#and a deep deep fear of people around him starving to death

[stainedglass-sketchbook]

This is so funny to me bc this is about my tav who is very much not the dark urge! just a bit of a freak

[chimielie]

girlfriend

summary: Iwaizumi x F!Reader. you might be his girlfriend—but she's his girl.

word count: 2.4k

cw: hurt/comfort. a lot of reader insecurity. fear/mention of emotional cheating but there is none

a/n: this actually fills @akimind's request for my 500 follower event one million years ago but the formatting is tooo hard so. here it is!!! iwaizumi + angst + college au + "that's not what i said." LOVE YOU SORRY HOPE IT HURTS AND IS ALSO ENJOYABLE. <<<<3333333

You didn't mean to fall in love with your boyfriend.

You hadn't gone into this expecting Hajime to become your boyfriend at all, actually. You liked him. Liked how easy it was to be with him. How warm he was when you let your touch linger on him and pretended it was more than a flirty friendship. You hadn't ever predicted it would become so, because Hajime was hung up on his ex-girlfriend.

They'd traveled over oceans to be together, coming to Irvine from the same prefecture in Japan. They had still been together when you met him, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around her waist. Your first thought was "oh, he's beautiful." Your second thought was "they look like they're made for each other." You shoved the first thought deep inside a secret crevice of your brain and stuck out your hand to introduce yourself with a bright smile.

The strain of new adulthood got to them, though, or so you assumed: you were never privy to the gory details of the breakup. They remained friendly, in the same friend group, and it just always seemed obvious to you that they would someday reconcile. It wasn't until two years after their break that you were able to start showing regular, platonic affection to Hajime without feeling like an attempted homewrecker.

It was just before graduation, having dragged him away for a late-night bite to eat so neither of you would starve to death studying for finals, when everything flipped on its head. Your plan to energize the both of you had backfired; you were yawning every other sentence and came close to laying your head on the table before Hajime put his palm down in front of your face.

"Come sit next to me," he'd said, so you maneuvered around into his side of the booth and been promptly pulled into his side. You had looked up at him, murmuring a sleepy question that was more wordless noise than actual English, and that was it. Something you didn't understand softened his gaze, and then he tilted his head to the side and brushed his lips over yours.

It was a perfect first kiss.

In the weeks following it, you had bounced violently between insisting to yourself that he hadn't meant for you to read too far into the kiss and your natural instinct to go after what your heart wanted. And the more he proved that it wasn't a one-off anomaly, that he could kiss you right out of drought into a superbloom, the more you were convinced. Iwaizumi Hajime wouldn't knowingly break your heart.

When Hajime asked you to be official, wildflower bouquet in hand, the lights of the now-empty graduation pavilion shining down on the both of you, you said yes, your whole heart and none of your brain in the matter.

As you entered your apartment hand-in-hand with him, greeting all the friends who had gathered there to celebrate the end of undergraduate school, you remembered that the key modifier in "Iwaizumi Hajime wouldn't knowingly break your heart" was knowingly. He seemed happy enough announcing the development to everyone else, and then she had walked in, carrying a bottle of wine that almost slipped from her grasp when she saw your proximity. He had dropped your hand—just for a second, but it had happened, and then picked it back up like his sentence hadn't died in his mouth at the sight of her.

He'd always gotten a little defensive when people mentioned their relationship, his features shutting down into a blank, tight expression. Though they obviously weren't as close as they had been for most of their lives, they were still both part of your friend group, and he always seemed to laugh just a little harder at her jokes, kept eye contact a little longer, got embarrassed more easily around her. You didn't want to be jealous or insecure or possessive, but it just felt more increasingly obvious that you were a rebound, a cheap, temporary dupe meant to fill in until Hajime realized and returned to the love of his life.

It was hard to be angry at him, though, because you knew with every fiber of your bleeding heart that he wouldn't do this to you on purpose. You knew he thought he cared for you, that he thought he had moved on. He did a good job almost every day coming very close to persuading you of it, enough to keep you from breaking up with him and leaving him behind, but never quite erasing your insecurities for more than a few weeks at a time.

One of the first mornings you woke up in his bed, well rested and sore in all the right places, he was missing. You got up, mourning the softness of his sheets and the scent of him on the pillowcases, and slipped into one of his shirts before leaving his room to explore.

He was cooking, shirtless in the kitchen, and if that wasn't one of the yummiest things you had seen in your life.

"Good morning," you said, leaning against his counter.

"Very," he returned, flipping an egg in the pan. "Looking like that. I think—I mean, it seems like that shirt always gets chosen to be the boyfriend shirt." He had narrowly avoided saying her name, but you had heard it threatening to tumble out of his mouth. You bit back a response, but your smile still dropped, and he spent the next hour making allusive, sorry overtures without either of you actually acknowledging the slip.

You never wore that shirt again. He gave you another one, you accepted it, and life moved on.

Except you had somehow become mired in the past with a relationship that was long over, and without university or a job to distract you—you were starting at the end of September, which felt aeons away—it was eating you alive, especially as Hajime left for a preliminary return trip to Japan.

"Did you hear how Mattsun and Makki greeted him when he landed?" You sit in the car on the way to the airport, packed in with Hajime's ex, successfully hyping yourself up to see him again until she addressed the group.

"Oh, yeah," you laugh. "So funny." You haven't had a conversation with Hajime that had more depth than "how are u? miss u" for the trip's duration. She's your friend, too, though you've never been close, but there's something unbearable about admitting it to her now, when you're so unsure of your relationship's current status. It has to mean something that he was keeping her updated and active in his life, didn't it?

You find solace in knowing that you don't blame her at all. If you could find an ounce of resentment for her in your heart, you would probably have left Hajime by now—isn't that the mark of a truly evil plot-pushing girlfriend?

You cry when you see him again.

"Happy tears," you assure him, and hide your face in his shoulder.

Later, alone in his apartment, you bite your lip when Hajime asks if you want to sleep over.

"Okay, babe, I don't want to pressure you," he says, and you can feel yourself tensing up as he speaks. "But I feel like you've been—off all day. Is everything okay?"

You blanch and focus on the cowlick on the right side of his head, the one that's endeared him so much to you, so you don't have to look him in the eyes. Too much is bubbling up in your throat, your brain thrown into overdrive, and he's staring at you with so much worry in his eyes it's just not right to leave him hanging:

"No."

Hajime makes a noise you don't understand, low in his throat. "Is it because I didn't call enough while I was gone? Because I can explain that, I promise."

"No," you rush to explain. "I don't—it wasn't you, exactly. I've just—ever since we started dating—I think you still love her."

You're picking at your nails, a bad habit you've had since you were small, and he takes your hands in his, smooths his thumbs over the torn cuticles.

"I don't," he says, finally, neutrally, though his face hasn't formed into the cold mask you're used to seeing when she's brought up. "Ever since we started dating?"

"Before," you admit. "I always thought you would get back together. You just seemed so made for each other."

"But we weren't," a little pucker between his eyebrows forms. "So—what did you think when we started dating?"

"When you first kissed me," you say, "I thought maybe it was a one-off. That you wanted something casual. And then it got more serious, and I thought maybe I could just suppress my insecurities until they went away, and I mean, I really thought you liked me."

"I do," his voice grows more agitated, his lips thinning out.

"Yeah, but..." You trail off. "You would do things that made me think, oh, he's just the perfect guy, they just looked so amazing because I was jealous, and then every so often I'd see you interact with her and it wasn't like how we are at all. I know the insecurity is my own fault, that's not on you, but I feel like it's holding both of us back."

"What do you mean holding us back? You don't think you make me happy?" He snaps, and you wince.

"Not like you are with her! Every time she comes in the room you get this look on your face, like you're speechless. Like-like the songs, Haji, I just..."

He lets go of your hands, crosses his arms.

"Do you really think I'd do that to you?"

"No, Haji, I know you'd never cheat. That's why I fell in love with you! You're a good guy, but I don't want you to wake up one day and break both our hearts because she's meant to be your girl and I'm just your fucking girlfriend." Your eyes sting, your chest heaving by the end of the sentence.

"You love me?" He's quieter now, giving you a little more space to breathe.

"What? That's not what I said."

"Yes, it is," he says, a little smile growing at the corners of his mouth, as though he can't control it. "You love me."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand why you're focusing on that," you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. "It's true, I just don't get it."

"Because you make me happier than she ever did," he promises, crowding you up against the counter and motioning for you to jump up to sit on top of it after you can go no further. "I'm weird when she's around because she's my ex, sure, but not because I still want her. It... ended badly. It's a miracle we didn't pull the entire friend group into it, and I never wanted to make her look bad to them, so I'm always trying really hard to look, uh, normal around her. We're on better terms now, but I haven't wanted her in years, honey."

"She knew about what you were doing when I didn't," you mumble, feeling small in the stormy release of emotions. "And she knows so much about you I don't in general."

"We grew up together," Hajime reminds you. "It would have been one of the guys. I know I didn't tell her anything. You can check my call history, my texts."

You shake your head. "I believe you."

"Really?" He arches a brow, and you laugh and push gently at his shoulder.

"Yes, really."

"You know how long I had a crush on you before I did anything about it? I thought you weren't interested, and then you finally started being even more affectionate with me than you were with our other friends, and I took the chance."

"Rookie numbers," you preen under his gaze. "I liked you... pretty much as soon as I met you. But I suppressed it 'cause I didn't want to be a homewrecker."

"You're sweet," he chuckles. "I promise, you have nothing to worry about there. I'm never gonna wake up and not be grateful to see you drooling on my bed."

"You're the worst, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah," he looks at you fondly, swiping his thumbs under your lower lashes. "You love me, though."

"Oh," your lips part. "And the not calling in Japan?"

He scrunches his nose. "I was trying not to spoil anything. I wanted to, uh, discuss it with you first, but you should know my friends and family are all waiting to embarrass me if I have to turn everything around now."

"Okay? I'll consider your dignity, but I make no promises," you tease. He drops his head to your shoulder for a moment, taking a deep breath, and you wind a hand into his hair, petting him until he straightens.

"So, you know how I have that paid internship opportunity back home?" You nod, not wanting to be reminded. You'll do it for him, but... long distance sucks. "I went to their office and turned it down. I want to go through with my doctorate."

"Oh, that's huge!" You gasp. "That's incredible, I'm so happy for you!"

"So the part that has to do with you is, um," he says, "you're planning to stay here, right?"

"Yeah," you say, "my next step is like a twenty minute commute, thankfully."

"I want to finish my schooling in the States," he tells you, "and then after that, I want to go wherever you go."

"Hajime," you start, but he puts a shaking hand on your knee, and that shuts you up.

"I love you," he says seriously. "It's like I said, okay? You make me happier than anyone else. I know you're the one for me, if you'll have me. If not, I get—"

You grab his face and smash your lips into his, and if that doesn't get the message across? You don't know what will.

[biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer]

Uhm,,,, may I ask for geo x shy reader (whatever format you want, im just starving for geo content) (´·ω·`)

Diffidence (Geo x Shy! MC/Reader)

Thank you for the ask Anon! I had fun writing this one (albeit, as someone who isn't even remotely shy, I want to apologise if the shyness part seemed inaccurate). Hope you enjoy! :D - Signed by biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer

Diffidence: modesty or shyness resulting from a lack of self-confidence.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Geo wasn’t the shy type. He never was, nor ever planned to be. Unfortunately, you were.

He never understood how someone as…dare he say…beautiful and smart as you could be so insecure of yourself. Even actively talking yourself down, trying to doll yourself up to appease the gazes of people who’d never appreciate you. Not in the way he did anyway.

When Crowe first introduced you to him, and the others, you tried asking him about Hyugo, about why he even hung out with Crowe and company; and all it took for you to become antsy was a couple seconds of intense eye-contact. Sure, he was irked by the former query, but it didn't mean he was irked by YOU.

It didn’t even register in his head at the time that someone could be as shy as you. But he wasn’t planning on letting others take advantage of it.

He’s seen first-hand how cruel other people at this school can be, and he wasn’t going to let them lay a finger on you (if someone already did, they’re dead)

Everytime someone remotely dodgy approached you, asking for a favour, or for ‘help’ with ‘something’, he’d nonchalantly drag you elsewhere, ensuring that you were again safe. That you didn't have to do anything they requested of you.

He would try to be less cold with you, especially since he was starting to become extremely somewhat fond of you. 

He would make attempts to get you to join the Archery Club, so he could see you more often assist (and subtly praise) you whenever you did well; which was always. You get the bullseye each time. He trains you well. (A bit *too* well some have noticed).

He’d 110% death-stare anyone who tried talking to you after that, didn’t matter if they seemed nice or not, they aren’t trustworthy, not like him.

If you become a target of bullies? They’ll end up hospitalised. Rumours? Person who started them will magically vanish without a trace. He doesn’t care, he’s got enough money to buy this whole city and not make a dent in his funds. The city cops love a good bribe.

Tries to slowly grow closer to you during Archery, hoping that you will warm up to him, become less antsy around him; and eventually (to his unbounding relief), you start talking.

You tell him about your interests, your likes, dislikes, worst fear, what classes you had; and he’s entranced. He doesn’t even care if he spends all day there anymore, he enjoys your voice too much. Also remembers everything you tell him. 

