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Childe whistles, lips moving with the steady slopes in the pitch of the tune. It’s something dark, something twisted. There are phantom lyrics there; they tell of the monster in the forest. It’s a lullaby his mother would sing to him come nightfall, and it would scare him just enough to warn him from the woods, reminding him of what lurks in the shadows.
Now, he finds the monsters much more enticing.
Hunting them was like second nature, at first. The moment he laid eyes on the coiled figure of a flesh-and-blood demon, his fate was branded into stone. He picked up a gun and a knife and holy water and never looked back. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of piercing evil, rotting beings through the heart, a wicked smile locked in place as their sick blood pools at his feet.
But for today, he’s not looking to kill. Today is for a different sort of release. Just a taste of real danger—a precipice that toes the line between a dance and death. The thought fuels him, and he continues deeper into the woods, giddy as the trees grow taller and taller, and the hushhh of leaves brush together, spiking into a constant white noise. Everything is familiar, and his blood sings in anticipation, his very bones hardwired to react to this environment. It’s Pavlovian, almost.
He reaches the second fork in the path, taking a left where the old wooden sign says DO NOT ENTER: BEWARE in clear, blocky lettering, left behind by a weary traveler. The sweet flora and humming beetles disappear the deeper he goes, only the crooning of birds and wind wisps remaining. It’s peaceful here, yet inexplicably foreboding.
Once he arrives at the muddy brook, he breaks into a jog—then at the abandoned mine, a sprint—and finally, at the tallest oak in the woods, spanning over him in a spindly canopy, he skids to a stop—
And just on time, frigid hands wrap around his neck in a chokehold. They squeeze tight enough to bruise but not enough to kill quite yet. Cold, wet fangs press into his neck, pushing the skin just so it’s on the edge of breaking. It hurts like a bitch, and it forces a giggle out of him.
God, he needs this.
“Oh, Diluc?” Childe leans into the touch, wicked grin spreading over his cheeks. These hands have always been so dainty and powerful all at once—fit for a princess in looks but a warrior in practice. The contrast is incredibly alluring. “Ready to play?”
Diluc shoves him to the ground, straddling him. His inhuman strength is beautiful, consistently unlike any other creature Childe has had the pleasure of dissecting. That red hair glows under the wisps of moon that peek through the trees, pale skin stark against the purple night. Pretty lips pull into a familiar snarl. Fangs poke out, saliva coating them with a thin sheen. He’s the pristine picture of a vampire, one of the very beings Childe has sworn to kill.
“Don't jest, hunter.”
Childe closes his eyes, near blissful at the deep rasp of that voice. He could bounce with excitement, and he yearns to dig in—to leap right into the main event. But, with Diluc, patience is key. There’s a lovely precision in the way they do this, a twisted sort of foreplay that is absolutely necessary. Despite how he craves the end, he’s willing to play a patient man for his favorite vice. “I’m dead serious, scum.”
“Bold words for a man as tainted as you,” Diluc growls, and Childe knows he’s hit that delicious nerve. Despite his unbeating heart, Diluc is a man of pomp and care. He treats his body and house like temples even though they are so thoroughly built for sin, and if anyone suggests he is less than perfect, he tends to snap faster than ever. He’s predictable, already teetering into chaos. His hair haloes his head now, tickling the tip of Childe’s nose, feather-light. “How many liters of blood weigh down your conscience?”
Childe barks a hearty laugh at that. Flashes of his recent kills flit by—a headless wendigo, a slaughtered witch coven, another damned vampire staked through the heart—
(None of them, though, could even begin to compare to Diluc. It’s almost a motivator for Childe. He loathes any creature that shares a name with his beloved—who dares to believe they could ever be on his level—)
“Enough to get me drunk off my ass and then some,” Childe winks, voice breathy under Diluc’s weight. “And, really, I do love your fighting talk, darling, but maybe you could be a little nicer, hmm? This is quite a rude way to treat your visitors. I did come all the way out here to see you.”
