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It all began as a suspicion.
Ever since he'd laid eyes on his superior, the man had taken over his brain, lodged himself into his braincells, thick lashes that framed gorgeous blue-purple eyes in the recesses of his brain and porcelain skin that laid claim to every fantasy the Eleventh could think of and more. It was an addiction to an idea of a person, a drug that was his existence alone.
He wanted him. No, needed him. To see that face, always marred by a scowl, twist into something, anything else, all because of him, Childe. To be the reason for his undoing and to explore him piece by piece.
One glaring problem (aside from the plethora of other problems associated with such an obsession): The Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers carried himself like an alpha. Head held high, sneering remarks cloaked in verbosity, and his scent never quite stayed. Everyone had a scent, one that ebbed and flowed with natural cycles- So why did Scaramouche appear to not have one?
This would not do.
Frankly Childe had been wanting to stalk the little Sixth anyway, and now he had a specific goal, and he always pursued his goals with reckless abandon. And such motivation found himself within Scaramouche’s private quarters, snooping, sifting, and generally sniffing through the whole place (and taking some souvenirs, of course) when he struck gold- No, diamond, a treasure too great to apply such material labels to.
Blockers.
Secondary gender blockers.
The kind of medication where if, say, you suddenly stopped taking it, the kind of rut or heat that would come after would be crushing.
So Childe replaced all the pills with duds.
Feeling quite proud of himself, he slipped out of the room- Archons forbid Scaramouche found him there at this point in time. Let’s see what little mouchie is.
Luckily, Childe was used to forcing himself to be patient. It was obvious that not taking the right medication wouldn't show effects immediately- The pretty little doll showed no initial signs of the change, as haughty as ever, biting words and never spared a second glance towards those he considered beneath him.
Even when right in front of him.
“Hey Scara!” Childe waved his hand, trotting over, gleaming smile. Look at me. I want to see your face. Look at me, look at me right now. And even the side eye glance of those stunning eyes made his heart beat a little faster.
“Do you need something? I have places to be.” Childe could melt at that voice, he wanted to hear it more, see what pretty little sounds it could make. He almost forgot to reply.
“Hm? Just the usual. A spar with my favorite superior~” He hummed, hopeful. He always wanted a spar, and every once in a while Scaramouche would indulge- In which, he would have Childe on the floor in seconds, electricity shooting through his veins until he couldn't breathe, the Sixth’s foot on his chest, saying do you yield?
Childe was always left with an aching hard-on after.
“Favorite?” Scaramouche’s reply, raising an eyebrow, interrupted the Eleventh’s daydreaming. “Heh, how adorable.” He smirked, and Childe could've sworn he'd pass out. “Unfortunately I don't have the time today. Truly tragic.” He flicked the Eleventh's forehead demeaningly before walking away in elegant stride.
Childe watched him, eyes not leaving, was he drooling? Fuck. He needed him, needed him.
He just needed to be patient.
It was only a matter of time.
Six days (he counted) before Childe finally got what he'd been waiting for- He always had eyes on the little harbinger, unsure when exactly his body would return to its natural state. Its correct state. And it was so close, he could smell it.
…He could smell it.
Childe crept towards the Sixth’s quarters, nose high, and soon the pretty sound of labored breaths fell into his ears and he couldn't help the near giddy smile to approach his face. Restless energy flowed through his entire body, and the scent that leaked from beneath the door was tantalizing. Now how will it smell when he's next to me?
He lightly twists the doorknob, opening it to a sliver, and he almost passed out from how hard he immediately got from the wave of heat that entered his nostrils. Childe felt dizzy. He couldn't take any further waiting, any further procrastination, he needed this, needed this man.
He swung the door the rest of the way open and he watched that small body flinch from his bed, curled in a ball, wearing that tight bodysuit and shorts, the rest of his robes thrown haphazardly on the floor. His body trembled, and while the puppet did not need to breathe, it's as if the motion of labored pants eased him- Whoever made the thing clearly modeled him after an omega, and what a gorgeous little thing he was.