You start talking to him more, and all he can do is relish in the fact that he’s befriending one of the kindest, prettiest, smartest people he’s ever met.

Oh, if you like Crowe? You won’t soon enough, Geo will make sure of that. He won’t harm Crowe’s reputation or try to paint him as a monster, but expect Crowe to become way busier than usual.

Will start randomly muttering compliments to you; sometimes you hear them, to which he denies…but deep down you know he sung your praises, and it fills you with warmth; because you know he isn’t the type to lie to his friends.

“Ugh, Brittney’s so pretty.”

“Not as much as you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.” (you’re not).

Will send you a gift on your birthday, Valentine’s Day (he’ll make an exception to hating it if it means seeing you happy), Halloween, Christmas, he doesn’t care. Any occasion to give you something is a good one.

Will ask you out…eventually…maybe in a few decades (jkjk)

But when he does, his stoic face will crack, possibly for the first time ever, and he’ll smile. (You can’t handle it he’s too beautiful)

Will ensure you know how highly he thinks of you every single day, along with letting you be the only person to hold his hand.

Will treasure you. Will tell you secrets after a while, will remind you that you can say how you feel around him, and you better start believing it.

As long as you’re comfortable, safe and happy around him, he's content.

[eldritch-spouse]

okay so odd-ball thought abt the zombie asks floating around;

santi and his lil obsession get separated, he’s absolutely GEEKED out, already stressed and fatigued, so he’s kinda reverting back to his OLD old snappy self.

a few weeks of this happening and he’s reached his peak, just a complete douche and asshat when patches (i’m assuming if the Clergy gang were all together when it happened they stayed together cause numbers=safety most of the time) runs up and has this fucking lump in his arms covered with a blanket— santi instantly smelled his lil lover and damn near rips patches’ arms off to get to her and just kinda stands there holding her and purring or smth

then they fuck cause yeah it’s santi and he’s a mix of absolutely starved and carnally obsessed with this sudden reunion with his lover.

(i love zombie aus. sorry if this doesn’t match his personality or traits, i’m severely tired but i HAD to blurb about this for a hot second-)

TW: Noncon moment.

It's not unlikely that he'll revert back to that mindset. After all, it's almost like his younger days in the Rings, always looking out for himself and trusting no one.

He might become worse, actually, since there's so little people out there who retain their intelligence and social norms. Santi doesn't have to be constantly checking himself and acting in ways that purposely charm others around him. There's no one to charm, no one to seduce, therefore he doesn't need to exert energy in thinking of tactics and lines and what kind of expressions he should make. Overtime, those mannerisms fade and he becomes a more raw, brute version of what an incubus truly is deep down. A predator looking to fuck the energy out of you so it can sustain itself.

His coworkers don't make a big deal out of it, they've known Santi for a long while, especially Grimbly, and they know how he gets when in a truly foul mood. They've seen him devoid of charming mannerisms. They don't care for his tantrums, but there have been instances where Santi simply picks fights with them just to prove something to himself he can't even understand, just to take his mind off things, because it's easier to brawl and sexually harass someone than to admit that he needs help. That he's broken and sees no real reason to exist anymore except to remember you.

In this state, Santi has no qualms being incredibly sadistic and hunting down anything he considers worth the effort, hurting them as the brute acts necessary for his feeding unfurl. They're not even people, these walking husks... And the survivors he does find, they'd rather try to kill him, so they're not any better than the zombies are they? They don't deserve an inch of his mercy, so they can squirm themselves to death on the incubus' cock for all he cares.

When he gets you back, as surprising as it is that he even got you back at all after basically mourning your loss and spiraling into the worst version of himself... Santi doesn't know what to do with himself. It's like being hit with a brick to the face. And he realizes what a cunt he is.

You won't love him like that.

It's been so long, he can barely crack the same smile he used to for you. His claws are way too big, his body's covered in scuff marks from willingly getting into dangerous altercations. Santi forgot half the charm he used to have, and the remnants he's trying to put back on are forced. Unnatural.

When you wake up in his arms, it's all the demon can do not to blubber like a fucking baby. He doesn't speak too much initially because aside from "I'm so glad I found you again.", he's probably going to spit something tasteless and ruin the moment.

Santi finds himself unintentionally being brutish to you, snapping, speaking too roughly, grabbing you hard, subconsciously treating you the same way he would his prey. He sees the fear in your eyes and instantly freezes, realizing he's a danger to you and not recovering fast enough to avoid damaging the relationship.

The others around him, the ones that can still stand him, try to offer Santi advice and comfort him when he distances himself from your hurt self.

It all culminates in an intimate moment where Santi stops listening to you and just takes. You tell him to slow down, and he doesn't. It's a few minutes of him being a senseless rutting beast until he hears you sobbing. Not the pleasured sobbing of someone who has orgasmed too many times, the sobs and cries of someone who is in pain and scared.

You're the last person he wants to hurt, and Santi just wounded you in the worst way he possibly could.

After that, the incubus comes clean about what happened to him, who he was in his past, what happened when he thought he had lost you forever. And more than that, as much as he hates to do it, Santi gives up most control of things to you while he works to restore the incubus you fell in love with.

Because if you considered leaving him now, he would probably never recover at all.

[phyrestartr]

The Starved King [Miguel x M!Reader]

(King!Miguel x Knight!Reader)

Note: Just a drabble that I want to throw out into the universe while I consider how to continue it lol I like the idea, I just don't want to dwell on it too much and get stuck in analysis paralysis 🫠 lmk if you'd like to see me continue this!!

Miguel found you. Amidst the plethora of flashy royals, he somehow managed to pick you out of the crowd–that handsome face, a fox-like smile, dragon-fire eyes all rang true in his memories of dying and bleeding on the battlefield until a young knight from a cursed kingdom chose to spare him instead of spear. 

Memories curled around him in the same way your fingers once did, buzzing with something rich and sinful that'd mend his wounds over the coming weeks left in that war-wrecked cottage. Miguel, the enemy king, was so close to death, yet you, injured and exhausted yourself, kept him breathing.

“Why do this?” Miguel asked one night while you busied with the fire, working whatever magics you had to make the flame dance. 

“Why do what?” You wondered, not looking away from the glow. 

“Keep me alive.” Miguel coughed and winced. Still, he forced himself to sit, and earned the sharp snap of your gaze on him. 

“You shouldn't–”

“I'll keep what dignity I have left,” Miguel scoffed. Then, sitting back against the wall, he got a good look at you; it seemed you’d run into some trouble with a knife, so suggested the long streaks of red tearing across your young face. A sword would have taken your head clean off. You wore typical armour of a knight from your kingdom, yet the flash of a muddied brooch caught his attention a moment before you looked away from him and back at the fire. 

“Where are you from?” The tired king asked. 

“Does it matter where I hail from? Right now, we’re two men simply trying to survive, yes?” You jabbed at the fire with a half-burnt stick. “I’m not interested in being a king-killer, so you needn’t worry; in fact, be glad it was I who found you and not one of my beastly brothers. They’d have had your head strapped to their horse in a second.” Your accent was foreign, not one that he could say was even a bit familiar. It struck his nerves as much as it piqued his interest further. 

“Then you come from a damned kingdom.” 

“A rightfully damned one, yes. Small. Unremarkable. Yet still hated, or perhaps just feared.”

“Most wouldn’t say that about their home.” Miguel adjusted his posture and took a moment to take a look at his wounds: bandaged torso, splinted leg, a splinted arm. Fantastic. “Unless you despise your people.”

“Oh please, I don’t despise my people,” you spat, eyes growing fierce and venomous. “They’re just people. Peasants. Workers. The poor, the hungry, the needy–the people are subjected to the idiocy of greedy elders and mislead ways. The queen wants to change things, and yet–” You took a deep breath and rubbed your face. “And yet things cannot change as they are. More time is needed. Until then, we participate in useless battles with your ilk. To, what, prove something? To show our might?”

“Killing a king would turn the tide,” Miguel said. He really shouldn’t have. That one statement might have changed your mind, might have ended his life and shirked the responsibility of a kingdom to his daughter. 

“Do you want me to kill you?”

“No, I–”

“Then shut up. Your blabbering isn’t useful.” 

“I just–if your kingdom is in such a state, then why–”

“I don’t want to.” 

Ah. 

“Kill-shy?” Miguel asked with a slight smirk. “Doesn’t seem very righteous of you.” 

“Excuse me?” Your face, suddenly animated and brimming with heat, turned to him again. You moved closer, half-crawling, half-scooting on the dusty stone floor to his bedside. “Look at you. You should be glad I’m more interested in healing than I am killing, you prick.” You sat up on your knees and leaned into his space. Miguel’s mind swirled in a way it used to when a pretty woman leaned into him during his courting days.

“I still don’t see a point in mercy,” Miguel whispered, his voice caught between his mouth and his heart. 

“Because I’m gifted. An asset. A good pick for an ally.” You tilted your head and gazed up at the older man through your lashes. Your hand, bare, pressed against Miguel’s skin, smoothing over the gauze wrapping around his chest. “Perhaps once I’ve secured my place as king myself, you’ll remember me, and what I can do for you.” 

What I can do for you. Ah. That sent blood rushing south and ideas flooding north. 

Miguel’s hand grasped one of your wrists, and he too leaned in the slightest bit. “And what is it you can do for me, exactly?”

“Everything,” you whispered. “Anything.” 

A wave of warmth pulsed through his chest, radiating from your palm. It came in one wave, but so suddenly like an explosion easing into the steady comfort of his chamber hearth, glowing quietly throughout the night. The stiff warnings in his chest melted and eased, and suddenly, he could move freely again. His arm and leg still ached terribly, but his chest seemed to have been…healed? 

“Magic,” he breathed. 

“Magic,” you whispered.

He closed the gap and kissed you. You whimpered something soft and sweet into his mouth as he took the lead, his one good hand digging into the space connecting your neck to your shoulder, not allowing you to run away. But he learned quickly you’d no desire to leave with how you clambered onto the bed and shed just enough of your clothes to take him. 

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Executioner | Renaissance AU

Summary: Natasha is the king’s executioner. What plot? Just smut.

Natasha x f!reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Read at your own risk, panties definitely came off in this one, beheadings.

Masterlist

You knew you shouldn’t have been in that tavern after curfew. Some of the local women whispered about meeting to discuss steps to improve living conditions in your village. You thought it was worth trying. The king had no intentions on helping the starving women and children. The draft had taken every able bodied man, leaving your people devastated. None of you expected the kings men to burst in. You wouldn’t have gone if you knew what you’d be charged with.

You can’t see anything as burlap sack was roughly crammed onto your head. Desensitization wasn’t a new tactic, pigs for slaughter were treated this way. If you can’t see how close death is, you’re less likely to freak out. You stood there shackled to a girl on both sides of you, shaking in fear, using your last moments to pray. If you tilted your head just right you could see out of the bottom of the sack. A pool of red creeps towards your toes, and you hear the swing of a blade yet again. The only thing louder at the moment is the scream of the girl ahead of you, she knows she’s next. Your arm is jerked forward as the shackle is unlocked, separating you from the crying girl.

You close your eyes as you begin to pray, what king would do this to his people? You didn’t do anything wrong, the village only wants food and clothes for the winter. You knew why he didn’t favor your village; you didn’t export any goods. No crops, linen, or cattle were given to the castle. The women needed everything just to keep their children and elderly alive.

The blade makes contact with the wooden bench yet again, and you begin to shake. You won’t cry, you won’t let them have the satisfaction. They can take your life but they can’t have your soul. You had no reaction as the sack was pulled from your head. Your eyes squint to adjust to the sun. Standing in front of you is a tall man, so broad he shields you from the crowd of onlookers. He starts fiddling with your shackle and you look around him, seeing that you’re on a high wooden platform in the middle of the capital. Hundreds of subjects crowded around, waiting for the next beheading.

You catch a glimpse of red hair behind the man, but he jerks you forward before you can get a better look. You pad forward, and the crowds chatter becomes clearer “treasonous bitch!” “Witch” “this will teach you!” ”long live King Stark!”. You couldn’t help but to laugh out loud. They really thought the king cared for them. They could be on this chopping block next, they’re too deluded to see it. You start giggling louder, and louder and it draws the attention of the red haired woman.

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” You tilt your head to the side and see a short woman, black robes covering her, a large hood pulled halfway up. “I am being prosecuted for being a woman. This is already harder than it has to be.”. How sick, the king making a woman execute other women. You looked into her eyes, knowing they’d be the last thing you ever saw. She was beautiful beyond measure, fair skin, full lips and large green eyes stared back at you. The woman is frozen in place, never having had a stand off with a person she was about to execute. You lean down, the blood of the innocent girl tickled your cheek. Closing your eyes you inhale the scent of rust and mud. Taking a deep breath you wait for your execution, unwavering.

It never comes, a loud explosion shakes town square. You’re thrown from the chopping block, landing on the hard dirt. Screams erupt and you feel feet trample over you. A large man steps right on the hand balancing you, causing you to scream out in pain. You coddle your sore fingers like a cat licking its wounds. You crawl under the wooden structure used as a stage. Hiding from the crowd who were willingly going to chop your head off moments earlier. You look up between the cracks and see the red head woman scanning the crowd, searching for you. “Tell the kings guard she’s gone. The explosion gave her cover for escape.” She whispers to a man in all metal armor.