Diluc scrunches up his nose. Ah, adorable. “You called me scum moments ago, did you not?”
“Only the truth,” Childe breathes into his ear. He doesn’t miss the shiver of cold skin and the way those fucking thighs grip his waist. “You’re going to have to earn anything more.”
“It is not I who will have to earn anything,” Diluc hisses, tugging a blade from his coat. The knife is long and gold, almost lengthy enough to pass for a small sword. It glints like a treasure. He carefully extracts Childe’s array of weapons, chucking them into the shadows of the surrounding trees. Childe lets him, watching idly as his good stake splinters in two.
“Ooh? This is new,” Childe’s face splits into a mocking grin. “That’s hardly playing fair, is it?”
Diluc leaps forward with his haunting speed, and Childe just barely catches his hand as the tip of the blade brushes his Adam’s apple. His arms shake with the effort of holding Diluc back, and Childe revels in this man’s truly unnatural strength.
“‘No rules, but don’t hold back, darling’.” Diluc whispers into the air, and fuck does ‘darling’ sound like honey on his lips. “Isn’t that what you always say?”
“You do listen,” Childe faux gasps and twists away. He snatches a particularly jagged rock from the ground and flourishes it in a figure eight, shrugging. He can’t kill Diluc without a stake, but injury is a different story. “Guess I’ll have to make do.”
“You won’t be making anything,” Diluc’s eyes are red red red now, glowing as he latches onto his prey.
“Is that so?” Childe sighs, cracking his neck. The sound pierces the night. “Guess we’ll see. No time to lose, darling.”
And thus, the dance begins.
Childe leads, sprinting forward with his weapon brandished out. He swipes, aiming for the neck with deadly precision. Diluc ducks into a crouch, tossing out his legs to trip him.
“Cheeky,” Childe smirks, leaping over him. He kicks downward, knocking Diluc hard in the back. He uses him as a springboard, jumping back into a lazy stance.
Diluc recovers with ease. He swipes upwards with the knife and lobs off a sizable chunk of Childe’s hair. The strands scatter in the breeze.
“Aw,” Childe pouts, tugging his jagged tufts of hair while simultaneously dodging the oncoming attacks. “You could’ve at least tried to make it symmetrical!”
“I’ll make sure to go down the middle when I slice your face apart,” Diluc grunts out, jabbing rapid-fire. Childe manages a lucky shot, nicking his shoulder with the edge of the rock. His flesh splits, only the barest hints of blood seeping from it. Diluc hardly bats an eye.
Childe grins maniacally as he skids into a momentary retreat. He hasn’t fed in a while.
Childe flips the rock around his fingers languidly and circles. “Hungry, are we?”
“Not for you,” Diluc lunges, and Childe has to laugh.
“Do you just like entertaining lies, darling, or are you trying to make me mad?”
Diluc responds by socking him in the gut. A man of few words, Childe thinks dreamily. He reels with it.
The fight dwindles in both of their favors for a while. The odds sway like a ticking clock, never truly landing on any one player. This is part of what truly entices Childe—what originally drew him into the enigma that is Diluc. The sureness of a fair fucking match. Nothing riles him up like this.
Eventually, though, something has to give. Sometimes the honor goes to Childe, but today, Diluc stakes his claim by landing an unexpected slash to the neck. With his teeth.
He sheathes himself into Childe’s neck and immediately begins to feed, almost as if he can’t restrain himself. For a few seconds, Childe can feel dizziness fogging up his conscience, but he manages to rip Diluc off and pin the near-drunk vampire beneath him.
He’s a picture. The blood—Childe’s blood—paints him like a pretty blush, spreading slow and sticky down his chin and over his neck. Childe runs a finger through it and dots red fingerprints over his collarbone. He takes the trail down to the seam of his shirt, relishing in the art of it.
Childe feels entranced. “You look ethereal, darling.”
“Disgusting fucker,” Diluc hisses, but Childe can tell it’s only reflex. His body doesn’t breath, but it does tremble, legs squeezing together as if he won’t inevitably scream for this next part. How silly his antics are, Childe thinks. He always plays the role of the reluctant lover, until he finally morphs into a fucking mess minutes later.