“What- gh- What the hell are you doing here?!” He hissed between gritted teeth, eyes glancing through indigo bangs in the Eleventh’s direction, and he couldn't help the laugh that came from him in reply. “This was- This was your doing, wasn't it? You freak, you absolutely disgusting-” As Scaramouche spoke, Childe closed the door and made his way to the bed in a couple long strides, setting his hand on the other's cheek, almost gentle.
“I like you better this way. Though you're still awfully mouthy,” He murmured, watching as Scaramouche nearly leaned into the touch, before his face twisted into a scowl. If looks could kill, Childe would be dead a thousand times over.
“When this ends I swear I'm going to-” Another wave of heat wracked through him, making him shudder. “Tartaglia.” Childe merely smiled, humming to himself, dragging his hand down from cheek to chin, his thumb brushing against Scaramouche’s bottom lip. Easily he took his hand away when the Sixth tried to bite it.
“Nuh uh, bad kitty. I always took you as a cat.” He mockingly waggled his finger, another laugh coming through as he watched electro shoot through the other’s fingers, before sputtering and dissipating as the most beautiful little whine forced itself from Scaramouche’s throat, his body wanting nothing more than to be taken by the alpha before him.
“Get. Out. Before I- Before I-” He put his hand on the bed, trying to push himself up to straighten, and that was when Childe grabbed his wrist with one hand, the other falling to Scaramouche’s chest to push him down onto his back. “Tartaglia!” Another hiss.
Again electro began to ignite, and it dissolved almost immediately as Childe moved his hand just so, his thumb brushing against a nipple beneath fabric, the Sixth choking down a sound. Oh, this was beautiful.
Childe took the chance to clamber onto the bed, looking over the smaller harbinger, and he never felt more powerful. A higher ranked superior writhing beneath him, hate and arousal in his eyes- And he hadn't even started yet.
“Get off!” Scaramouche tried to yank his wrist away, but the heat that had come onto him was like an infection, eating away at his strength and will. And the Eleventh sitting over him, knees pushing apart pale legs, was only feeding it. “I hate you! Get off me!” All hiss, no bite. Claws outstretched but caps placed upon them. They both knew he was at the mercy of the other- Though the reality hadn't quite set in, yet.
A dagger of hydro easily materialized in Childe’s hand, and he hooked it beneath the collar of Scaramouche’s top, quickly yanking it down, cutting a long slash through the fabric. The body flinched beneath him, pale, unblemished skin being revealed, a body crafted so perfectly. Childe yanked it off, using the dagger to cut any piece that annoyed him, a shirtless Scaramouche now glaring at him from beneath.
“You'll- gh- You'll pay for that, asshole.” With each bit of skin shown, the worse the heat seemed to get, his body pleading, scent coming off in waves, take me, breed me. Childe wished he could hear it in the other's voice, but alas, not yet, anyway.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” He looked Scaramouche in the eyes, those brows twisted close together, blue meeting indigo, and Scaramouche merely spat at him. And Childe merely laughed.
As if in response, the Eleventh took that dagger and hooked it under the waistband of shorts and underwear, jerking it up to cut both in one movement, quickly peeling them from the Sixth’s body to reveal-
Oh.
Oh, this was delightful.
“You never mentioned you had the prettiest cunt in all of Teyvat,” Childe breathed, staring unabashedly, as Scaramouche attempted to struggle beneath him, curses and insults spilling from his lips- Childe wanted something else to spill from them, frankly. “I'm getting a bit tired of your attitude, Scara.” A hissy response began to form and very, very quickly fell away when Childe leaned down, sticking his nose between the Sixth’s legs.
“Poor little thing. Look at how much you're leaking. You're gonna have to change these sheets, you know.” Scaramouche couldn't help the shiver down his spine at the sensation of hot breath there, if he could blush he'd be entirely flushed pink- It's not like Childe was wrong, either, the bed beneath growing a dark spot as slick dribbled from the harbinger.
