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“Well,” Lohen drawls, twirling the dagger in his hand. It’s unfamiliar, basic, completely plain other than the gleaming, smooth knife edge that slices through skin like butter as he runs a finger down it. Not his usual weapon, but he can make do.
Not like the ginger beneath him particularly minds.
“Nice to see you here, Tartaglia.” The man’s blue gaze sharpens as he’s addressed. Attentive to his superiors? Lohen seems to have gotten quite lucky with his catch this time.
“Just get on with it,” the ginger growls, struggling half-heartedly to make sure the ropes don’t fall apart. Watching as his handiwork gets tested, Lohen smirks.
And throws the knife perfectly in the soft place that transitions shoulder to neck.
It’s not a hard angle, really, not when Tartaglia is kneeling beneath him, bound. Frankly, a throne would be better, but Lohen has never been opposed to an unstable table in an abandoned Fatui warehouse, especially on such short notice. He crosses one leg over the other and laughs behind his hand like a foreign dignitary despite his lack of fancy seating, watching as Tartaglia bites down a shriek.
“Hah! Seriously, you came to me begging, and you can’t handle this?” Lohen guffaws, holding his stomach and keeling over as he laughs at the glaring Harbinger. “I was expecting a knife time with you, not a stab-and-go!”
“Sh– ugh, shut up, Lohen,” Tartaglia snaps, wincing as the blade shifts inside his shoulder. Stubbornly, he strains his neck, biting in its direction as if trying to grasp it. His attempt fails pathetically. The teal-haired man keeps laughing at him, mocking, humiliating. “Take the blade back, yeah? Do some real damage, if you think you can. Stalling for time?” Teeth bared at the man like an animal, Tartaglia manages a smirk, shoving his best shit-eating grin on before taunting, “I thought you had some real skill with a dagger, turns out you’re just into one-knife-stands.”
“Neither of us are standing, dipshit,” Lohen grins back. “You’re funny. I can’t wait to rip that expression off your face.”
“Stabbing isn’t the best way to skin people, I’d have hoped you of all people would know that,” he snarks. “Now try again before I break out from these ropes and find someone else to do this.”
Lohen rolls his eyes, but rips out the dagger anyway, twisting it on the way out to hear Tartaglia yelp.
The man’s body is bound tightly, pronouncing his best parts, like the bulge of his muscles straining against the ropes, no doubt leaving imprints under his high-quality clothing. A harbinger’s privilege, Lohen muses, thinking about the ruination his outfit would surely come to. Blood soaks it already, pooling between his collarbones and dripping down the front of his shirt. It stains the rope as well, which, truly a pity. Lohen liked those ropes. But further down, where Tartaglia’s thick thighs strain in his grey pants, another bulge pokes out prominently.
“You really are into this,” Lohen coos, “And you’re large, too. Nice.” He shuffles forward on the table, noting the way the low-quality wooden board creaks under his weight, ignoring it in favour of pressing his boot down on the bulge. He can’t get proper coverage, what with how Tartaglia is sitting with his thighs together so politely, but it’s enough to make the ginger flinch.
“What are you—”
“Shut up, Childe,” Lohen mimics. The pressure eases off of Tartaglia’s leaking cock, pre-cum wetting a dark spot on his trousers, and the hardened tip of Lohen’s boot spreads Tartaglia enough to get a good grip on the ground, enough for Lohen to step down from the table.
Pressing down again with his shin, the Favonius Knight straightens his back, looking down at the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger. Having an enemy under him like this usually ends in death for the other party, and the same goes for Tartaglia, though nobody would be able to get him in this position without his explicit allowance. Hah. The battle has stakes unfamiliar to both, now that death shouldn’t be the only option.
Lohen places the sharpened edge of the dagger in the centre dip of Tartaglia’s collarbone, the metal cold, glinting under the moonlight streaming in from the window. The pressure increases, both on Tartaglia’s hard-on and the softness of his throat, and the grin on Lohen’s face threatens to widen as a flush spreads up Tartaglia’s neck to his face. As blood beads at the tip of the knife, he starts to drag it down.