The crowd has finally dispersed and all you can hear is the dripping of blood, the woman’s deep sighs as she paces the platform above you. You’re too scared to make a sound, knowing your cover could be blown at any moment. You feel a tickle at the edge of your hairline, you quickly swipe at what’s bothering you. A spider crawls up your hand causing you to wince, shaking it off. Your eyes dart upward, in hopes she didn’t notice. Except you can’t see her anywhere between the cracks. You lean forward to get a better advantage point and still, the platform is void of any person. Sitting back down on your feet you take a deep breath, maybe you’re finally in the clear.

A blade is pressed to your neck before you can exhale. A hand snakes its way around your waist, traveling upward along your front, securing your arm and neck in a tight lock. “Thought you could escape?” She breathes in your ear. Your heartbeat fastens, “Please, you don’t understand, I’m innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong.” You plead as she tightens her grip on you. “That’s what they all say. But not everyone was found gathered under a full moon, whispering about a kings downfall.” You furrow your brow, full moon? You’d never gathered with anyone under a full moon, you were no witch.

She pushes you forward, your face hitting the ground, billowing up a cloud of dirt. “You’re mistaken miss, we met to discuss rations, create a plan on how to survive the winter, I would never knowingly gather under a full moon.” You wiggle as she straddles your ass, pushing against her as she shackles your hands behind your back. “I thought I was being executed for conspiracy not witchcraft.” You writhe more underneath her, grasping her wrist, you hold her there as you plead for her mercy. “Please, I am not what you think. I’ll go far away, you’ll never see or hear of me again. I’ll never return. I swear it upon the Lord.”

The woman stares at her wrist in your hand. Your words completely muffled to her. She looks at your rode up gown, lace garters around each of your legs. She pulls herself away, kneeling beside you. You start shaking in fear of what is to come next. She places a hand on the back of your thigh, slowly feeling her way to between your legs. “If you want me to let you go free, you’re going to have to earn it, witch.” The woman laughs to herself. You squeeze your eyes shut as you realize what she means. “What do you want from me?” You cry out. The woman flips you over onto your back, she leans down looking you right in the eye.

“Make it worth my while, and I’ll escort you to the city limits myself.” She smirked on top of you. You look into her eyes, she was too beautiful to be this wicked. Something happened to make her this way, you’d never know. Your survival instincts kicked in before you could protest. Pressing your lips to hers you eagerly run your tongue against her bottom lip. She takes the opportunity to feel your breast, massaging them behind thick dress linen. You pull away as a strange feeling builds inside of you, you’d never been with a woman so you didn’t think you’d get anything out of this. But the feeling of her hands on you, ignited a flame deep inside, causing a throb to wreck your clit.

“You like that?” She asks with hooded eyes, pinching your nipples in the process. You sharply gasp, the feeling of wetness pooling between your thighs. Your back arches off the ground as she slips her hand under your dress, the feeling of her hand on your bare skin, burning. She feels her way up to your right nipple, pinching it unbearably hard, you yelp. “Answer me, witch.” She says. “Yes, ms?”

“Natasha, not that it matters.”.

Natasha lifts herself to her knees, looking down at you, your dress pulled up, thrown over your shoulder as your chest is exposed. “So pathetic, begging to run away like that. So small underneath this thick fabric,” she places a finger on your navel, drawing a line down, running it between the folds surrounding your clit; stopping when the tip of her finger slips inside of you. “So wet, and I’ve barely touched you”.

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, you couldn’t help it as she gently stroked her finger in and out of you. You raise your hips off the ground practically begging for more, “Please Natasha, I’ll do anything, just uncuff me.”. The red head throws her head back laughing while she adds another digit, going deeper than before “I don’t need to do that to get what I want.” You press your head into the ground as you adjust to her thick fingers, the burning stretch and the slow pace causing your legs to shake, a wet soothing feeling stopped the shaking as soon as it began, you looked down to see Natasha staring up at you, her tongue moving in slow circles around your clit. “Don’t stop.” You plead.

As if she was getting off on torturing you, she stopped instantly, pulling her hand from you. “I don’t want you getting the wrong idea,” Natasha says, pulling her black robe over her head. “This isn’t for your pleasure, it’s for mine.” She says, freeing the ties around her waist. Her undercoat falls down, exposing a hairless pussy. She throws one leg over your waist, diagonally straddling you. “I had to make you want it, no one wants to ride a sleeping bull.”. She spreads her lips, pressing herself into you, the feeling completely foreign, everything she’d done up till now, a man already had the privilege of doing before.

Natasha rolls her hips, perfectly gliding against your clit. It felt like a warm kiss, wet and desperate. You whine, wishing you could touch her, hold onto something for leverage. You couldn’t move as she fucked you, you’re completely helpless besides being able to wrap a leg around her waist. It did nothing to move you, it only made her grind harder against you.

A strangled moan leaves your lips as she starts rocking against you with a new pace, it was gonna make you cum if she kept going. A rubber band inside of you was being stretched past its limit and was about to snap back. At this point you thought, she has to be reading your mind. She slowed down, throwing her head back as she barely lifted herself, just to slam herself back down. She did this over and over again till you were sore, you needed release.

Natasha wasn’t thinking about your release as she crawled up your body, sitting on your chest. “If you make me feel real, real good. I’ll even get you to the next town, deal?” You nod your head before thinking. She quickly grabs a handful of your hair, “What did I say? Speak when spoken to, witch.” “Deal.”

She strokes your face, admiring your features before she makes a mess of them. Soft eyes search hers for answers, but nothing would prepare you for how gentle she was. Natasha lifted her hips, ghosting her center past your lips, causing you to crane your neck to reach for her. She was practically dripping into your mouth as you reached your tongue to take a practice swipe. She was so soft, like rose petals that tasted like ‘more’; you wanted more.

You tilt your chin forward latching your lips around her core, creating a suction while your rolled her clit around the tip of your tongue. “Fuck yes, keep doing that.” Natasha praises you from above. She miraculously keeps herself still, not abusing your face like she did your bottom half. You liked the way she sounded, light and raspy, searching for a breath. It kept you going while you explored her every inch. You lapped up wetness as it dripped from her hole, rimming the hole with the tip of your tongue.

Her body reacted the best to your flat tongue, licking long thick stripes over her clit. It made Natasha jerk her body forward, causing your nose to stimulate her even more. “You’re doing so good baby, just a little longer.” You couldn’t help but use the praise as fuel to keep going. The sight of Natasha writhing in pleasure makes you needy. You feverishly rub her clit as you breathe hot breath onto her.

Natasha grips your hair as she finally takes hold of the situation, she grinds her hips down, fully pressing herself on your tongue. You can’t keep up as she tries to climax. Her hips going at a pace your jaw isn’t accustomed to. You close your eyes as you feel her jerk forward, slowing herself down, she writhes on your face.

You gasp for air as she stands, throwing her robe back over her head. You lift yourself to your knees, letting gravity pull your dress down. You do nothing but await your release from the chains that bind you. You did what she asked, you just wanted to be freed, you needed no escort to the edge of town or the next village. “Please, uncuff me now, Natasha?” She gave you a pitiful look as she tied the straps to her undergarments.

“Oh honey, did you really think I was gonna let you go free?” She walked towards you, bending over to match your eye line. “You’re dead as far as the king knows, a crowd never lets a criminal get away. You just got lucky with the explosion.” Confusion clouded your brain, what was she going to do, if not turn you in? “What?” You say, knowing whatever she had in mind was better than execution.

“You’re coming home with me, witch.”

[orchid-purple]

Honestly the thing that makes Occeus and Jentha such wonderful autism representation is that the creators are not afraid to get into the horrible experiences and disadvantages that come with the condition.

For Occeus, he spends most of the comic feeling defective and like a horrible person because of his inability to understand the people around him. This severely negatively impacts his relationships, even with his girlfriend that he loves to death, because he doesn’t know how to communicate and he is painfully aware of all his failings while he continues to struggle. On top of that, other members of the cast are not kind to him because of his flaws in communication, even if they don’t fully understand what he’s dealing with, it doesn’t do him any favours.

[Image: Occeus speaking in a text confession to his girlfriend. Saying: “I’ve always felt like something was different about me. Our society is built on these strict expectations of strong feelings of mutual understanding of what we can do for others. Or what others can do for you. But I don’t understand other people, and other people don’t understand me either. So what do I have besides the capacity to work?”]

[Image: Albion criticising Occeus for his failures in communication, particularly with his girlfriend, through a video call.]

For Jentha, she grew up isolated, suppressed and rejected because the adults who were meant to care for her couldn’t handle her needs and thus never taught her how to do so either. And thus, she continues to live in fear, resentment and self-isolation in the present day because she’s terrified of the outside world and how vulnerable she has become. Mainly due to those adults eventually suppressing her power and teaching it out of her in order to make her more palatable to them and other neurotypical people, to the vast detriment of herself.

[Image: Jentha in her dimly lit bedroom surrounded by toys, being told via video call that she has no school today by her principal.]

[Image: Jentha lying in a dirty room surrounded by toys, slowly starving alone because nobody is there to care for her.]

I love a lot of autism representation but not a lot of it ever dives as deep into how detrimental it can be to a person, both from themselves and because of outside treatment, and that honestly means so much to me as a person reading that in my favourite comic. These characters reached into my soul and made me relate harder than I ever have to any other character, I love them so much.

[the-arkhamwolf]

Reverse Robins Tim Drake

I have a lot of Reverse Robin Aus so I thought it would be fun to compare the different versions of Characters in each starting with Tim

Falling in Reverse

My first ever Reverse Robins deals with Tim's many self-worth issues. In this version Tim dies due to his fear of failure.

Tim was a neglect child that felt he had to earn every thing including his place as Robin. After his Parents died he moved into Wayne manner. Damian wasn't much help making Tim feel like he didn't belong.

Things got better between them but Tim's never got over that feeling of not belonging. He never spoke out on this just worked hard to prove himself. Believing Robin was the only reason he wasn't tossed aside. So when he was benched, due to him "Not being fit to be on the feild", he took that badly and went out to prove himself. Overworked and paranoid he walked into a trap that ended his to short life.

Tim then takes a dip in the pit and wakes up cold and reserved. Ras is amazed believing that the pit had no affect on him, that was indeed far from true. The pit gave Tim a different kind of rage, a quite rage, something Ras would come to realizes was far scarier.

For a while Tim stays with the league learning and waiting. During this time Ras tries to brain wash Tim and he plays along. But the truth is Ras never had Tim under his control. When Tim is ready to leave he sets off his plan basically destroying the league. He then confronts Ras and kills him. This is Tim's first kill and while Ras doesn't stay dead (Thanks to the pit) He becomes fearful of Tim.

Tim is able to control the pit (for the most part) making it safer for those around but deadly for those he deems as a threat.

He goes back to Gotham and despite Ras best efforts Tim doesn't hate the bats and even feels relieved Bruce took another Robin. After all Tim wasn't really suppose to be Robin.

Tim blames himself for his death and thinks he has brought great shame to batman and Robin. Tim sees himself as a failure that does not deserve to rejoin the bats, this is reinforced by the pit. So he works to protect the bats doing the dirty work to keep their hands clean.

Some people deserve to die and that's where he comes in. Because Batman doesn't kill and Damian should never be put in that spot again, not after how far he has come. Tim sees himself as a necessary evil.

He actually has a great relationship with his replacement even if he didn't mean to. He works hard to make sure the kid is safe. Jason is a great kid and will never go through what Tim did. He and Damian have a complicated relationship but both still care for each other.

He gets along with Cass pretty well even if they disagree on killing. He thinks Steph is the funniest thing ever and loves to watch her annoy Damian.

Tim leads the outlaws which is him, Roy, and Rose. Tim doesn't need friends he needs to focus on his work. Roy refuses to let that happen and somehow sneaks his way into being friends without Tim realizing it.

Rose flirts with Tim at first because it always flustered him but slowly they grow to like each other.

Tim is touch starved and he is the only one that doesn't see that as a problem. He also is a workaholic so Rose and Roy have to keep an eye on him and make him take breaks.

Tim has a deep love of photography even as Red hood. It a way to connect him to his past and Robin.

(Spoiler- When he becomes a dad He leaves the role of Red Hood and becomes a new paper photographer)

Something I love about this version: Tim has deep love of Fnaf that drives everyone crazy

The Watchers

The Watchers is a much more darker take on reverse robins and the main reason is because Tim doesn't die. Watchers switching things up a bit with Tim having a good relationship with his parents. Tim is still a little sneaks out and becomes Robin.

Damian and Tim's relationship is much worse in this version. With Damian being jealous of Tim and his family. After Tim's parents die he moves in with Bruce and Damian becomes angry. (Damian is a lot more resentful due to stuff that happens to him but this is about Tim right now)

One night Damian cuts Tim line and he crashed into a building. It doesn't paralyze him but it does give him permanent back problemsAfter that Tim became stayed on for another year as Oracle, A whole year of putting up with Damian's harsh insults and mocking unable to do anything. Finally, Tim had enough, quit the hero game altogether.