Now, Childe just has to get him there.
“Me? Disgusting?” Childe presses an offended hand to his heart. His beating heart. There’s something there, about the thrill of doing this with the object of his hunts. (Then again, it’s a simple reasoning: Diluc is far greater than a hunt, more complex than any a human could ever wish to be). “You’re the one licking me up like a mutt. How’s that disgusting blood taste, dog?”
“Like shit,” Diluc spits it out pink, but Childe can hear the tremor of the lie in his voice. Can sense the desperation growing heavier on his tongue.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Childe hums, stepping back in one flush movement. He backs up a couple paces until his shirt snags on a low-hanging tree branch. He raises the blood-stained rock, meeting Diluc’s crazed, hungry eyes. His pupils have swelled to a ravenous state, and his hair is mussed and perfectly tangled. Childe grins, running the makeshift knife over his palm.
Blood wells immediately from a fresh cut, dripping down his wrist and splashing onto the curling, browned leaves at his feet. They turn darker and darker as the stream continues. He grins, glancing back at Diluc, “Disgusting, right?”
Diluc is on him in a second, and Childe lets him. He cups Childe’s hand in his own, eyes hooding as if he’s mesmerized. His nostrils flare, and he nearly whimpers. “You’re unhinged.”
“Maybe,” Childe hums. He’s getting fucking impatient now, so he presses his wrist to Diluc’s sinful mouth himself. “Dig in, darling.”
Watching Diluc give in is heavenly. All rhyme or reason that he usually associates with the prim vampire completely dissipates as he’s visibly overwhelmed. He latches onto the cut, suckling at it for a moment before he sinks his fangs fully into Childe’s wrist. The pain is lesser here than it was in his neck, and Childe simply leans back, allowing the head rush of Diluc’s feeding to wash over him, making his brain all blurry. Whenever they get to this stage, he loses track of time—loses himself in watching Diluc lose himself.
Diluc laps at the punctures again and again, pausing every couple of seconds to relish in the taste. At one point, he opens a lone eye. It runs down Childe’s body, fixing on the way he's started fingering at his belt with his free hand. That tongue darts out and licks a quick, alluring line over his lips, coating them in spit. “Getting off on this?”
“Not just me,” Childe feels for Diluc’s crotch and smiles when he finds what he’s looking for. The flow of blood into his body makes room for some very human luxuries. He presses down harder, this time with more intent.
Diluc’s mouth opens soundlessly at the ministrations. Fuck, it’s always so easy from here, when he’s drunk off blood and pliant, all laid out for Childe like a meal.
“It’s just a natural reaction to feeding,” Diluc chokes, eyes fluttering shut. Fuck, he’s so pretty like this, but the thought of him doing with anyone else—natural reaction or otherwise—boils in Childe’s gut.
Childe hastily drops any semblance of kindness, clutching Diluc’s neck in a vice grip as malice pours into his tone. “I hope you’re lying, darling.”
Diluc wheezes, clutching at his fingers. “Wait—”
“Ah-ah,” Childe tuts, shaking Diluc’s head as he dangles his wrist just out of reach. He waves it back and forth, letting the blood fall, never close enough. “Tell me the truth.”
Diluc blinks. He’s gone so fucking stupid for Childe’s blood that he can’t even think. The thought is lovely, but he’s not playing nice right now.
Childe grips him harder. “Come on now, I know you don’t whore yourself out to anyone else.”
Diluc gasps, shakes his head frantically. “It’s not —”
“Didn’t I say to stop fucking lying,” Childe snarls and yanks at his hair. “The truth, Diluc?”
“This…” Diluc shudders, mouth hanging open as he stares at the blood tap tap taping down like a leaky faucet. Childe watches in real time as the fight leaves his eyes—as clouds of blatant desire replace it. He wriggles his hips, angling them at the ground. “This is just for you—just for you, Tarta—”
“Shh,” Childe cups his chin. Perfect. “Good boy. Not yet, not yet.”
