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Don’t get involved with the Fatui.
It’s a rule of thumb on the streets of Liyue, hidden under the conversations between merchants and their suppliers, between the adults during family dinners, among the officials guarding the pier late at night. Guarded gazes thrown at the dark fur coats that slip in the shadows, sneaking near the commercial district. Sneering at the back of that ginger Harbinger, watching him as he weaves among the roofs of your neighborhood. Mornings are filled with anticipation to see who suffered from the clutch of debt, who refused to sink lower into the Fatui’s greedy hands and paid the resulting price. Who did they deal punishment to?
It’s easy to ignore the presence of the Fatui when Liyue is gearing up for the festive season, though. With a slew of traditional holidays around the corner and most merchants scrambling for last-minute orders, your street has never been this busy. It’s honestly exciting — dancing through the throngs of people whilst greeting your neighbors has never felt so frantically paced, and delivering goods to your customers feels more like a mission than a regular job.
Maybe some of the excitement comes from fear. These next few months will decide the fate of your small shop and if all goes to plan, you’ll make enough sales to rise out of the red and survive for the rest of the year. And hopefully, you can alter your business strategy and figure out how to organize funds to not fall into this situation again.
You twirl onto your shop’s doorstep as the setting sun releases a starburst of brilliant pinks and yellows, just in time to finalize tomorrow’s details and head upstairs to your room. Dinner possibilities swim in your mind as you set down and organize empty boxes in the corner. Ramen . . . with curry powder and scallops? Maybe an egg or two? Or you can have those Wanmin leftovers from the other day when a Millelith guard treated you in return for some small favor. You’ll have to remember to give them a discount if they ever swing by again.
If you can afford it.
“A few more sales tomorrow . . . and then Rites . . . ,” you murmur, your finger dancing in the air as numbers race through your head. Everything should be fine. Everything will be fine. As long as you keep this up, you can get out of this mess. For now, you can focus on getting something in your stomach and reading a few chapters of that new book you borrowed from the local library.
Yes. Your new book. A distraction.
“Ma’am.”
Whoa! You whip around panicked to find two golden eyes peering at you through a dark mask.
Slender and precarious.
Apprehensive.
The wary gaze belongs to a tall figure, his head bowing as he leans on the doorway, one of his arms bracing the frame as the other rests on his hip. You can spot the Pyro Delusion holding his fur-lined cloak together, blood red and bright.
You match his stride step-for-step when he walks forward, backing up until your hips meet the counter. There’s earthquakes welling in your limbs, tremors rocking your fingers, and you clench your teeth hard to stop from visibly shaking in fear. There’s no way to pretend, no way to fake your recognition.
There’s a Fatui at your door.
One with the power to make you bend to their will and submit.
To kill.
The adrenaline in your veins is instant.
Undeniable.
“How c-can I help you?” you stutter. God, you sound so timid, so unimaginably small, and you can feel your hairline bead with cold sweat. The agent radiates power as he stops in front of you, legs planted apart and arms crossed. Much taller. The doorway was deceiving.
The answer to your question does not need to be spoken aloud. It hangs over the room, thick and muggy and overwhelming — debt. There’s no other reason a Fatui would make their way into someone’s establishment or home unless it was related to finances. And you know your monetary situation all too well.
Don’t get involved with the Fatui. Advice that you should’ve taken more seriously.
The agent stays silent. You shouldn’t speak, but nervousness shoots through your blood and lodges itself in your throat, forcing your mouth open, “I can p-pay by the end of the week. The festival season . . . I’ll be good by then.”
His golden eyes narrow, accentuated by the sharp curves of his mask, and you shiver. Your chest feels tight when he speaks, a deep, masculine python winding slowly over your torso. “That is not what was agreed on.”
Is it the sentiment that makes you shake? Or the intimidation that naturally clings to him, soaking his words with malevolence?
“I know, I know about the contract,” you whisper, dragging your stare to his hands. Even through his gloves, you can see the definition in his veins, crossing over thick fingers. Hands that can take you. Ruin you. Your tongue suddenly feels too big for your mouth.