He leaves Gotham only to be brought back a few years later by an un expected visitor. Batman has stepped down and Gotham is full of crime and the Court of owls is at the center of it all. There is going to be a purge on Gotham Tim hates this city but it was his home. He and this guy name Jason team up to take back Gotham.

As so as he moves back Tim started having nightmares. He doesn't get much sleep and his back is not going to let him go into the feild so He becomes SkyWatcher. The court finds out about him and sends a talon after his. Turns out it's a child (Dick Grayson). He decides he's going to bring him home and raise him. It takes a while to earn the child trust.

Tim comes across Rose and the two ends up have a relationship sort-of like batman and cat women.

Tim has a deep resentment for photography because it reminds him of Batman and robin. He also hates Damian and this gets worse when Damian takes Stephanie under his wing and makes her Robin.

Something I love about this version: Tim trying to raise a kid that is constantly trying to stab him

Falling Slowly

Falling Slowly is not exactly a Reverse robins set up as Tim is actually the oldest. While Watchers is the darkest version I think this is the saddest.

Tim parents weren't around much so he would sneak out at night to take pictures of Batman. Batman gets injured one night and Tim is forced to reveal himself to help Bruce.

After Alfred patch Bruce up he imminently takes Tim home telling him to not sneak out anymore. Of course, Tim didn't listen because someone needs to be there to help Batman when he's in trouble.

Eventually, Bruce gave up and started training him, not to fight but to protect himself. Tim started helping Bruce with cases and spent a lot of time at the cave. He was given the code name backup but he's not allowed to join in the fighting.

Everything was great until Tims's parents got killed during a robbery. Bruce took him in ahd tried to help him. Feeling guilt about his death Tim tried to go out and avenge his parents but Bruce stoped him. He made Tim his side kick hoping it would help Tim the same way Batman helped him. And it did Tim became less restless and more focused.

Tim become Cardinal but because of how tiny he is the media started calling him Robin. Tim hated this but he got tired of correcting people. While Robin Tim and another sidekick he was freinds with got attacked. Tim only got minnor injuries but the friend was nearly killed and lost the ability to walk. Tim blamed himself and started to spiral lucky someone was there to pull him out.

 After Tim graduated he moved out to go to college. He came home for the weekend to find that he had a little brother.

Tim is beyond thrilled, he always wanted a little brother. Jason was a little standoffish at first but eventually warms up to him. Tim spends his weekends training Jason and eventually passing down the mantle of Robin to Jason once he's ready.

 Tim couldn't help but blame himself because he gave Jason the suit. Tim dropped out of school and moved back to Gotham to keep an eye on Bruce. He gets a job at W.E. and becomes Redwing. Tim is in a spiral and no one seems to be able to pull him out until Selena goes a talks to her. She manages to convince to get therapy.

Therapy ends up helping Tim still has a long way to go but there's diffently an improvement.

The therapist advises him on getting a therapy dog. Tim's skeptical after all his mother had taught him dogs were fealty creatures that would chew him up.

However while working on a case he finds Ace a poor German shepherd that has been mistreated and hurt. The dog tries to tear him to pieces so He brings it him. Slow he earns Ace's trust after taming him some work he takes to a class to get him trained. Ace doesn't care for other humans or dogs but he has gotten to the point where he chooses to ignore rather then attack.

Ace complete trust Tim and Tim complete trust Him.

One day while walking in the cave he was attacked by a child assassin aka Bruce's son Damian. Damian doesn't like Tim at first but Tim keeps an eye on him because the kid is his little brother. 

 One day Damian walked up to Tim and Bruce and demanded the Robin mantel. Tim puts his foot down before Bruce could say anything reminding him of what happened to Jason.

One night Damian steals the Robin suit and sneaks out. He runs into Red hood and somehow the villain knows his every move. Luckily Tim comes to the recuse, unlucky Tim isn't prepared to deal with this.

Something I love about this version: Tim loves to skateboard and even teaches Ace how too

Brand new Au

While my first Reverse Robins has Tim having a bad live and then dying this newest one has Tim being happy then dying. Okay Tim's parents are still neglectful and he still gets a ruff start as Robin (or whatever name I use) but the rest is pretty happy.

It all starts when Damian gets shot. He's not killed but he's is paralyzed from the waste down. Damian had been Robin Tim's hero and Batman's sidekick. After getting shot he left Gotham leading to a much darker Bruce. Batman needs Robin, Tim didn't sign up for this but here his is.

Bruce is better but he and Damian still aren't talk. Tim decides to put a stop to that. Damian and Tim get off to a rocky start with Damian finding Tim annoying and aslo having an underlying resentment for the kid Tim doesn't care.

Slowly the little brats grows on him and Damian does come back to Gotham. The two become pretty close. Damian convinces Tim's Parents to let Bruce adopt him and Tim moves in.

Tim is a people pleaser so Damian makes sure no one takes advantage of him. And Tim makes sure Damian doesn't bet himself up over mistakes.

Tim effectively becomes friends with a villans daughter and takes her under his wing. Stephine trains under Tim to become the next Robin

Tim plans to leave the mental to start his own team but is to nervous to tell anyone by Damian and Stephanie.

Tim gets hurt bad on a patrol trying to help someone. Damians on the headset the entire time talking to him as Tim lays bleeding out.

Tim's death spits the family apart and cause Steph to leave. L

Tim comes back via Lazarus pit plays Ra's, destroys the Lazarus pit, leaves the league in shabbles than starts up his own team with Roy and Rose.

He can't control yhe pit messes with his head making him cold and dangerous so he stays away from the bats to protect them.

Cass is sent to kill Tim instead he takes her and trains her she in return becomes his unrequest body guard. He trys to give her as normal a life as he's can.

One big difference between this and Falling in reverse is that in FR Tim had his own run down apartment. Where as her all of the outlaws live together in an abandoned building.

Something I love about this version: Tim ands Cass's siblings dynamic I just find this adorable

Wrap up

Falling in Reverse: Ashamed Red hood in desperate need of a hug

The Watchers: Tired dad with back problems and a murderous child

Falling Slowly: Guilty older brother trying to make up for the past

Brand New Au: Scared Red hood who pushes everyone away

What character would you like to see next?

If there's you have any queston or want me to to talk more something of one of these drop it in my inbox

Also I need a name for my band new au if anyone has a suggestion

[arsontastic-fandom-takes]

It was an average day in the Devildom. (at least this version of it)

MC had shown up to the HOL and did whatever the 7 brothers needed them to, with the compulsory antics ensuing, as was customary. They were having fun, and it was all going well.

Until it wasn't.

The signs that they should rest their eyes started at around 14:16, and, like a stubborn idiot, they ignored them. The brothers would be here to take care of them, after all.

They didn't realise that they weren't in their timeline until their eyes were burning and they were rushing to their room, looking for eye drops, only to realise that it wasn't their room yet and their eyedrops were in Cocytus Hall, with Solomon.

As much as they loved the dumbass, they wouldn't trust him with this. And, while he could deal with joint pains and fatigue episodes, he couldn't deal with them constantly rubbing their eyes to try and alleviate the searing pain. He was an extremely powerful sorcerer who had even the strongest demons in his league, but he couldn't deal with people massaging their eyes. Or putting in eye drops.

Another thing about this timeline: none of the brothers trusted them yet. They're a weird demon to them, newly fallen angels, and asking them to look after them while their head hurt too much to think was downright stupid at this point in time.

As they were lamenting about their unfortunate circumstances, the door to the room opened behind them, and as soon as they heard who it was, MC knew they were fucked.

Their back still to the door, MC took a deep breath in and closed their eyes.

"What are you doing in here?" Lucifer asked, his voice threatening. One wrong move, and they'd have to deal with his anger, which, even on a good day, was unpleasant.

Heaven's sake, how do they even reply to that question without getting into trouble? They didn't think they could.

They willed themself to turn around, towards the light that was making them want to claw their eyeballs out, and open their eyes. Might as well be facing him when he kills them.

He was far away and blurry. Fuck, they weren't wearing their glasses. That's probably why the world itself seemed to hate them.

"... Well?" Dangerous. That was how they would explain this situation before them, were they asked. Even though they struggled to make out his face, it didn't take a genius to figure out he was challenging them.

He flips the light switch on, and all they can do to defend the attack against their corneas is to fall to their knees and cover their eyes, crying out. They suddenly felt very nauseous. Why does their eyes hurting always cause them to feel nauseous?

Nausea was one of the things they hated most. Naturally, behind burning pain and feeling useless. They were experiencing all three of those, but who truly cared? They'd dealt with this bullshit before and they'll probably survive, so they just have to wait it out and hope it feels better.

.....

Are their eyes getting worse, or are they just overexaggerating the problem? Either way, the backs of their eyes were feeling as if they had been dipped into molten lava and they had to keep an arm over their mouth to feel like they wouldn't puke. When was the last time they ate? Most of the food they had been able to eat didn't exist yet or weren't available in the Devildom yet, so they'd just been ignoring the growing pain in their stomach.

Oh shit. What if they starve to death?

That was unlikely, they knew, but it was still horrifying. Starving was one of the worst ways to die, other than dehydration, drowning, suffocation, and being burned alive. The thought of their stomach acid slowly eating through it's container, days worth of lacking nutrition and sustenance making their body turn against them, was causing them to hold their arm closer to their mouth, mostly in raw fear.

They was so caught up in their thoughts that they didn't notice Lucifer crouching down next to them until the feeling of a gloved hand on their head brought them out of their spiral.

They startled, opening their eyes despite the pain. He was close enough that they didn't need to be wearing their glasses to see him properly, and had concern etched onto his face, the earlier danger nowhere to be seen.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his hand returning to his side now that he'd caught their attention.

"Honestly? Not at all." They gave a humorless laugh.

"May I inquire about what's wrong?"

"Oh, just being plagued by visions. Y'know, the usual." They spoke the term they were used to. Back in their time, they had started referring to their eye problems like this to lighten their mood, and it just stuck.

Lucifer raised his eyebrow. It took them a second to realise that he hadn't encountered this yet.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. You probably don't know what I'm talking about. My eyes sometimes start burning, and I started calling it being 'plagued by visions' a few years ago."

"Ah. Burning, you say?"

"Yeah, it's usually, like, this searing pain at the backs of my eyes. Light usually makes it worse."

"Okay. Why were you in this room, though?"

Shit. They couldn't say this used to be their room. What excuse could they make to explain this? Maybe they could say half-truths?

"I thought my eye drops were in here. They weren't, though."

He eyed them suspiciously.

"Why would they be here? Last I remember, this room was off limits."

Lying to a very powerful demon wasn't that bad, right? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a dime.

"I honestly don't know."

He squinted at them. They squinted back.

After a while of staring at eachother, Lucifer spoke again.

"You said light makes it worse, correct?" A nod of confirmation. "Will you be able to walk home by yourself in this condition?"

They shrugged. "I don't know for sure, but I'll manage."

He scoffed. "If you are so willing to get away from here that you'd put your safety on the line, I don't know what to tell you. I will say that I won't permit our only attendant being run over on their way home, though."

"What do you suggest I do instead, then?"

"I suggest that you let me walk you home."

That caught them off guard. The Lucifer from their timeline never had to walk them home, but he only started walking them to their room after they became close. Maybe this was to do with Lucifer only recently having fallen. Maybe he's still used to his angel ways, as unlikely as that sounds.

Still, a part of their heart fluttered. Him showing signs of caring about what happens to them is currently akin to finding an oasis in a desert. They missed him being affectionate.

"All right. Thank you."

The walk home was nice, even if the street lights made them want to cry and it was quite silent. Lucifer was surprisingly helpful on the way, and now they were both standing at the front door of Cocytus Hall.

Mc turned around, gave a final salute to Lucifer, and then rang the doorbell before screaming. "Solomon, I know you're home already! Get your ass out of here and help your poor apprentice get into their home!"

After what seemed like a second of thought, they added; "And I swear to Diavolo that if you're anywhere near my stove, I will kick your ass."

After a minute, the door opened to reveal Solomon wearing a stain-covered apron. It was, indeed, the case that he had been cooking. "Oh, hello, dear! I thought I'd make you some dinner after your long day of work." At a murmer of "You little- I thought we agreed on you not using the kitchen?", he laughed. Then, he noticed Lucifer and raised an eyebrow.

Before he could question, Lucifer spoke up. "I was walking your, ahem, apprentice, home. I'll take my leave now."

Although the walk home for MC was pleasant, Lucifer's was full of doubts. Why had he offered to take them home? They probably could have made it themself. Also, why did he feeling so.. negative when Solomon called them 'dear'? He knew the two of them were in a relationship, it had been made apparent to him as soon as they could, but why did it irk him so?

He had paperwork to worry about, this was moronic to focus on.

________

Likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated.

[eggedbellies]

This is an anonymous comm! Thank you anon, I had a lot of fun with this :D

Title: The Answer Wordcount: 1911 Kinks: Transformation, breeding, eggpreg, cum. Synopsis: Kline is a new knight, struggling to find a way to prove his bravery - or that his ideas might be a little bit more than just thwapping a sword around. When nobody else is willing to risk facing down the Beast in the Cave of Kalash, well - he has to take a risk. Right?

