, almost painfully, and briefly you wonder if you'd ever reach a point where you couldn't cum anymore. So you maneuver one hand to the place you’re connected to rub small circles around your clit.
“That’s it, go ahead, make yourself cum on my cock,” Tartaglia purrs, slowing his thrusts until his hips gyrate against yours, swirling deep inside of you. “Come on, sweetheart, cum for me.”
Pleasure surges and crashes over you as your pussy ripples around him, as if to coax him back into movement, and his name tumbles from your lips like a prayer. A tingling heat pulses through your inner walls before running up along your spine and gathering in your skull, making your head dizzy with ecstasy. Wicked delight plain on his face, he watches your expression fade to one of rapture and your body shudder beneath him.
He wraps his arms around you then sits both of you up, repositioning you so you’re seated in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, still speared on his cock.
For a moment, he lets you lean on his chest and catch your breath. But just for a moment. He strokes your hair almost lovingly before he grits out, “My turn.”
He grips at your waist, then with a salacious grin, he bounces you up and down on his dick with wild abandon. Your skin heats until it feels like you’re on fire, every part of you as sensitive as your clit. You let out a frantic scream, pushing at his chest in a futile effort to get away from the overwhelming onslaught of stimulation, but your agony only spurs him on. He drinks in your pained but pleasured expression and bares his teeth in a twisted grin.
“I can’t - please, no more,” you weep into the crook of his neck.
“Shh, sweetheart, I’ll take care of you,” Tartaglia says softly, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head. A stark contrast to the harsh hammering of his hips up into yours. All you can manage in response is a choked sob.
“D’you think you have one more in you? Wanna cum with me?” he pants, punctuating the question with a sharp thrust upward. You feel your eyes roll back in your head and let out a loud moan. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
His thrusts grow fierce, the rhythm more and more erratic as he rides the wave toward his own completion. You are powerless to stop him, so you let the pleasure wash over you once more, a warm pressure building up in your core.
Clutching you to his chest, he slams your hips down on his once, twice, three times, and next thing you know, a painfully intense climax is ripped from you by a sudden hot, pulsing flood exploding inside of you.
He’s saying something, but you can’t make out his words at all. His dick twitches and softens in you, and you shiver as he slides out of you, as his seed starts to leak out of you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think to yourself that you need to take care of that, but your vision is clouded and there’s a ringing in your ears and your bones have certainly melted into jelly.
His large hands stroke your hair and back, holding you close, and he whispers what seems to be soft praise into your ear, and it all feels … really rather nice. Maybe you could get used to this. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. Then you finally collapse onto his chest, and succumb to the darkness.
You wake up bathed in moonlight, expecting to feel nothing but cool silk and an empty bed. But instead you’re welcomed back into consciousness by a pleasant warmth curled around your back and across your waist and calves.
So he snores in his sleep, you note. A strange sense of achievement wells in you - surely not many people have ever seen the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger sleeping as soundly as he is now.
As you delicately untangle yourself from his limbs into a sitting position, he jolts awake, coming to almost immediately. With a small smile, he leans over to one of the bedside tables and reaches for a full glass of water, which he takes a sip from, then places in your hand.
“Thank you,” you nod, taking a large gulp of water. It’s wonderful and refreshing on your parched lips. “You stayed?” You meant for it to come out as an observation rather than a question, but your genuine surprise cuts through. He’s usually in and out, excuse the pun - but then again, he’s never been as … frustrated as he was earlier.
Tartaglia shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes. “I got worried. You passed out.” Then, he looks you right in the eye and wiggles an eyebrow at you with a suggestive smirk. “I guess the dehydration got to you, huh?”
Red colors your cheeks as you take another long drink of water and remember exactly how your dehydration came about.
He sits up with a grunt and your heart leaps into your chest for a reason unknown to you. A small noise of protest escapes you before you can stop yourself, earning you a puzzled look from him. Fortunately, he’s quick on the uptake.
“Just wanted more water. I’m not going anywhere tonight,” he murmurs softly, draping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you close to him. He presses his lips against yours softly, briefly, and you melt into him. This is the first time he’s kissed you.
You sigh in contentment, enjoying the heat radiating from his body, and revel in the fact that for at least this one night, you get to share your bed with Tartaglia.