“I could open you up so easily,” Lohen muses. Rope, cloth, and skin split all the same under the caress of the blade, leaving a thin, straight line of red welling directly down the centre of Tartaglia’s torso, stopping above his belly button, just a scant few inches from his throbbing erection. “Peel the layers back and get my hands on your insides.”
The shiver that runs down Tartaglia’s spine doesn’t go unnoticed. A gloved hand fists ginger strands, pulling him up by the hair as the man snarls at the agitation of his neck wound.
“Oi, Lohen, all you’ve done is get my ass on the floor,” Tartaglia groans, “Hurry up before I take the knife and do it myself.”
Lohen’s eye twitches. “We agreed that you would stay quiet. Shut your mouth before I do it for you.”
“Honestly?” Tartaglia laughs, “That’d be more enjoyable than being blue-balled. You didn’t even go deep down my front, how am I supposed to gain pleasure from that?”
“It’s foreplay, dumbass.” Lohen rolls his eyes. “I guess you wouldn’t know since you don’t get bitches.”
“I have you, you’re a bitch,” Tartaglia mumbles. “Just stab me again, blue-haired-with-pronouns.”
“Kill yourself.”
“You can kill me right now, you have a knife.”
“Too much effort.”
“Yet you tied me up and did foreplay.” Tartaglia scoffs, “Next thing you know, we’re the heads of an alliance between the Fatui and Mondstadt because you wanted a committed relationship. That’ll show you effort.”
For a moment, Lohen pauses. “Let’s put aside the titles tonight.”
Tartaglia stares, observing the other. “...Fine.” And he grins, wider than before, “Fuck me up, guy-who-looks-like-my-colleague.”
Said guy-who-looks-like-Tartaglia’s-colleague laughs, full-bellied and free like the nation he hails from, twirling the dagger in his hand before placing it at Tartaglia’s throat just hard enough to cut.
“I could kill you right now,” Lohen agrees, “But I won’t. I’m going to have fun playing with you.”
After taking the hydro vision off of the man’s belt, he recklessly cuts around the fabric tented by Tartaglia’s pants, knowing it throbs because of the risk. The flat side of the weapon grazes his cock a few times, making him shiver and leak a bit more. The way Tartaglia’s eyes close at his racing, pounding heart makes Lohen want to stop the beat, dig in with the blade a bit more and end the man permanently.
Those dangerous thoughts must have been what drew Tartaglia to him in the first place. An unending dance of distrust, Snezhnayan Roulette with the added risk of human psychology.
But really, the two of them barely think like humans, and that makes their brand of monstrosity perfect for each other.
Tartaglia watches with badly-hidden lust as Lohen strips off just his boots, pants, and underwear, taking a small vial of lubricant out from a pocket before discarding the clothes elsewhere. Inside, Lohen hopes he intimidates the man further as he slowly approaches, grinning menacingly.
“Must we use this?” Shaking the vial mockingly between two fingers, Lohen gets right in Tartaglia’s face. “Or can we use a more fitting fluid for tonight?” Looking past his shoulder, he notes – with no small pride – Tartaglia’s fists still clenched tightly at his back, not even inching toward the blade he left there on purpose.
Tensed, Tartaglia laughs, “I’m not sure that’s hygienic. There could be some things in my blood that could kill you, you know.”
“Mere blood won’t end me,” Lohen rolls his eyes. Putting the vial down and picking the weapon up, he smiles, “I’m sure you’ll be good. Now where should I drain you from?”
“My wrists? Like a normal person?” The ginger groans, “I don’t know. Maybe the open, gaping wound in my shoulder.”
The fingers that tried to dip into the wound meet healed skin instead, and Lohen hums disappointedly, bringing his other hand up to grasp around the man’s neck. Almost as an afterthought, he rotates the blade so the sharp side digs into his jugular, pouting with no small amount of annoyance as he sees the previous neck wound healed up as well.
“Not open anymore,” Lohen grumbles, mollified as Tartaglia gasps for air. Then he smiles. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to give you another one!”