The Great Cave of Kalash was an imposing sight. That was the name they had given the great beast that resided within - Kalash roughly translater to 'terroriser' in the Old Tongue, and although few actually spoke the language any more, well, the odd loan word had made it's way into common parlance. And here was one of them.

Kline could understand why the name had stuck, now. The hole in the mountainside, with it's hanging greenery and thick sharp edges, was absolutely terrifying. Let alone what lay within. No knight had been brave enough to come and fight the beast contained within the cave, despite the violence that had befallen upon all communities within the area. And that was why Kline was here, clutching the pommel of his sheathed sword, fear thrumming like fire through his veins. But he had made a promise to attempt to end the untenable slaughtering of their cattle, and so, he must go on.

The temperature dropped the moment he passed the threshold, cool and earthy scents of moss and dirt rising up to meet him. And further still, overwhelmingly, metal. As his eyes adjusted to the change, the glitter of sunlight that managed to penetrate the darkness caught on something shimmering. The foretold gold, the nest of the beast… he crept further forward, as more and more riches revealed themselves. Metal chests, goblets, crowns, jewellery, a million things more than just thick heavy coins, but of course, plenty of those too. He saw, almost a breath too late, the shadow laying atop them.

Deep black scales that hung over the hoard. A great, heavy heaving breath, and then the scuttling of scutes moving, a wing flaring up to fill the space. It wasn't just black, he realised, frozen in momentary terror - purples rose and fell over the scales, thick and strong as they were, the translucent membrane between long bone fingers, the underside of their belly, and then the great head that was now turning towards him. Just the jaw itself as long as he was tall. Immense beyond belief, and yet he had not prepared himself for the sheer beauty he now faced.

"Great Kalash!" he cried out, taking a step forward. The head jerked backwards a few feet, mouth opening, baring deep pink flesh and the deadly sharp cream points of dozens of teeth, some longer than his hand - that fear nearly made him turn and flee entirely, but he knew he must do this. Death was baring down upon him, and whilst he was breathing… Kline slipped to his knees, arms spread wide, not lifting his head just yet. If he was about to die, he didn't want to look down the creature's throat as it tore it apart. But - "I have come to you to beg your kindness! Please! My people are starving! You take our cattle, destroy our crops, and we do not wish to hurt you! But please, please! We cannot survive!" his trembling voice finally cut out. After a breath of silence, he peered up, letting the black locks of his hair fall across his eyes…

The dragon was still looking down at him. The head slowly drooped down, until he was eye to eye with theh snout. A hot gust of air rushed out of the nostrils, bathing him in a surprisingly smoky smell. "You are a strange little creature." the voice that echoed inside his head was immensely powerful, strongly feminine, and - just in his head. The mouth had not opened, and yet - he knew it was her voice. She could communicate? He hadn't truly expected anything more than being bitten in half, and yet -

"I, uh -" "But I can see a deal that would work for us…" she tilted her great head, a few feet to one side, languidly blinking heavily protected eyelids. Laughter rumbled, both in his head and an almost comedic growling effect from her sides, causing gold to skitter and move. "You have come without your weapon drawn or your compatriots. You come before me to beg compassion, from a creature many see without it. You are unique. You are … like me." she began to move, head drawing away, standing. More great sheets of metal shifted and dipped, and Kline took an urgent scuffle back, finding his feet again. His heart thumped in his throat, but he was still alive… "You would give your life for them?" she asked.

"Yes." he whispered, throat dry. Then he cleared it, spoke louder. "Yes. For their survival, without question." "Then that is what you will do. I will no longer bother these lands for their prey, although the forest remains my game." "I will accept that deal." he couldn't believe it, this had worked, this - "So be it." she looked back at him, a flash in her eyes. "You will be mine, and your life is forfeit to whatever I desire." "Oh." he whispered. That hadn't been what he expected. The heat was building in the cave, and she was sweeping back towards him, but with every step, her great form got - smaller, magic shimmering off her scales. When she finally stepped off the gold, stopping before him, his neck barely had to crane.

She was definitely bigger than a human; he would put her around ten feet. The purples had gotten brighter, the blacks deeper, standing like a person instead of a beast. Great wings and a long tail behind her, decidedly inhuman in appearance, and yet… "You fascinate me." the words came from her mouth, now, tongue shifting as if she was unsure how to control it just yet. "I have waited for a mate for a long time. Dragons are ….distant travellers. And yet none have come to me as my season approaches. But humans, with your softness…" a clawed hand trailed down his chest, over his leather armor, which began to split aside as if butter. "You have some … features. I have seen them. You divide your - your women ­and your men, correct? Like so…" she took his hands, and Kline could not find a way to respond, his chest now bare as the leather pieces flopped to the floor.

She encouraged him to rub her chest, feeling the heat, the surprisingly soft scales now she was smaller. And as he rubbed, the flesh shifted and began to fill them, growing from flat to a weighty pair of breasts, purple scutes in the middle darkening to black, and two silvery nipples. "Dragons lay eggs?" he croaked. "We can still enjoy some of your … more interesting parts." she bounced on her heels, fascinated by the jiggle, before grabbing his lapels and forcing him down. Kline found himself yelping as he fell back onto the metals below him, but nothing sharp jabbed through him. Kalash was tearing into his trousers, now, discarding the thick pieces aside like it was nothing, and whilst fear had it's hold on him, he had to admit, there was a twitching and a rising between his legs from her treatment.

A hand plunged past his head, into the pile, then drew back. In it, for a moment, he thought she held some of his torn armour, but no. It was a thick leather band, dark in colour; nestled in the very middle of it was a red scale or gem of some kind. She clipped it apart, resting it around his neck and locking it into place. "A gift." her voice was almost a purr as her muzzle parted near his neck, then drew back. Dropping between his legs, she began to draw his cock up between her new formed breasts. He gasped, head falling back in just a moment. The textures of scale kissed his tender skin just right, the heat rolling off her body as a strained noise escaped the back of his throat. He had barely known the touch a woman before, and this…

His neck throbbed, skin burning from the touch of the collar, but he couldn't move more beyond a twitch of his hips to her ministrations. She drew and rose and dropped and dragged and every touch made him feel totally aflame, gasping in time to each movement. He'd never felt so sensitive, he didn't know how she could have such control, he was so close, and it was weird because her tits had been huge and heavy but now it felt like she was struggling to wrap them entirely around his cock and - "Ah! Fuck!" he moaned, jerking hard as his balls throbbed, over and over until he slumped. "I've never cum so hard in my life…" he groaned, eyes cracking open - and icy shock flowing through him. Looking distorted on his human frame, his cock stood as thick and long as his arm, dripping it's cum down the side. The texture had moved from smooth to ridged, thicker at the base, and his balls nudged his thighs. A deep red colour rose up through it, nothing to do with his arousal.

"Holy shit." Kline whispered, and the dragon - dripping fluid over her scales now - began to chuckle. "You didn't think just any beast could mate with me?" she whispered, drawing herself up, scraping her crotch over his cock as she did, sending it almost immediately back up to full mast, aching even as the afterglow was still thrumming inside him. When she slipped over him, tight tunnel stretching on his dick, he almost cried out. She settled all the way down, drawing her nails over his skin, but where she touched didn't hurt. Instead it drew a whimper of pleasure from him, that heat flaring, his body twisting and changing under her form as she rode him, everything becoming a haze of heat…

When he spread his clawed hands to grab at her hip, she growled and bit down on his shoulder, making him cry out too. His jaw cracked as he rocked his hips. She scraped scales and muscle from his form. He flipped them, driving her into the coins as his back arched and wings began to flourish out of his skin. Becoming as he was undone, finally releasing inside her, but she wasn't done, and neither was he. As cum paunched her scales, she was moving again, his red tail whipping in a frenzy, their growing forms tumbling and crashing through gemstones and gold and crowns, throwing them with complete abandon as nothing mattered more than breeding, breeding, breeding --

-

Kline opened his eyes. He rolled over, yawned, stretched. His back cracked and he luxuriated in the feeling of contentment that rocked over him. When he looked back, his partner lay next to him, her back to his. He rolled in her direction, draping a leg over hers. He nibbled her neck, by her ear… "Morning, love." he growled out, raspy from sleep.

Kalash rolled back, and smiled. She wrapped his tail in hers, and nuzzled in close. His wing draped over hers as his claws trailled over her immensely heavy belly, far too full for her to even fly now, with the clutch so close. "I think it'll be today." she told him, and excitement thrilled through the new dragon's form at the idea of being a father. "I'll go hunt you some breakfast." he whispered, before nuzzling in close once again, content and safe against her.

[sofi1sstuff]

🔎Sherlock Holmes recommendations🔎

Ongoing

🔎

Completed (series/miniseries)

🔎Blinding Jealousy (by @writingliv​): After a terrible date, you are stuck in the rain just around the corner from the house of your bosses.

Part1 | Part2 | Part3

🔎Lets have dinner (by @classickook​​): as sherlock’s neighbor and friend, you’ve spent quite a bit of time with the detective and developed feelings for him. unfortunately for you, however, his heart belongs to another.

Part 1 | Part 2

One Shots/Drabbles/ Prompts

🔎Thursday thrill (by @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds): When Sherlock comes home high off the thrill of case solving, he proceeds to drive Y/N insane (in the best way, of course). Though he refuses to wind down and take a break, Y/N must use her wits to CALM. HIM. DOWN. 

🔎safe in your arms (by @classickook): sherlock can only fully relax when he’s in your presence so after he comes home from a frustrating case one day, he’s more than happy to be in your arms again.

🔎Deep Water (by @starks-hero): When a case goes wrong and leaves you in a bad way, guilt begins to get to Sherlock, who’s holding himself accountable.

🔎Always On My Mind (by @starks-hero): Sherlock's mind is a cursed thing that decides to torture him with everything he fears most whilst he tries to rest.

🔎His Remedy (by @starks-hero): You are one of the few people that can handle Sherlock when he has had a bad day. In fact, you're the only one.

🔎Touch Starved (by @starks-hero): It's taken you a while to realise. But Sherlock Holmes is a very touch starved man.

🔎Love as Deep as Ours (by @multific): Every morning Sherlock doubted he deserved you. And every day you prove him more than worthy.

🔎unintentional mystery (by @fool-who-dreams):The mysterious Sherlock Holmes has unintentionally been keeping his biggest secret from everyone: you.

🔎Soulmates (by @writingliv): Sherlock Holmes has finally found his match. One could say he has found his soulmate. 

🔎505 (by @annesthaeticc): Sherlock finally comes back to the land of the living. Is it truly possible that after two years, he'll be welcomed back? 

🔎Personal (by @annesthaeticc): He's sick and tired of being just friends. Sherlock finally lets you know what he truly feels for you on your special night. 

🔎Puppy Luv (by @annesthaeticc): While on a case, Sherlock Holmes stumbles upon a new friend. And hopefully your new friend.  He brings her home and fluff ensues. 

🔎Sentiment (by @goldencherriess):Sherlock finds himself entranced by Lestrade's best friend and co-worker.

🔎And they were roommates (by @goldencherriess): Y/N quickly discovers that being roommates with Sherlock Holmes has its own benefits.

🔎Spiraling (by @stupidthoughtsinwriting): After an accident during a case, a hostage situation leaves you in a coma for a week. During that week in the hospital, things are going horribly in Baker Street

🔎The London eye (by @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds​): Y/N has a problem; she’s in love with Sherlock Holmes. She’s decided to bury her feelings, but we all know that nothing gets past the consulting detective and his deductions. But could he be hiding something himself? A tour of one of England’s greatest landmarks might just reveal a couple secrets... after all, love is in the air, right?

🔎measurements (by @classickook​): as you join john and sherlock on a case, you’re not too pleased to see the infamous irene adler flirting with your boyfriend.

🔎Not You Watson, I Meant Watson! (by @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds​): It’s been a near week since Sherlock has had a new case, and he’s positively vexed. But when John arrives with an unexpected visitor, things certainly liven up for the consulting detective. 

🔎Safe Place (by @lykaonimagines​): During an argument over one of Sherlock’s experiments, Y/N realizes some events in his life have impacted him more than he usually let on.

🔎Come Home (by @lykaonimagines​): Sherlock had sent Y/N away shortly after Mary’s death in hopes of protecting her... and preventing her from stopping him from doing what he felt he had to do to save John. Now that she’s back and has all the details, she’s not sure their relationship can survive it. 

🔎Absence of You (by @lykaonimagines​): Y/N’s sent away on a mission for months, leaving Sherlock to wrestle mentally with his importance in her life and how badly he wants her home.

🔎Meet the Parents (by @starks-hero​): Whilst visiting 221B, you finally get the chance to meet Sherlock's parents. Embarrassment ensues.

🔎Danger Night’s (by @starks-hero​): Sherlock never really cared what the drugs did to him until he saw what they were doing to you.

🔎Comfort (by @starks-hero​): finding comfort in his arms after a long day

🔎Different (by @starks-hero​): After a night in together, you find that Sherlock Holmes is rather endearing whilst drunk.

🔎Fixation (by @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds​): Sherlock and Y/N have always teased each other relentlessly, claiming one was fixated on the other. One day while on a case, they realize that their banter holds a ring of truth.

