!! NO SPOILERS for snezhnaya; written before it's release 𓏵 after completing the snezhnayan archon quest, i faintly recalled that i wrote a short drabble for childe back in 2023 (woah). i went searching for it and realized it's a lot better than i remembered it to be, so i figured i might end up sharing it !!
ᯓ w.c : 0.8k
ᯓ warnings: mentions of injuries, nothing graphic; implied relationship? first kiss? idk what was going through my mind when i wrote it three whole ass years ago (DAMN)
ᯓ pairing: childe x gender-neutral reader
ᯓ final note: i never posted on tumblr, i hope the formatting is right i'm going based off of memory LMAOO
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Childe flinched as you dabbed the cut on his cheek with an alcohol-soaked rag. Your movements paused before he urged you to continue with a small, absent-minded hum and a minor nod of his head. With narrowed eyes and the precision of a nurse – or rather, someone who was not a stranger to such routine – you continued to clean his cut. The fireplace crackled, the grandfather clock ticked. The carpet was warm underneath you both, warm fur tickling at bare ankles as medical instruments lay scattered around you like flowers in a meadow.
Times like these were not unfamiliar to you nor the Harbinger, who came home bruised more often than you’d like. While he was more than capable of coming out of battle uninjured, the adrenaline rush from a weapon that came too close, a cut that was near fatal, was almost addictive to him. That's not to say he was careless, no. In battle, the 11th of the Fatui Harbingers always had an advantage; like a child playing with its food, like a predator taunting its prey, he let his opponent get a taste of short-lived victory with a single cut of skin like a temptation; a drop of honey on the tongue, a promise of success.
‘It makes them lower their guard.’ He told you once, one of the very first times he came to you with his injuries, ‘Makes them confident, too confident.’ He said, with a wave of his hand. You never understood — perhaps it was something you weren’t meant to understand. Maybe it was something learnt from the abyss, where opponents weren’t human enough to question what intentions lay behind a white flag.
You cup his left cheek, tilting his head to the side for a better view of the cut on the right. The steps that came to you like a second nature were once directed by Childe, passed down, first-hand experience from the one who once licked his own wounds until he could come out of hiding without a poorly-worn mask to disguise how the cuts and bruises burned on freckled skin.
“You've been oddly quiet.” He mutters, hollow, blue eyes flicking down to look at you. His voice is soft and hushed, it could’ve been easily mistaken for the blowing wind against your window. His hand reaches to engulf yours, the one that cups his cheek, fingers intertwining as he moves his head to press a small kiss against your palm.
“I've been focusing on your wounds.” You tell him, almost scolding, watching as he leans in slightly. His chest is bare, aside from loosely wrapped bandages that preserve little dignity as they wrap around his midsection. You can feel the heat rising to your face, and you settle an unoccupied hand on his shoulder in an attempt to put some space between you both – preserving your dignity.
“Focus on me instead.” He says, huffing and puffing like an attention-seeking child (truly living up to his title), hand lowering to grab your wrist instead, ignoring the way the bandages on his arms and wrists begin to loosen and fall with every small movement.
“I am.” You reply, hand escaping his grasp and rising to push back the ginger hair that began to cover his eyes. You press a fleeting kiss to his cheek before pulling away and looking him over, assessing his wounds. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine now.” Childe replies with ease, almost enough to fool you into thinking he’s telling the truth. He lowers his head, like a dog wanting to be pet. Who are you to deny him? Your hands brush against the ginger mop of hair, letting Childe slowly sink into you until he’s practically using you as a pillow, with his head on your shoulder and his arms wrapped loosely around your waist.
“Aren't you too comfortable?” You tease, your hands trailing to his bare back. Fingers running along his spine, the soft bumps of scars and minor burns underneath your fingertips. Childe shivers, humming into your shoulder and pressing a kiss there. He straightens slightly in his resting position, pressing a kiss to your neck before you come face to face with him.
He stays silent, eyes half-open and drowsy, sleep creeping into his movements.
Childe comes closer until your breaths become one, lips brushing against yours, a quick fleeting moment comes with a promise of more and — oh, perhaps you can understand, to an extent, the temptation that dooms his opponents. When his lips brush against yours, a promise of something that can happen, the taste of success — a want needing to be fulfilled, a victory to be achieved.
Your thoughts are given away as your face heats and eyes widen. His smirk is small, but it's annoyingly smug, even in his half-asleep state he seems to be enjoying this little game he created. Though unlike with his opponents, he won't give you the sweet taste of victory just to take it from you.
And so, he leans in closer once again. Your eyes close as his lips press against yours. His lips are dry, a bit cracked, but nothing that doesn't make him or the experience more enchanting. Your hands sneak around his neck, pulling him closer.
Besides the crackling fireplace and the ticking grandfather clock, on the warm carpet with medical supplies that surrounded you like flowers in a meadow, you let yourself get lost in Childe and the promise of more.