Tartaglia whines as he rips his hands away, but just as fast, a dull pain sinks into his side, the soft gap between rib and hip. “Ow– fuck! You son of a—”
“Shh,” Lohen croons, pulling the knife out and caressing the sharp line of Tartaglia’s jaw with it. The heat of the blood must have warmed the metal considerably, coating it so completely that it beads and rolls down the column of Tartaglia’s throat. Or maybe he’s cutting into skin again. Same effect.
The blade clatters on the stone floor as Lohen drops it once again, two fingers coming to swipe up blood from Tartaglia’s side and bring it to Lohen’s own pale backside, testing the give of his ass before sinking them in. His tight hole is stretched perfunctorily, the fingers scissoring inside in preparation for that monster, Tartaglia’s overly-large erection that Lohen won’t admit is the slightest bit intimidating.
“Your first rodeo?” Tartaglia drawls, having recovered from the short period of oxygen deprivation. “Need me to help?”
As if he could, Lohen thinks, eyeing the bindings. The man just has to watch and learn then, while Lohen takes everything he has without mercy.
“Stay in your own lane. You aren’t the one with a weapon.” Lohen grunts with the effort of trying to open himself after a long dry spell, determined to do it without the help of this ginger with an eye–aching colour scheme.
“Hey, hey, I’m just asking you to free my hands. No biggie!” The begging and pleading lies evident in his tone right beneath his casual demeanour, and Lohen won’t give in. Tartaglia’s manipulations aren’t the most subtle of things. But soon enough, the red-eyed man deems himself open enough, and straddles Tartaglia’s lap directly.
“It’s a shame I can’t cut up those legs of yours since I’m on them,” he hums, grabbing Tartaglia’s cock in one hand and the dagger in the other. “But I can still hear your whining, so I guess not all is lost. His attention shifts to aligning the tip with his bloodied hole, then sinking down, fitting himself all the way down to the base. Tartaglia groans then, throws his head back, chest visibly rising and falling with each breath. The bliss on his face quickly shifts to glee, as Lohen puts a hand over the place where the first stab wound was and digs his nails into it, dipping the pads of his fingers similarly into the wound at his side.
A simple up-and-down motion on his dick has Tartaglia biting his lip to stifle a moan.
A jab has Tartaglia crying out.
A laugh has Tartaglia flushing in anger and embarrassment.
Taking his hand off his shoulder and picking up the blade, picking up his pace as he rides him, the dagger sinks messily into the crease between torso and thigh, and he can feel Tartaglia’s body respond in a way that has Lohen beaming with excitement. The wet messiness he can feel frothing and spilling out from their joined bodies seeps into the cut, he knows, and Tartaglia’s gasp at the sting makes everything — including the explanation Lohen will surely have to come up with — worth it.
The wound heals around his fingers and Lohen crooks them punishingly, tearing them out to rip the wound open once again, and he punches Tartaglia in the stomach. As he keels over, gagging over Lohen’s shoulder, the teal-haired man decides to slice a line right next to the delicate ridges of Tartaglia’s spine, just to cause more damage to his shirt that’s already halfway off, then he sits down fully on Tartaglia and swings a leg to the other side, cutting the strap off of Tartaglia’s thigh for Lohen to keep as a souvenir.
Surprisingly, it’s a kiss that has Tartaglia ejaculating into Lohen’s ass. The moment Tartaglia’s finished gagging from the punch, Lohen’s grabbing his cheeks and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, mashing their faces together wildly. And again, his hands gravitate towards the skin of his neck. Blue-eyed, blue-faced, Lohen knows a lack of oxygen compliments the man well.
He’s laughing as Tartaglia spills, and Tartaglia grins the same through his high, light-headed from both his deprivation of air and his orgasmic bliss. The burning heat filling him up makes Lohen cum as well, spilling onto their bloodied clothes.
They both pant in the wake of their respective climaxes, staring into each other’s eyes. They know the lust from battle as easily as the lust shared between them now. Companions in bloodshed. Companions in bed.
“Shit,” Tartaglia breathes, “We need to do this more often.”
“What were you saying about a committed relationship?” Lohen asks, eyes dilated and hair ruffled.