🔎Darling It's Cold Outside (by @starks-hero​): A snowstorm falls over London and you're left trapped at 221B with Sherlock. It doesn't sound all that bad, but keeping Sherlock entertained poses as a challenge.

🔎The Right One (by @starks-hero​): Sherlock's previous experiences with love left a few cracks. But you're more than happy to help mend them.

🔎It’s just a head cold (by @starks-hero​): Sherlock may make a great detective, but he's a bloody awful doctor.

🔎I Took Care Of It (by @starks-hero​): Mycroft is horrified to discover that one of his old insults no longer applies to his little brother.

🔎Missed You (by @sherlockxreader​): You come home from months away climbing Mount Everest and Sherlock tells you just how much he as missed you.

🔎The Case of the Unread Article (by @sherlockxreader​): Sherlock tries his hardest to gain your attention after weeks of not having a case

🔎I Want One (by @victoriaholmeswriting​): Sherlock and his girlfriend (reader) are watching Rosie on John and Mary's date night when he makes a life changing request.

🔎The Holmes Family (by @victoriaholmeswriting​): When refusing to dress up for Halloween results in an argument with his wife, Sherlock re-evaluates his priorities and tries to make it right.  

🔎Ballroom Blitz (by @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds​):John and Mary suspect a spark between their friends Sherlock and Y/N, but they just can’t go about proving it. When the Baker Street gang is invited to a prestigious ball, the Watson’s suspicions might just be confirmed amid the grandeur...

🔎the feeling is mutual (by @classickook​): you've been harboring a crush on sherlock for quite some time now but are determined to keep it a secret for as long as you can. foolish of you to think he wouldn't figure it out... and maybe he’ll even return your sentiment? 

🔎ILY (by @annesthaeticc​):On a quiet Sunday evening, Sherlock contemplates how he feels for you, and finally the three sweetest words you ever heard fell from his pretty lips.

🔎Merry Christmas, Sherlock (by @writingliv​): Sherlock craves your attention and a bet may just do the trick.

🔎Every second (by @imeternallylove)

🔎Late Nights & Violins (by @daydreamtofiction)

🔎You wanted my attention now you have it! (by @asherloki)

🔎Imagine accidentally drinking the spiked Christmas punch at Sherlock’s family home… (by @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction)

🔎Sherlock and the Green-Eyed Monster (by @thepokyone)

🔎Compared to you (by @thepokyone)

🔎The stray (by @thepokyone)

🔎Pillow (by @thebaileybugle)

🔎Bubble Bath (by @classickook)

🔎Your Hidden Strength (by @okay-j-hannah)

🔎small jealousy (by @specialagentlokitty)

🔎good to you (by @specialagentlokitty)

🔎Second chances (by @thepokyone)

🔎Relatioship advice (by @thepokyone)

🔎Merry christmas to all (by @geeks-universe)

🔎Bedside manners (by @luxwritesfanfic)

🔎On tap (by @luxwritesfanfic)

🔎You’re the only thing that matters (by @annesthaeticc)

🔎Here comes the sun (by @aephereal)

🔎Right where you left me (by @luxwritesfanfic)

🔎Christmas at 221B Baker street (by @strrvnge)

🔎skeletons and sugar rushes (by @thepokyone)

🔎Kids in love (by @thepokyone)

🔎Dislike (by @thepokyone)

🔎Ridiculous costumes (by @thepokyone)

🔎Time goes on (by @thepokyone)

🔎Violin lessons (by @thepokyone​)

🔎Empath (by @grace-writes-shit​)

🔎

You can check other characters recommendations here

[noturlondonboy]

No More Excuses//Katelena

Chapter 3: Common Interest Between an Assassin and a Dog

Pairing: Kate Bishop x Yelena Belova

Chapter Summary: some internal Yelena angst.

A/N: enjoy!

Chapter warnings: angst

Yelena leaned heavily against the wall, eyes trained on Kate's sleeping form. The moonlight filtered in through the blackout curtains over the windows, casting a silver sheen over the room. Lucky's deep doggy eye stared back at her from where he sat next to his human, his tail thumping softly.

"You are an excellent guard dog, Pizza Doggy," Yelena whispered to him, tilting her head to lean it against her own shoulder, her hip propped on the railing of the loft's edge.

Lucky whined quietly and licked his chops before flopping down, burrowing his nose under Kate's arm.

Yelena sighed and rubbed her eyes with one hand, using the other to run through her loose hair, catching a few tangles. A cluster headache was starting to form behind her brows.

"Oh, Kate Bishop. What am I going to do with you?"

Yelena had been hiding out in Kate's apartment for the past week or so, using the space as a safe house until she figured out what the hell to do with herself. The fight with Clint Barton felt like a lifetime ago, but the hours and days afterwards had been an absolute nightmare for the blonde assassin.

She recalled the tears, the makeup and sweaty hair in her eyes as she ran through the frozen and brightly lit streets of New York. People had yelled, dodged out of the way as she streamed past them in a blur of black and weaponry, honked as she weaved through traffic with no regard as to whether the streets were clear or not.

All she could hear was that whistle. Her whistle. Natasha's whistle. Something so special, because it was only for them. But Clint Barton had it too, which meant Natasha trusted him. Both with herself, and her little sister.

Yelena shook her head and pushed off of the wall, making her way silently back to the couch. She hadn't neared Kate's bed while she'd been crashing in the archer's apartment, always sleeping on the couch whenever she was able to close her eyes without the fear of seeing blood and death against the insides of her eyelids.

Tonight was not a night for sleeping, it would seem. Yelena stared up at the dark ceiling, her hands folded over her stomach under the fleece blanket she had found on the floor. The fan above her spun slowly, slowly, the blades a gentle whir in the muddy shadows.

Yelena had originally reasoned that she was staying in New York to get that drink Kate Bishop had mentioned, but once she had found the archer's apartment empty, she hadn't quite known what to do. She quickly ran out of excuses for her behavior.

She wanted to talk to Clint, to hear stories about Natasha. But he wasn't in the city either. Fine then- she would walk around New York to see the sights, experience the places and the people. But the tall buildings had quickly grown imposing, and without the promise of Christmas, the city seemed to lose most of its glow.

Maybe she would lay down on a bench in Central Park and just let herself starve until she faded away completely.

Counterproductive.

So she had decided to wait for Kate to get back from where she was presumably spending the holidays with Barton. Yelena bought more forks for the terribly bare kitchen, went through every single cupboard, drawer, and closet, (out of sheer boredom, really) and eventually did an entire and extremely extensive background check on the Bishop family. Again, she was bored. Not much else to do for the world's best child assassin, after all. She was trained to kill and calculate, not make herself at home.

Soft paw steps snapped her from her thoughts, and Yelena was sitting up in a flash, watching keenly through the dark as Lucky padded down from the loft to the couch to visit her. She held out a hand for him silently, and he licked at her fingers before flopping his head down on her knee in order to stare up at her.

"You didn't bark because you already smelled me around the apartment," Yelena muttered, running a hand over his golden head. "Clever dog. You would like Fanny. You are both very cute, but she is definitely smarter than you."

Lucky just grinned, his one eye sparkling absently.

Yelena huffed a laugh under her breath and petted him until he eventually made his way back to Kate. She watched him go, chest aching. She missed her own dog, her sweet girl. Maybe she would be able to fetch her from the canine hotel she was currently at and bring her here to crash with the golden retrievers. Soon. Maybe.

The assassin made another attempt at sleep, finally falling under hours later in a fitful rest. She had to figure out what to tell Kate Bishop in the morning.

After all, Yelena wasn't sure why she was still here, either.

Translations: none

Kate Bishop counter: 3

This chapter's meme:

Comments/reblogs/notes make my day :)

[whumpsday]

Kane & Jim AU: Dark!Jim

Masterlist

content: psychological torture, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, starvation, character feeling like he doesn’t deserve food, break-a-dish trope, begging, death wish, major character death, unhappy ending, suicide

i’ve seen a lot of people making “dark!caretaker aus” where their caretakers are whumpers instead, so... what if jim was a whumpee-turned-whumper instead of whumpee-turned-caretaker? here’s the answer to that question.

heed the warnings, this is a bit heavier than my usual fare.

-

Kane’s life was so much better now, since Mr. Lieberman had taken him home. There was no more torture, no more hurt. No more sun, silver, whippings, beatings, broken bones. Since he’d healed, the only pain left was the ache of starvation deep inside him, but he could deal with that now that all the rest was gone.

At Mr. Lieberman’s house, he no longer had a cold hard cell. He had been given a bed, and a blanket, and clothes. All manner of amenities he’d thought he’d never get to enjoy again. Truly, everything had improved so much.

Kane had never been more terrified in his life.

There was so much more to lose, now. He’d do anything to avoid going back to the hunters. He was trying so hard, as hard as he could, to please Mr. Lieberman. To be good, to be allowed to stay. But it seemed like no matter what he did, he always ended up messing up.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He knew that this must have been what Mr. Lieberman had felt when he’d been Kane’s prisoner: always on edge, always afraid. He could see his own fear reflected back in Mr. Lieberman’s eyes, mixed in with the hate. He could see it in the set of Mr. Lieberman’s jaw, the way his teeth were clenched. No, Kane was not the only one afraid.

There was nothing he could do to take that back. And despite everything, Mr. Lieberman had taken him away from that horrible place, hadn’t hurt him even once. Even the cuffs binding his wrists and ankles and the muzzle on his face were leather-covered silver that did not burn his skin, and the muzzle was the kind that still allowed him to speak.

The mercy he’d been shown in the face of his past cruelty was unbelievable, more than he deserved. It was no wonder Mr. Lieberman kept threatening to send him back.

Kane completed his chores as efficiently as he could, given his bound hands and weakened state. He always seemed to be a little too slow, no matter how hard he tried.

If you can’t even help out, I’m not sure about your place here. Mr. Lieberman had mused last time he’d taken too long. Kane had begged and pleaded and promised to do better, anything, just please not being sent back, and Mr. Lieberman had obliged. Mercy, once again, so long as he could keep the promise.

But Kane was so tired. Mr. Lieberman wasn’t even having him do anything hard, they really would have been rather light chores by anyone’s standards if he wasn’t starving, but the mere acts of standing and moving around were enough to completely exhaust him. He knew he could do it easily if he were just allowed a little blood-

No. Stop thinking that way. You don’t deserve it. Especially not from Mr. Lieberman, not after what you did to him.

This was the last one for today and then he could rest. Just had to take the clean dishes from the dishwasher and put them away. His arms and legs shook, making the chains between them rattle.

He was short on time, he knew that. He was cutting it close. Kane rushed to put everything away as quickly as possible, almost forgetting to use the pot-holder Mr. Lieberman had given him for the silver utensils, when-

The unthinkable. In his haste, his shaking hands had dropped a mug, shattering it on the floor.

Kane stared at the ceramic in horror. No, this couldn’t be happening. No, no, no.

Mr. Lieberman appeared in the doorway, and Kane burst into tears, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed to the floor. The shards cut through his pants- ruining another item of Mr. Lieberman’s- and dug into his knees.

“P-please,” he sobbed, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lieberman sir, I’m so s-sorry, please don’t make me go back. I d-didn’t, didn’t mean to, I swear! Please, anything but that, hurt me, kill me, anything, I-”

“Stop.”

Kane’s mouth snapped shut with a whimper, heart pounding in his chest, as he dared to look up at the human. To his dismay, he could see nothing but the usual hatred in his glare.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t.” Mr. Lieberman said.

Because it was an accident. Because I can’t do that again, PLEASE, I can’t, I can’t go back to that. Because it would hurt too much. Because I’m trying my best. Because I’m sorry, and not just for the mug. Because I’d do anything you ever asked. Because why would you when it’d be all the same to you if I was dead. Because please kill me.

“I’m tr-trying my best.” Kane settled on, barely a whisper. “And, and it was an accident. I want t-to be good. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Lieberman fixed him with a hard stare while Kane trembled with sobs.

“Please don’t send me b-back, I can’t. Please, anything but that, please.” Kane begged, just barely stopping himself from pleading for mercy. Mr. Lieberman reacted negatively to that, last time. He hadn’t shown Mr. Lieberman mercy back when their roles were reversed.

After a long moment, Mr. Lieberman spoke. “I’ll think about it. Clean this up and finish putting up the dishes.”

“Yes, s-sir.”

Mr. Lieberman gave him a curt nod and left.

Kane exhaled a shaky breath, taking significant effort rising to his feet while his body screamed at him to rest. He couldn’t afford to mess up again. The ship had already sailed on time, so Kane focused on making sure he worked well rather than quickly. He cleaned up the remnants of mug from the floor before returning to the dishwasher, taking care not to drop anything else.

I’ll think about it.

This was not the first time Mr. Lieberman had left him in this terrible limbo state, but this was, as of yet, the worst he’d messed up. This could really be it, the time he decided to send him back. No more comfy bed, clean clothes, and light chores. No more merciful keeper who closed the blinds to protect him from the sun and gave him a pot-holder so he wouldn’t burn himself on silver. There would only be pain again.