“Are you going to just sit there or are you j- shi- ah-” His back arched when mouth connected to cunt, Childe opening his mouth, licking a stripe and collecting juice inside like he were drinking from a fountain. His hands held either side of the Sixth’s hips, fingers digging in, were it mortal flesh they'd bruise. But his skin remained opulent as ever.
Childe lifted his head with a borderline playful smirk, watching Scaramouche’s face, which was now twisted in a complex, conflicted emotion that couldn't be named.
“Am I what? Repeat that?” He dared to tease, earning a mumbled, unintelligible insult in turn. “Mm? What was that?”
“You're so irritating I need you to get off- ff-!” Hook, line, sinker. The second Scaramouche attempted to return to his jagged words, Childe dipped his head down once more, pressing his tongue against a pretty pink clit, licking deep against it. “Pl- Tartaglia-” His tone began to lose some of that bite, his hips lifting on instinct, the way the man fought with himself between ignoring the ministrations and so innately needing more than this, what a delectable sight.
“What were you about to say, doll?” He tests his luck with the name, though this whole excursion was one giant luck exam, and he was passing with flying colors. He wants that pretty voice begging, pleading, chanting and singing his name. Oh, he wanted the puppet mind gone, drooling and braindead. So many thoughts and wishes, all of them at his disposal, this heat already starting to cook the man’s head.
“Get off.” Scaramouche again tried to wriggle free, and again his movements easily ceased by lips wrapping around his mound and sucking. He almost screamed, a hand flying to his mouth, before Childe dared to take one of his own hands off his hips and grab that wrist, forcing that arm down, forcing Scaramouche to moan breathily into the air unimpeded.
Another hard suck, bringing slick into his mouth, and suddenly seized up with a whining shout, cunt spasming around air and Childe couldn't help but chuckle, removing his mouth and trailing kisses up his pelvis and up his stomach, before looking him in the eyes, looming over him once more.
“Cumming from just that?” His voice was lower, his cock was aching, he decided here and now- He needed this man. “We're just getting started.” Scaramouche was still coming down from the throes of orgasm, a feeling he hadn't experienced in Archons knows how long, and he chose not to even attempt a reply.
Childe hummed and the hand not holding wrist released Scaramouche's hips fully, though this one trailed inward, taking joy at the way overstimulated pelvis flinched as it was brushed past, but with a heat like this there was a near infinite orgasm count to be had.
Carefully, perhaps gently, Childe slipped his middle finger into sopping hole, the greedy thing practically sucking him in, hips rising once more to meet it. Immediately he knew he could add a second with ease, doing just that with the pointer, earning a strangled whine from the Sixth.
“You're so beautiful like this,” Childe murmured, “I’d never been so excited to fuck someone before. You're so perfect. So so gorgeous.” That praise rattled around in Scaramouche’s ears, his body about relaxing into it, fight leaving more and more. Honey-sweet words and fingers digging deep into his hole, curling upwards and-
“Ah, hah- Th- ere-” Scaramouche writhed beneath the Eleventh, but seemingly not in escape, anymore- It was like he were trying to grind into those fingers, and Childe obliged, entranced by the doll beneath him, each curl of his fingers earning such lovely noises.
He began to scissor him open, slipping a third finger in, and the first step of getting the Sixth to become his was complete.
“Nnh, Tarta- glia- please!" Such a word so rarely heard from this voice, said in such a sweet whining tone. But he wanted more. Childe needed more.
He found himself satisfied with the stretch and couldn't wait any longer, in a flash his own pants were removed, stiff cock at the ready, precum leaking and dripping down shaft.
One last bastion of teasing, Childe rubbed the tip over folds, brushing against clit and just barely dipping into slick–drenched entry, but the desperate whimper this elicited made all patience leave his body, and without further warning he slammed himself in, burying himself to the hilt, the wet sound of skin hitting skin reverberating within the room.
A sharp cry came from Scaramouche, shocked from the sensation but the fullness like a medication, an antidote, an answer. Childe groaned, walls inviting him ever deeper, he knew this was where he was meant to be, a missing puzzle piece, a delicious little thing speared on his cock and each twitch and squirm of that body sending waves of pleasure throughout.