The Fatui tilts his head, regarding you quietly. Waiting for your defense.
“Is there . . . can I give you collateral? Something valuable. Just give me a s-second to look . . . ,” you trail off, desperately whipping your head around the room. Your eyes scan the room, roaming the cupboards — empty besides sparse seasoning containers — and tables — dainty flowers at the end of their bloom, potted in small painted jars. Your jewelry is in a drawer, hidden and unworn. The metal is cheap, and while it looks flattering on your skin, you know there’s not much value in it at all. The books under your bed are all second-hand, the clothes you own are inexpensive and plain, the-
“We know you don’t have anything of worth,” he says huskily, his voice modulator distorting his words just so that the syllables sound wrong. “And you know how contracts are treated here.”
The worst part is that you do. You know exactly the value of someone’s word, the weight of a signature, the promise held in a handshake. Liyue has taught you this all too well, and the Qixing’s rule only enforced this further. You remember the timid steps you took into Northland Bank, the papers filled with carefully worded stipulations. The loan requirements. The warnings. You could’ve listened to the masked woman at the front desk, the one who warily assessed you after you explained the amount you requested. You should’ve listened to her, should’ve taken up another business or explored another route.
But Archons, the money in your hands felt so good. The power to expand your products, to market your skills.
And it really didn’t seem bad at the time. Not enough to warrant the weight of that saying.
Don’t get involved with the Fatui.
You scramble for a coherent response, something to spare you, but not before he speaks again, “How shall you pay? Life or death?”
Death. The word pulses through your veins, grabbing you unforgivingly and sending you into a cold spiral. Nausea, dizziness, numbness. You can’t die. Fuck, you can’t die right now, right here. You’re too close to clearing your debt, too close to never making this mistake again. How could you ever think the Fatui wouldn’t strike now — at the worst possible moment at the worst possible place? They had given you space for so long. So graciously long.
“Please, please, I’m begging you.” Your voice is starting to sound shaky, like there’s a sob lingering impatiently, “Don’t kill me. A few more days, just please give me a few more.” Before you can stop yourself, your knees give out and you’re on the floor in an instant. You sit on your heels, looking up at the Fatui from your kneel. You can see his gaze change, the shape of his eyes widen ever so slightly, but he doesn’t move from his current position.
“There are no allowances,” he answers, “unless you pay with your life, one way or another.”
“My life,” you repeat hollowly. He nods, “I decide your fate. Alive, you could be a slave. A toy. Trafficked for your organs . . . your body.” You can feel his stare track your curves, eyeing your chest and legs. While you’re not naked in any sense of the word, it’s hard to fight the urge to slap your hands over your body, to hide your femininity from his view. Your stomach churns faster and your mind feels heavier, weighed with disgust and humiliation and helplessness. An utter lack of control.
But it’s too far to give up. All your plans for the rest of the month can’t fall through because of a late payment. You didn’t work this hard to end this now, to be killed before the eye of the storm. Think, think, think! Fuck!
“Then, my body,” you rasp, “My body in exchange for deferral.”
The meaning of each word slaps you as the syllables churn out of your mouth. Your pupils warp with queasiness, struggling to meet the agent in the eye. Kneeling with your weight on your palms, head hung in shame — and an offer to proposition yourself. How pathetic you must seem.
How pathetic you must be.
“You want to lend your body out to postpone your collection . . . ,” he echoes, tasting the idea slowly. “Are you proposing a contract?” One of his hands tugs at the clasp of his Delusion while the other undoes the latches of his coat, pulling the fabric away to reveal a dark dress shirt. The cotton cloth clings to his muscled chest, his sculpted lats, and his ridged abdomen before tucking into a brown belt. Your natural instinct is to hold your thighs tighter together, but you fight your arousal and let your shame seep through instead, “Please. I’m . . . I need this.”
He stoops down, resting on the balls of his feet, his face close to yours, “Need? You know what you sound like right now?” His gloved fingers take your chin and pull it up, keeping you eye-to-eye with him. As much as you want to avert your eyes, as much as you want to push him away and crawl into the corner of the room, you know that any attempt to do so will lead to certain death.