Kane hadn’t stopped crying since Mr. Lieberman had left. He wanted to hide himself away and never come out again. He wished Mr. Lieberman would just leave him in the basement to rot. He just wanted to be safe, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. This was what he got for being cruel and holding Mr. Lieberman captive for so many years. It was all his own fault.

But even so. He just wanted the pain to be over. He couldn’t go back, he couldn’t. He was trying so, so hard and barely skirting by. Even if Mr. Lieberman showed him mercy this time, he would surely mess up badly enough to be sent back eventually. He let out a loud sob at the thought. Mr. Lieberman was kind enough to ignore his crying.

Kane was about to place a wooden spoon back in the drawer where it belonged, when he froze.

Wooden.

He didn’t want to go back. He couldn’t. Not again.

He glanced quickly through the doorway. He couldn’t see Mr. Lieberman, couldn’t smell him in the next room. He wasn’t being watched.

Kane hid the spoon under his shirt.

-

Jim didn’t intend to send Kane back to those hunters. He never had, really. It was a bluff. He just let Kane think it. No matter how much he hated Kane, the little he knew of what the hunters had done to him made Jim sick.

Every time he saw Kane’s stupid terrified face, he felt like he was being bombarded with a mixture of every negative emotion imaginable. Hate, pity, fear. Jim was supposed to have his revenge. That was the plan, he was supposed to meet with his captor, tell him off, and kill him.

But Kane had been so different. The Kane he’d found reminded him more of himself than the man who had abused him when he was young and vulnerable. Jim wasn’t sure whether this should fill him with pity or smug satisfaction. He wanted it to be the latter: Kane had finally gotten a taste of his own medicine. He tried to bury the feeling of empathy that kept trying to bubble to the surface. Kane didn’t deserve it.

Jim couldn’t bring himself to hurt the vampire, not after he’d seen the burns, but he was still bent on revenge. He wanted Kane to know what it was like. Ten fucking years looking over his shoulder, thinking Kane could take him away again at any moment. Spending every night in fear. It was the least Kane deserved, surely, after everything he’d put him through. When he still saw his face in his nightmares, even now.

He would kill Kane eventually, just like he kept begging for. He knew that was the inevitable end. But he couldn’t, not yet. Jim would have liked to think it was because of any other reason, but the truth was that he was scared. Still scared of Kane, even when he was so helpless. The thought infuriated him.

He’d left Kane stewing all night after breaking the stupid mug. Time to tell him he wasn’t going back this time. Again.

Kane had never been there to tell me I wasn’t going back, he thought bitterly as he unlocked the basement door.

Normally, Kane was waiting for him, ready for the day.

Not this time.

Kane laid on his bed, hands wound around the handle of the wooden stirring-spoon buried in his heart, wood shavings surrounding him. His open eyes were lifeless and empty, tear-tracks staining his cheeks.

“Oh.” Jim breathed.

He sat on the staircase, reluctant to approach further.

Kane was dead.

He should have been happy. He hated Kane more than anyone else in the world. Kane had taken five years of his life away, hurt him over and over again, given him scars that would never heal- both physical and mental. He should be satisfied with his death.

“I hate you.” Jim said.

The corpse did not respond.

He’d never had that talk he wanted to have with Kane. Never hashed out the questions that had been running through his mind for the past decade and a half. He’d known it to be pointless, in Kane’s state. He would have said whatever he thought Jim wanted to hear.

“You ruined my life, you know.” Jim informed the body. “Even after I got out, it wasn’t the end. I’m not the same anymore. I’m all messed up. I used to have friends, you know? I used to be happy. Now I’m just scared all the time. I guess I can tell you that, now that you’re dead.”

Silence.

“Why’d you fucking do it? Why me?”

Jim got up and approached the corpse.

He reached out a shaking hand and lightly brushed his fingers over the knuckles of Kane’s left hand. Kane was a leftie. He still remembered.

“You are never going to hurt me again.” Jim declared.

He already knew that. He’d known it from the moment he picked Kane up from the hunters’ compound, when Kane had begged for mercy at his feet, crying his heart out. Kane had apologized over and over and over until Jim had told him to stop. He’d thought he’d like hearing Kane apologize, but it just filled him with resentment.

Jim dropped his hand back to his side.

“I treated you better than you treated me, you know.” Jim said. “I never hurt you. Not once. Not back then, not now.”

The corpse’s eyes betrayed no understanding of the concept.

“What did they do to you that made you do this?” he whispered.

He started picking up the wood shavings, piling them in his other hand. There was one on Kane’s face, stuck near his mouth. He’d probably filed the spoon to a point with his teeth.

“Was that it? You were just that afraid of going back?” Jim asked. “I was afraid of going back too, and I never did this. I was so afraid of you it was all I could think about half the time. Or maybe you felt guilty? Couldn’t live with yourself after what you did? Was I important enough to warrant that?”

Kane’s lifeless eyes held no fear, but he could see it etched into his face nonetheless.

“Of course not. You were just scared.”

He set the pile of wood shavings down on the bed.

“I get it. I’m scared too.” Jim hesitated. “I don’t think that’s going to go away anytime soon. Even now that you’re dead.”

He debated closing Kane’s eyes or pulling the spoon out, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

I drove someone to suicide.

The thought settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Fuck you. How are you still controlling me even now? Get out of my head. Stop fucking haunting me. Haven’t you done enough?”

The corpse did not justify itself.

“I need a drink.” Jim decided.

-

hi. my mental health is perfect, thanks for asking.

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[teaandsconeswrites]

Old Instincts Die Hard

Birthday fic for Childe! Based on the Trust / Fear / Tool prompt from the Childe’s B-Day Bash event on Twitter.

Read below the cut or on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48733816

Rating: T

Length: 8.7k

Theme: Touch-Starved / Touch-Avoidant

Summary: Zhongli removes his right glove, revealing a deep brown hand, lines of golden Geo tracing the lines where human veins would run. “May I?”

Childe takes a second to process the work of art that is Zhongli, and he swallows deeply before nodding. “Sure, go ahead.”

Zhongli extends his hand toward Childe’s forearm and Childe watches every detail of the movement, the hairs on his arm rising even before Zhongli can make contact.

This is fine. It’s just Zhongli.

So why does he feel the need to draw his blade and raise it to Zhongli’s throat?

After spending the greater part of his life all too used to the threat of a blade being drawn against him, Childe has learned not to trust a hand raised toward him, lest it seek to strike while his defenses are lowered. But now in a fresh relationship with Zhongli, he finds his old instincts standing in the way of enjoying something more with the man he's come to adore.

Aka Childe is simultaneously touch-starved and touch-avoidant, and Zhongli helps him through it.

Full Tags: Canon Universe, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship ( They're very very early in dating), Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trust Issues, Touch-Avoidant, Touch-Starved, Childe-Typical thoughts of fighting and death, Touch-related anxiety, Hugs, Soft Zhongli, Caring Zhongli, Childe Has Trust Issues, Affection, Learning to Accept Affection, Self deprecating thoughts, Character Study, Touch-Starved Childe, Non-Sexual Intimacy

Full Fic Below!! 🔽🔽

As Childe and Zhongli leave Liuli Pavillion, the final groups of evening goers and couples trickle homeward down Liyue’s streets. The taste of Jueyun Chili lingers on Childe’s tongue, his lips tingling in the aftermath, but he can’t care less as he listens enraptured to Zhongli tell him an ancient tale of Rex Lapis—a battle story, as he requested.

It’s a grand evening, and to think that after everything that happened, they can be here, spending time together just as they used to, is nothing short of a miracle.

People like him aren’t supposed to experience miracles.

When Childe, in the wake of his discovery that Zhongli was in fact the Archon he’d been seeking all along, had organised an intelligence review of all his interactions with Zhongli leading up to the Rite of Descension, the surprise of the era had landed on his desk. It came in the form of a single document with the photo of a familiar pair of dragon and phoenix chopsticks on the front, the text below detailing an alternative meaning to the gift he received all those months ago.

A gift between business partners was Childe’s assumption when he’d received them. They’d been on the ‘acceptable gifts in Liyue’ list he’d prepared before arriving in Liyue and had taken their meaning as such.

However, in light of that little discovery, along with the evenings they’d spent together, the lingering gazes, the conversations dragged just a little too long, all of which he threw away in a fit of anger and frustration, he felt something that the almighty Harbingers of Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa aren’t supposed to feel—regret. So he’d marched straight to Zhongli’s home, nearly knocking the door off the hinges with how hard he banged his fist against it.

‘Courtship,’ Zhongli had called it, when Childe confronted him.

‘A fool,’ Childe had called Zhongli, which is saying a lot, because Childe spends his quarterly work meetings around a near-dozen of them.

And now they’re here, heading back after another evening of opera and dinner, walking, walking, walking, yet neither of them make a move to return to their own homes.

‘Dating,’ Tonia had called it in her latest letter.

Childe didn’t date before Zhongli—there was no time for that nonsense-sounding sappy stuff when there was a weapon in his hand begging to be wielded. Truthfully he’s still not sure what a date is exactly. All he and Zhongli did tonight was spend time together the same as they’ve always done.

Is this ‘dating’? Have they always been ‘dating’?

If so, maybe dating isn’t so bad.

“And that is how the citizens of the fledgling Liyue were saved through Skybracer’s virtuous sacrifice,” concludes Zhongli, coming to the end of his tale.

“But what about the god who slashed the mountain? I bet they were powerful, right? How did you take down a god that can cut a mountain in half?”

Zhongli chuckles, and Childe finds himself wanting to say more things that will bring that smile to Zhongli’s face.

“Well,” says Zhongli, “that is a long tale, and perhaps more appropriate for the next time we meet.”

“And when can we do that? No, don’t answer that—I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning. We’ll do the whole day again, xiansheng, and you can tell me the rest of this tale!”

Zhongli laughs this time, although Childe isn’t sure why. But he is sure that he wants to reach out and touch that smile, to feel the creases beside Zhongli’s eyes, the stretched skin of Zhongli’s cheek under his fingers, to know that he was the one who put that happiness there.

What the heck is wrong with him?

“Unfortunately Director Hu requires my attention at the funeral parlour in the morning, so I shall be unavailable. However, I do happen to have an interesting artifact at home related to the tale we just spoke of that may be of interest to you. Should you wish to view it, you are welcome to return home with me to do so.”

“An artifact?” Childe replies, keeping his hands securely to himself and not on Zhongli’s face. “Now you’ve piqued my interest! What is it?”

“It is the hilt of a blade used within that fateful battle. While it has weathered with time, the ornamentation is still in good condition, and serves as a reminder to the sacrifices of those who have long parted us.”

A weapon? Now this is interesting. Were Liyue’s blades forged in the same manner as today? How might it compare to those forged in Snezhnaya, both past and present? Despite the late hour there’s no way he’s missing out on the chance to hold a weapon of such historical significance, and Childe nods eagerly.

“Sounds grand, I’d enjoy that, if it’s no trouble for you.”

“It is never any trouble.” Zhongli smiles and continues down the road, reaching toward Childe’s back, his hand dipping out of Childe’s field of vision. Childe steps to the side, bringing it back into view.

Zhongli frowns briefly, withdrawing his arm to his side.

That expression means something not good, but it’s difficult to read what Zhongli is thinking. Did he do something wrong, or break some Liyuen cultural norm he isn’t aware of?

Zhongli continues walking, so it couldn’t have been that offensive, and Childe walks along beside him, waiting for Zhongli to launch into another tale. But Zhongli walks silently with that same frowny face, tying strange knots in Childe’s stomach that he doesn’t know what to do with.

They walk through a part of Liyue Childe hasn’t been to before (officially, anyway—he might or might not have tracked Zhongli during his early weeks in Liyue, in an attempt to figure out the true identity of his mysterious new contact) and Zhongli comes to a stop in front of a perfectly ordinary front door, (quite unbefitting a man who was once the Lord of Geo) twisting his key in the lock and letting them in.

Childe pauses inside the doorway to slide his boots off, taking a moment to absorb the fact that this is his first time inside the place Zhongli considers home. Display cabinets line the hall, little knick-knacks arranged in an incomprehensible manner. A plate painted with floral patterns sits beside a jade dragon, and an armoured warrior wielding a spear points his weapon toward a horse that may or may not be his own. 

Hopefully it is the steed of his mortal enemy, for to point a weapon at one’s own mount would be quite foolish.

“Ah, you are admiring the soldier on the top right,” says Zhongli, not turning back to confirm. “His uniform is modelled after that which would have been worn by the Millelith during a time of intense Abyssal activity within the Chasm. He represents all those who fought and gave their lives during those dark days, and these models were created in limited numbers to honour their sacrifice.”

“Huh.”

“Now please, make yourself at home. The item we are here to see is through here.”

They continue down the hall and Childe can’t take his eyes off of the warrior as he passes, the beady, lifeless eyes staring back at him.

Would Her Majesty have a model made of him, should he fall in the line of duty? In five hundred years, will a model Tartaglia be standing in Zhongli’s cabinet, spending his days in endless battle alongside this nameless soldier? It seems like a grand way to spend eternity—maybe he should bring it up at their next meeting.

“Here we are.” Zhongli opens the door at the end of the hall, leading them into a fresh, airy room. The bed centreing it is piled high with plush pillows, and the sheets appear to be woven from silk flower.

Zhongli is one for the small luxuries, as ever.