“Mnn move.” It was meant to be a demand but sounded more pathetic than that, voice wrapped in arousal, and Childe didn't even have it in him to further prolong it. He pulled out slowly, slowly, until just the tip were inside, before slamming in once more. And he must have hit the perfect spot too, judging by the near scream of a moan that came from those lips.
“Fuck. You're so good.” Childe was breathing heavily, watching Scaramouche become undone, any evidence of a glare or scowl becoming replaced by bliss and pleasure.
“Childe. Childe. Please.”
“More.” Childe panted out. “Beg me more.”
Scaramouche had to listen. So desperate to chase his own pleasure, to quell this heat, he practically sobbed. “Pleasepleaseplease, hah, I need it, need- needneed you-”
That's all he needed.
Beginning a grueling pace, Childe pulled out, thrust in, angling his hips to hear the prettiest whimpers and cries from Scaramouche, and when the other's pleas began to dissolve into garbled babbles, he knew he was approaching second orgasm.
He didn't relent, harder, harder, and the Sixth's eyes almost rolled into the back of his head as finally he spasmed, walls clenching around Childe’s cock, a long keen coming from him.
And Childe couldn't help his own moan, and he didn't let up, chasing his own finish, even as Scaramouche began to sob from overstimulation, entire body tense, and those walls not letting up, clamping down on dick.
And then he came, shoving himself as deep as he'd go, shooting cum into the farthest depths of the little Balladeer.
“Take me. Take me. Shit shit shit.” Childe panted, being milked for all he was worth.
But the point of a heat was to make sure the body got every chance to get knocked up that it could.
And Childe wanted to truly own Scaramouche.
The smaller man is trembling, and Childe slowly begins to pull out, watching thick white semen begin to leak from around his dick, mingled with clear slick, but he wanted more. More. More.
He didn't pull out all the way, before slamming in again.
Scaramouche cried out, legs twitching. “Ta-!” Childe about laid on top of him, burying his face into the crook of his neck, moving his hips like an animal, not caring that both were becoming overwhelmed. For he, too now, was a slave to his instincts.
“Mine. Mine. Everyone will know you're nothing but mine, all mine.”
He didn't have much choice than to wrap his legs around Childe, incoherent noises spilling from his mouth, a waterfall of attempts at words that amounted to meaningless moans and sobs.
Pretty quickly Scaramouche was again subject to orgasm, clenching around Childe's cock again, and as if in a rut now himself (perhaps he was) the Eleventh came too, once more, shooting himself into whatever faux womb his doll may have.
“Again.”
When Childe gained control of his body he fucked into Scaramouche anew, the man’s sounds becoming a white noise background as he intended to milk both of them dry.
Each movement of his hips had a sound coming from the smaller harbinger, as if he were a soundboard, each press of his buttons bringing something out. He couldn't think anymore. Tears flowed down his cheeks, sobs mixing with moans, nothing in his head except sex.
Skin pressed against skin, as if wanting to climb inside the other, an orchestra of filthy sound. Percussive hits and wet crashes, a harmony of vocals and a symphony of breaths. Choruses Childe now put on repeat, shuffle, play and replay again and again until Scaramouche had grown limp, unable to even cling and grasp any longer.
A true little doll.
Childe finally began to return to his senses- He wasn't quite sure how much time had passed. He felt like a new man, reborn, reshaped. And he hoped the Sixth now felt the same- Though judging by the lack of response when finally, finally he pulled out (a horrible sticky stain widening onto the covers, hole becoming unplugged to runneth over) it appeared like the experience were too much for his supposed superior.
A weak smile. He shoved his face into the crook of the smaller's neck, holding him close. He hadn't marked him quite yet- But now such a thing was on the table. A prime option. He took a deep breath, sharp inhale through the nose, perhaps he'd grown a sweet tooth from the fragrance.
I'll have him begging to be marked by me.
A happy thought, before Childe allowed unconsciousness to take him too, his doll hugged close to him.