You can’t risk certain death.
So you swallow as he leans closer, so close to your own lips that you can see the faint silhouette of his eyes behind the yellow screen matching them. His light lashes, lengthening at the ends, make his lids look thin and slender, and enhance the darkness of his irises more. Deep coffee turned sepia bores into your gaze, wrapping around you like bitter chocolate, harsh and biting. “You sound desperate. Pathetic. Isn’t it sad how you turn to your body as your last resort, how you know that is the only asset you’ll always have?” Rough leather digs into your skin, but you feel the vibrations of his voice far deeper. “Even when you’re dead, the sole utility you own is sex.”
He drops your chin and stands, looking down at you, “Do you think I’ll be gentle with you if I accept? Are you really prepared to be an object, only useful for my pleasure?” Your hands wring at his words, gripping your clothes in frustration.
You hate him. And you know it’s not his fault that he’s placed in this role, not his fault that people in your situation have resorted to the same proposition you offered. You hate the Fatui, and while they are partially to blame, you know, in the deep recesses of your heart, that you should’ve known better. That saying, that fucking saying, flashes in your mind in every font, every size, and every color incessantly, taunting you.
“Sir,” you begin, unsure of his title, “I will . . . offer you my body tonight. And i-in return, please give me an extension. Just until the end of the week. I’m begging-”
“Disgusting. Do you not have a single ounce of self-respect?” he hisses, pulling off his hood. Silky blond hair — so light it’s nearly platinum — is parted to the side messily, and despite his antagonistic comments, you find yourself captivated by the wispy ends of his strands. How does such an angelic color belong to a man like him, insensitive and cold?
“I thought higher of you,” he remarks bitterly. Then he continues, “This will not be a thing for just tonight.”
You swallow, silent.
“I want you every night until the end of this week.”
Are contracts considered legitimate when you have no choice in the matter? You’ve heard that Rex Lapis — Liyue’s beloved archon — is strict when it comes to terms, but surely this is a nuance he never foresaw. How do you refuse new terms when the party you’re defying is the enforcer of your punishment? You have no power in this situation . . .
None at all.
You nod timidly, harder when he squints, and his jaw tenses just enough to emphasize the muscles of his neck. “There are no exceptions. Until the weekend arrives, you are mine to partake in. Am I understood?”
“Yes . . . sir.”
Don’t get involved with the Fatui.
In seconds, he’s let his fur collar slip down his shoulders with his Delusion, ruby red and glaring. His fingers pinch his gloves off, and for a moment, you’re surprised he’s willing to touch your bare skin. Each degradation felt like salt in fresh wounds, cutting in deep and dirty. Fuck, how did you let this happen to yourself?
There is no time for self-pity and introspection. He stoops to the floor again, balancing on his dark boots, before extending his fingers out. Blinking back the heat behind your eyes, you grip the floorboards futilely — no matter how much you curl your fists, there is nothing to ground you. The Fatui reaches farther, right to where he can clamp your cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, turning his wrist to pinch your chin.
“Don’t be nervous. You agreed to this, yes?” he whispers roughly. In this proximity, you can barely catch his true voice — a deep, soft tone that underlies his gravelly mechanical words. It’s stern and serious, but clear, sharp, and chilling. There’s a humanity to him that wasn’t present before, one that makes you swallow thickly with unease. This is a man who knows his actions and history. His life.
You don’t nod, opting to clench your jaw to stop the shaky dam of tears from crumbling. He doesn’t seem to mind the lack of response. In a quick motion, he pulls off his mask and drops it to the side on the floor, letting it clatter. His dusky eyes — so dark they seem black — framed by dusty lashes . . . a strong Greek nose and cut cheeks . . . and lips with the faintest chapped lines, pink and thin.
God, he’s beautiful. So repulsively beautiful. He observes as you take him in, his pupils dilating and mouth parting as he awaits your reaction. Your body tenses, throat tightening, “Please don’t . . . hurt me.”