Childe holds his wrist up, and Diluc drinks desperately, face morphing into pure, unrestrained bliss.
“‘Atta boy,” Childe rubs at his hair, ignoring the fuzzy edges of lightheadedness poking his vision. He leans back and slides to the ground. Diluc comes with him, not letting a drop of his meal go to waste.
“Alright, bloodsucker. Let’s get a move on. It’s my turn.”
Diluc releases his hand, but makes sure to nibble playfully at his fingertip for the flippant usage of such a vulgar word as ‘bloodsucker’. The rest is obedient, though. He falls backwards onto his knees, facing Childe, sated and lazy.
Childe thumbs at his pale, plush thighs, spreading his own legs to make room for the both of them. He shimmies quickly out of his pants, and rubs at his own barren skin. The cool air nips at it, and tingles run up his spine. He leans back, tilting his head up. “Go on, darling. Finish your feeding.”
Diluc nods slowly. He carefully aligns himself with Childe’s dick, and takes him into his mouth. Pleasure zings up Childe’s spine.
“Ah—watch the knives, darling,” Childe strokes his hair, laughing as Diluc pinches his thigh. “So feisty. But, really, you’re all talk, aren’t you?”
Diluc, predictably, pops off his cock to flash his fangs. “Brave words for a man who has these at his dick.”
“What can I say?” Childe shrugs, but he shivers at just how sharp they are. “I like the thrill.”
“Masochist,” Diluc says. He slides back down, mouths at the head, and uses his other hand to stroke everywhere else. It’s, quite frankly, a wonderful combination. Five fucking stars.
Childe giggles, pulls at Diluc’s hair, and smiles pointedly at the moan he gets in compensation. “Right.”
Diluc moves to a side angle, murmuring into skin. “Fuck off.”
“Gladly,” Childe wiggles at the vibrations from his voice. He tucks the loose strands of red behind pointy ears. “Maybe if you weren’t so average at this, darling.”
Diluc’s eyes smolder with that, and a renewed determination visibly flits through him. Childe cackles internally. He really is easy like this. That number would’ve reaped nothing but a scowl a little bit ago.
And finally, Diluc uses his full potential. He sucks Childe fucking masterfully, practically gagging for cock right in front of him. He can’t cry, but Childe can imagine it, can see tears streaming down his face. He’s almost thankful that can never happen, for the sight would truly be his undoing.
“Ah—there!” Childe sighs brokenly, chest beginning to really heave. “Just a little faster, ‘kay? Just like that—ah— “
Diluc quickens his tempo, going up and down and then fucking twisting with his hand—and fuck, he keeps looking up at Childe like that, and really, normally he lasts longer, but—but—
The pressure builds, compounds, and crests. He cums, voice strained and muscles pulled taut.
Diluc doesn’t stop, and he sucks him through the end, until Childe tugs him off by his mane. Spit dribbles down his chin, mixing with the blood there.
“Good boy,” Childe shuts his eyes. He focuses on the lingering trails of pleasure and relishes in them. He breathes for a beat and pats his chest. They aren’t finished yet. “C’mere.”
Diluc does as he is told. He props himself on Childe’s hips. He licks at the neck bite but does not reopen it. It’s peaceful, a little lull of hazy contentment.
Childe tucks his fingers over the clear line of Diluc’s erection, and he takes in the tiny whine that it coaxes out. His little blood donation seems to have fulfilled its duty. “You got enough in you?”
Diluc purses his lips. Childe wants to plant a kiss there, wants to be the one sinking his teeth this time. “I’m not sure.”
Childe knows he’s lying, but he indulges anyways. “Ooh, a challenge.”
“You do love those,” Diluc leans back on the ground like a painting, arms strewn above his head.
“What can I say?” Childe pushes those lithe legs apart, smiling as he comes face-to-face with Diluc’s dick. Pretty—just like everything else about him. “I’m a sucker for a good duel.”