“I do what I desire,” he counters, raspy and soft and shit — you hate how he says desire, how it makes your fingers twitch and furl with guilt and need. He cups your cheek in his palm and pulls you forward, tilting as his lips catch yours. A moment, then another as he grows quick and rough. His kisses are insistent, dragging your lips with his teeth and tongue until he pulls away. He never truly separates from you; he takes the breaths you give eagerly, passionately.
It’s more than a simple transaction, you think, at least from the way he keeps his leathered hands splayed over the sides of your face tightly to keep you still. There’s a gentle fire growing in your stomach, stoked by his movements, and when he sighs in your mouth, you whimper thoughtlessly. The noise sounds loud in your ears, almost as present as the sloppy splotches of sound as your lips meet his again and again and again. A low hum resonates between as he tastes your tones, pleased with your reaction.
You catch his swollen lips for a second, his narrowed, malicious stare for a second, before he dips below and licks your jaw. Your hands push at the floor when you’re forced to recline as he crawls over you. And his hands . . . they grab at your hips, moving lower and pinning your thighs down. You groan when he bites your neck and pulls the skin taut until it stings, you sigh when he paints over the pain with his tongue. He whispers into the crook of your shoulder, “I’ll make sure these marks never fade. You’ll remember that you’re an object, being used for me.”
In a small corner at the back of your mind, you’re sure that you’ll always feel the weight of today whether there are bruises to remind you or not, but you can’t bring yourself to talk back. Instead, you steel yourself and think of the money, think of the loan, think of the success you’ll gain after this hurdle. You drown in your thoughts as the Agent undoes the clasps of your mandarin collar, unveiling more of your skin, and only jolt back to the moment when leather scrapes the top of your chest.
Oh. His gloves run cool against your hot skin, gentle and soothing and pleasant. You exhale, “Ooh . . . “
“Are you enjoying this?” the Agent rasps, unwrapping your modest qipao to fully reveal your bra, “I suppose I am treating you nicely. I could hold a knife to your throat, fuck you until you’re unconscious . . . “ He flexes his hand and the nerves over his knuckles jump. “But I’m not that mean.”
He grips the top of your bra and tugs so roughly that you hear a series of pops from broken stitches and a distinct rip from the hooks tearing the back clasps from the cheap fabric. Your bra goes lax, slipping down your body easily, and you squirm when his eyes dart to your breasts. Your nipples are already hard, so embarrassingly hard, and his inscrutable expression . . .
“I-I’m sorry,” you croak, “I’m so sorry.” You’re not sure what you’re even apologizing for — it’s not like you can stop your body’s response to him. Electric sparks rolling down your thighs with each touch, sweet beads of sweat with each kiss. He places his palms on your back and arches you forward, bending your body up to his, and his words fan over your breasts, “Shhhh. You offered this, do not try to garner pity from me.” His teeth graze your sternum, enough to sting but not to bruise, and goosebumps pebble as you pant.
He closes his teeth over your nipple and sucks, the friction squeaking sharply, and when you writhe, he pushes his thumbs into the side of your ribs to keep you still. The pressure hurts and like an agitated animal, you whine helplessly, but he only sucks harder and glares at you in response. His eyes are focused, big and black, as he nips and hums, while he slides a hand to your other breast and gropes it firmly. Kneading, twisting, tweaking one nipple as he soaks the other with spit, lips wet when he pops off. He switches and resumes, using his palm to rub his saliva into your skin while his mouth keeps busy. You throw your hands onto his shoulders, scrabbling for a tether amid the wash of pleasure and pain and need coursing through your body, “Ngh, holy . . . hah.”
“Look at you . . . ,” he coos sadistically, “Should’ve paid off your debts with this body, you know. Tonight was so easy to avoid.” His palm strikes your breast and you gasp as your body arches higher. You shouldn’t enjoy this as much as you are and yet, you find yourself anticipating his movements. A thick drop of sweat works down your back when he moves his hands down, laying you back on the cool wood, and brushes his palms down your ass. He yanks the rest of your qipao off before nipping at your navel, your abdomen, and lower. Your panties are quickly stretched and ripped aside, and you hang your head back as he lifts your hips up to his mouth. For the first time during this encounter, he seems eager to take you. He groans, “You’re so wet.”
“No, no, I’m not,” you plead.
“Were you hoping for this? Did you plan this entire situation?” he says quietly, his tone accusatory. You shake your head with vigor, desperate to clear this misunderstanding for some reason — you know deep, deep down, that your image has been tainted no matter what he thinks your motivations are. But your breasts are still tingling from his tongue and his breath is gliding over your skin and it’s absolutely impossible to want anything else besides release.
He is tortuous. His lips hum against your inner thigh as his fingers grip your ass, “Your cunt . . . smells so good.” There’s a wildness to his tone, a predatory edge, but before you can wriggle away, his tongue licks a stripe up your pussy. He gathers your slick with his lips, tasting your slit again and again. Sparklers flare when he sucks your clit and adds pressure, and you cry as your heels dig into his back, “Oh, ngh! Fuck, stop!”
“Mhmmm.” He brushes away your pleading and twirls his tongue over your clit, and his fingers move over to prod at your entrance. Spreading your lips, dipping shallowly into your pussy, rotating your arousal in quick circles as you writhe and kick. Your movements don’t throw him off his rhythm at all: it’s as if he doesn’t feel, doesn’t hear anything you expel.
Your eyes roll back as he closes his lips over your sensitive nub and sucks hard — so hard you’re sure that you’ll be bruised. And when he pops off, a clean thwop resonating in the room, his hand slaps your pussy soundly. A scream stutters in your throat, stopped by another swat to your clit. He inhales with each hit before breathing out slowly, his eyes trained on your hole taking in his fingers deeper and deeper and deeper. You writhe and push, “Ah, hah! I’m . . . I’m-”
When his fingers curl, you fall apart.
His mouth dives back in and anchors, catching each tendril of slick, licking into your entrance as he fingers you roughly, quickly. You groan as his knuckles drag through your tight walls, each pull eliciting a lewd squelch that makes you clench with shame. He takes your pulsing as a sign of pleasure, murmuring into your thigh, “So dirty. Fucking filthy.”
Your cheeks color as your body goes slack and once more, your joints lock as your orgasm washes over you. This time, it’s harder and faster, muddling your brain with lust and satiety. There are no clear words in your head, no coherent thoughts whatsoever. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth as you gasp and twitch, “Mmh, plea- ugh!”
“Shut up, don’t speak,” he seethes, letting your hips fall and rolling over your body. He grips your hair near the scalp and pulls enough to make the tension hurt before spitting straight down. His slick-tainted saliva darts onto your cheek, sharp and direct, and you shiver as it slides down in a sticky trail. It smells like distinctly like sex, like him and you, but you’re not sure if that’s just the scent in the room that’s wafting between your bodies. He senses it too, pausing for a moment to catch your gaze and assess your state.
And then he continues. He sits you up as he undoes his buckle with a hand, and your eyes widen in alarm as you hear the clinking of metal, “A-are you going to . . . are you-”
“Fuck you?” He raises a brow. “Want me to fuck you? Hm?” You cringe at his condescension, shaking your head, but he clicks his tongue and shoves his pants down enough for the tent in his boxers to fully show. His bulge is prominent and restrained, locked to his thigh and ready. He watches your reaction without showing any emotion of his own, and leans back as he kneels, “I don’t care what you say. This is what you agreed to, this is what you proposed to me.” The words are acid in your ears, burning and corroding your skin in deep circles. You move to clutch your body, but he’s upon you with his cock, flushed and hung and present. His hand reaches for your cheeks, pressing them together until your eyes open with alarm and your mouth drops on reflex.
He keeps you there with his tight grip as he teases your lips with his cock, “You bite, I’ll kill you.”
You know he means it. As cold sweat rolls down your spine, you relax your jaw and let him slide in. He swirls his tip along your cheeks, bitter and deep with the taste of pre-cum. His head is puffy yet firm, and you feel it twitch with each press of your tongue. His hips move languidly and when you close your lips, he cups your face in his palms almost gently and starts pushing further, “Ah, yeah. Wet my cock, just like that.”
It never goes in all the way. After a moment, he stills you and pulls away. His hands push at your shoulders and you fall back breathlessly as he settles his body above yours. Your eyes are heavy and hazy, your chest is heaving hard, and there’s not a second to protest when he grabs your thighs, pulls you forward, and pushes your knees back, back, back to your chest. The tension in your hips, the glint in the Fatui’s mystic eyes . . . the hot, slick prod of his cock pushing against your pussy.
“Ah- wait, wait, no, sir-!” You’re interrupted by the quick slide into your folds, lubricated from your saliva on him and his all over you. He lets out a deep huff as he slots his cock entirely in yours — a sound that stirs your stomach and tingles your skin — and watches the way you widen to accommodate his position. You’re too scared to cling onto him, so you instead flatten your palms to the floor and try to breathe evenly to edge out the soreness.
He does not care.
As soon as his eyes shift to yours, those stomach-churning cherry browns, he draws back and thrusts in again. It’s harsh: there’s more intent behind the snap of his hips. Steadily, he pistons back and forth, sure to stretch your pussy out more and more as he goes. Your eyes start to burn, your inhales stutter more and more until you’re gasping and arching, “Ooh, slower, sl-ngh! Ah!”
“Take it, baby,” he says, and you clench at the words. “You’re made for this, you wanted this.” His teeth grit as he leans forward, one hand flying to your throat as the other lands on your cheek with a deep smack. God. You can feel your toes spazzing as pain explodes over your face in pulsing bursts. It’s muted by the tightness of his grip on your neck but only barely, and in the midst of it all, he fucks you hard enough that he hits the curve of your cunt there.
You don’t register your orgasm. It’s impossible to when your brain is buzzing with alarm, a constant warning that this is wrong, that you don’t want this. But there is no other choice for you, not anymore, and it is far too late to back out now. You flutter on his cock with an intensity you’ve never felt, and he responds with a grunt and soft words of affirmation as he watches you. His fingers skate up your face to your hair, cupping your head, bringing you up, and catching your lips between his teeth. You can taste him and you and pleasure, but it all feels sour.
“I’m gonna- ugh, cum,” he whispers between kisses. All you can do is nod — your pussy is already aching from too many sensations, too many peaks. He moves faster and faster until the room is just a mix of rapid slaps of skin on skin and staccato moans and fuck, there’s that rising pit in your stomach from his cock filling you so, so well. In a thoughtless action, you grab at his shirt as you whine and grow taut, as he shoves into you and stops and spills. The feeling of his cum, sticky and hot, is exciting. And yet, you hate it. So, so much.
The Agent doesn’t move for a while. At least, it feels like a while, but you’re not sure how to tell. It’s dark out, the sunset no longer extending its brilliant rays through the sky. The streets are still bustling with merchants and vendors wrestling for their last-minute preparations before the week’s end. You should be out there, not gasping and covering your tear-streaked cheeks with the back of your arm as he pulls out and steadies himself. Something warm traces the edge of your pussy, playing with the excess fluid seeping out of you, and it takes you a second to focus your eyes on your body. He sits up and crawls over you again, using a thumb to prop your jaw open before spitting white into your mouth.
Bitter. You cringe and swallow.
“Where’s your bathroom?” His voice is rougher, a post-coital rumble that makes your heart roll, and you point your head weakly to the corner. He stands, disappears momentarily, and returns with a damp towel that he tosses towards you. You sigh as the warm fabric soaks your skin, and you can feel your legs relax. He sees it too and looks at you strangely, “I’ll be back tomorrow as per our agreement. You have no complaints, right?”
You stay silent. What are you supposed to say?
“It doesn’t matter. If you don’t keep your word, you know what will happen. I am not a kind person.” He steps towards you before freezing, frowning, and turning to the door, “I won’t be as accommodating next time.”