They arrive at the bedside table and, sure as Zhongli said, there sits the sword hilt, carefully set on a stand. It’s more ordinary than Childe expected. For a sword used in such a prominent battle, the picture in his mind had been of shimmering gold, the head of a beast carved upon the pommel and intricate patterns forged into the grip, set with the kinds of glittering stones that Zhongli likes.

However, this hilt is forged of simple, dark iron, with a small trimming of gold at the pommel, where the geo symbol is carved into the metal. That figures—all the extra adornments would add far too much weight to be practical, but it ruins the image a bit.

“You may hold it, if you wish,” says Zhongli. “It is not an item I would advise be frequently handled, but on this occasion, an exception feels appropriate.”

“A chance to hold a weapon from a legendary battle? You should know me better than to have to ask!”

Zhongli gives another of those soft smiles of his and reaches forward to retrieve it, brushing the back of Childe’s arm with his shoulder. The contact sends a tight, prickling sensation through Childe and he takes a step back, relieving himself of the lingering itch.

Zhongli pauses, and Childe feels as though he’s a child again, being caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Uh, did I do something wrong?”

“You?” Zhongli turns back to Childe, his eyes widened. “Not at all. In fact, I was concerned that it was I who made the error.”

“You? Not at all! I thought we were looking at swords here, what problem would I have with that?”

Zhongli shakes his head. “Then you do not consider this activity as a part of our courtship… Then perhaps it was I who coerced you into this arrangement without considering whether you truly held reciprocation for my own feelings.”

What is the old man on about? They’re still on their date, aren’t they? A date looking at swords has to be one of the best date ideas ever.

“Huh? I’ve been having a great time today. I even asked you if you wanted to do the same tomorrow, didn’t I?”

“This is true, yet you appear rather repulsed by my physical presence. Please, there is no need to be polite for my sake, and I shall not be offended if you do not wish to continue.”

“Ah.”

Of course it would come to this. Relationships mean intimacy and intimacy means physical proximity, which means hands roaming places he can’t see, lingering long enough to entice him to let his guard down. He learned long ago to sidestep the hearty back slaps his comrades like to share, an instinct entrenched further by that incident in his recruit days where a fellow trainee, presumably jealous of Childe’s advanced prowess for his age, attempted the same manoeuvre, only to plunge his razor between Childe’s shoulder blades. Childe ended up with seven stitches for that error (and the other recruit had needed several more, after Childe was done with him, but that’s beside the point).

Not that Zhongli is going to stab him (probably), but the theoretical possibility of the matter sets Childe’s hairs on end and turns his skin itchy and hot.

“Then there is an issue?” Zhongli asks, probing but not demanding.

“It’s more just…” Childe runs his hand through his hair, searching for the most straightforward way to phrase his answer. “I’m not used to being that close to people outside my family, I guess. Hazards of the job and all.”

“I see. Then it is something you wish for and simply are not accustomed to, or are you opposed to the idea in its entirety?”

“I’m not sure, never really gave it much thought.” Childe shrugs, and wow, that sword hilt is suddenly far more interesting than he originally gave it credit for. “Hey, do you think when they forged that sword—”

Zhongli steps between him and the artifact. “Childe, I am asking you to consider it. This is an important aspect of our relationship going forward.”

Ugh, Zhongli and his questions. Does it really matter? “I don’t know, Zhongli. If you want, then I can give it a go, how does that sound?”

“It sounds as though you are avoiding the question.”

Childe sighs. He’s not getting out of this.

Stubborn old dragon-qilin-thing.

Does he want to? He pictures Zhongli’s hand over his as they watch the opera together, he pictures the casual touches he’s seen come so easily to others, he pictures Zhongli tapping him on the shoulder to draw his attention to some fancy antique he’s spotted before giving Childe the eyes to tell him that he’s forgotten his mora again.

He wants those things. Or he thinks he does. It’s all too alien to know for sure.

Childe nods.“Yeah, I would. Or I think so, anyway. But there’s no harm in giving it a go, so here, try now. There’s no time like the present to get started.”

Zhongli’s shoulders soften and he smiles. “As you wish. Admittedly, it pleases me to hear you give that answer; to imagine a world in which I might never be permitted physical contact with the one so dear to me…ah, it matters not.” Zhongli removes his right glove, revealing a deep brown hand, lines of golden Geo tracing the lines where human veins would run. “May I?”

Childe takes a second to process the work of art that is Zhongli, and he swallows deeply before nodding.  “Sure, go ahead.”

Zhongli extends his hand toward Childe’s forearm and Childe watches every detail of the movement, the hairs on his arm rising even before Zhongli can make contact.

This is fine. It’s just Zhongli.

So why does he feel the need to draw his blade and raise it to Zhongli’s throat?

Zhongli brushes his fingertips against Childe’s skin and instinct takes over. He snatches his arm away, backing up a couple of paces and clenching his fists, attempting to dispel the hydro swelling in his palms.

Zhongli withdraws, watching Childe with pained eyes.

Damnit. Now he’s upset Zhongli.

“Sorry,” says Childe. “Old habits die hard, huh?”

“No apology is needed; the fault is not your own.” Zhongli sighs, eyeing Childe up and down. “However, I do have a proposal—a progression of sorts—which might make the process easier.”

A progression? That’s something Childe can get on board with. Progressions were how Skirk took him from a scrawny countryside kid who could barely hold a sword to a competent warrior, able to slay dragons on behalf of Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa.

“Sure, what do you have in mind?”

Zhongli looks at him, eyes so gentle Childe could melt. “Do you trust me?” he asks, and Childe has to pause to process the answer to that question.

Does he trust Zhongli?

He’s not sure.

Should he trust Zhongli?

Probably not, after Zhongli has already demonstrated that he can play Childe like the strings of the guzheng he’s so fond of.

Does he want to trust Zhongli?

What is trust anyway?

There’s the kind of trust he shares with his comrades, the security in knowing that they’ll carry out the mission he assigns them and that he’s not going to be deceived or double crossed. His agents like him—he’s quite proud of the fact that he’s not quite as detestable as the likes of Signora—and he can count on that to serve his interests well. 

Then there’s the trust he holds for his family, for his treasured siblings who he allows to climb freely over him to their hearts’ desires. Children are innocent and beautiful, not yet tainted by the broken dreams that adulthood brings, and none of them would ever cause him harm. (That’s excluding that one time when Teucer, pretending to be a knight, smacked him with a toy sword in the one spot where Childe really, really wished he hadn’t. He’d spent a few miserable minutes curled in a ball on the floor as consequence for that lapse in judgement.)

And finally intimate trust, romantic trust…

After all that’s happened, he shouldn’t even be alone with Zhongli in this room.

But he is.

So maybe he does trust Zhongli.

Yeah, this must be trust.

“Yeah, I do.” Childe nods and takes a single step toward him. “What do you propose?”

“I propose taking things a little slower, and both of us finding a more comfortable position to continue this activity.” Zhongli gestures to the bed. “Unless you find this arrangement unfavourable…”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Childe flashes Zhongli a grin. “My my, Zhongli, I didn’t know you’d try propositioning me this early on. Should I be flattered?”

Zhongli’s cheeks pinken and he fumbles over his words. “No…no, that was not my intent. My apologies if you read it to imply—”

Spluttering out a laugh, Childe shakes his head. “Hey hey, I’m just joking. Your face was great, though. Ah, you’re funny, xiansheng. Alright, let’s try this your way.”

After taking off his jacket and draping it over the end of the bed, Childe sits, testing the mattress. It’s as soft as it looks and he lays back, sinking into pillows that attempt to absorb him into them. Zhongli joins him, keeping a cautious half-metre between them as they lie next to each other. With a long exhale, he rests his hands on his chest, and rolls his head to the side to face Childe, wearing a quiet, contented smile.

Smiling at Childe.

It’s a bit weird, lying in bed with Zhongli, and Zhongli looking so damn pleased about it. ‘There’s a Harbinger in your bed!’ Childe wants to tell him. ‘We aren’t good guys, you know!” But Zhongli already knows all that and still insists on looking at him in that way anyway. 

Weird.

“So, what now?” asks Childe, eager to move on before he has to think about it any more deeply.

“Nothing, unless you wish it to.” Zhongli removes his other glove and slides his left arm out so it sits equidistant between them. “We can converse, or not, however you prefer, and the next step shall be yours to make. If you desire physical contact between us, you can act upon such desire, and if not, I shall take no offence.”

Childe stares at the hand sitting innocently above the sheets.

His choice.

He looks to Zhongli, then back to his hand.

His choice.

Well, in that case, a little closer wouldn’t hurt.

Childe slips his gloves off and slides his hand next to Zhongli’s, leaving a few centimetres separating them.

“Say, Zhongli, how about you tell a story, or a bit of history you like, or anything, really.”

“Anything I would like?” Zhongli hums and stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds before answering. “In that case, perhaps you would like to hear of the new teas Wanmin has brought in stock?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Zhongli glances down at their hands, then turns his attention back to Childe. “Excellent. In that case, this information should be prefaced by the fact that, for reasons of competition, what I am about to tell you should remain confidential between you and I.”

Childe nods absentmindedly, edging his hand a little closer. “Sure, I’m good at secrets. So, what’s the tea?” He chuckles, satisfied with his own joke.

Zhongli’s eyes crease and a subtle smile plays on his lips. “The tea is a Sumeran blend, and Xiangling is hoping that it will add some variety to their summer menu.”

“Oh really?” Childe pays only vague attention to the words, instead focusing on inching his hand closer bit by bit. Zhongli’s hand looks softer than the hand of a man of stone and earth should—would it feel that soft to touch?

“Yes. Her current concern is whether the shipment will arrive in time. There were some issues involving some rogue fungi on the trade route from Sumeru City, and there’s the possibility of the shipment not reaching the restaurant in time for the first week of the season.”

Making a grunt of acknowledgement, Childe continues to focus on their hands, now a centimetre apart.

His choice.

In one, small movement, he links his pinkie with Zhongli’s and squeezes.

Huh. It’s soft, kinda squishy between each joint, and warm.

Zhongli has stopped talking too and watches Childe’s movements, remaining completely still.

“You’re warm,” comments Childe, unlinking their pinkies to explore the back of Zhongli’s hand with his fingertips, circling the slightly rougher skin of his knuckles. He traces a line of geo, and the beat of the earth hums under his touch. This is the hand of a god, and he’s being permitted to touch, despite his own nature being of heresy and corruption.

Well, he hasn’t been smited yet. Maybe the line between human and god is smaller than he thought.

Retracting his hand and placing it back on the bed, Childe digs his fingers into the blankets, comparing the feel to Zhongli’s hand. It’s still soft, but cold, and he finds himself wanting to put his hand right back where it was.

But he is a warrior, a Harbinger, and he must always strive to push his limits.

“Hey, Zhongli?”

“Yes?”

“Can you do the same, like I just did to you? I think I’ll like that.”

“As you wish,” says Zhongli, eyes shimmering like crystals, sliding his hand across to cover Childe’s, creating a warm pocket of air between them, a steady pressure pressing Childe’s hand into the bed.

Pressing.

Pinning.

Trapping.

“You’re tense.” Zhongli watches him carefully. “I will not do any more than you ask.”

“I know. It’s just…I’m not used to this. Give me a moment.”

His heart pounds against his chest and Childe fights to keep his breathing level. How stupid. All this from not quite even holding hands with the guy he’s supposed to like!  Has he really become such a honed instrument of war that even the touch of another human is foreign to him now?

“Childe…” Zhongli murmurs, the low vibrations curling in Childe’s ear and tethering him to the present.

“I’m fine, just getting used to it,” Childe says, attempting to sound more certain of that statement than he feels.

“What does it feel like?” “Huh?”

“This.” Zhongli dips his head toward their hands. “What does it feel like to you? Describe it to me.”

Childe licks his lips, realising how dry they’ve become. At least Zhongli isn’t asking him about the messy thoughts running through his head. He’s not sure he wants Zhongli to know all that anyway—Zhongli would probably look at him like a madman if he knew. But a physical description? He can do that.

“It’s…heavy. And it’s like there’s an insect—you know that feeling where you know there’s something there and you need to flick your hand to get it off? That’s how it feels, except the thing on me is bigger. Not that I’m calling you an insect, xiansheng!”

“I’m certain I have been called worse in my time. Insects are a beautiful part of our ecosystem, feeding the creatures of the sky and pollinating the flora for as long as Teyvat has existed. To be an insect might be considered an honour in this world of ours.”

The thick timbre of Zhongli’s voice rolls through Childe and without thinking about it, he finds himself spreading his fingers, slotting Zhongli’s between his own, and he squeezes their interlocked hands together.

Did he just do that?

Apparently he did.

It’s so clammy, and the pressure of Zhongli squeezing back isn’t too dissimilar to the weight of a blade in his hand. But this is no blade, this is a person, and people have minds of their own.

Not just any person. This is Zhongli. Zhongli isn’t dangerous. Well, perhaps in a fight, but the man has stubbornly refused all of Childe’s requests to spar, and it’s doubtful he’ll suddenly change his mind now.

It’s weird, but it’s not bad. Contrary to the back of his hand, Zhongli’s palm has a more leathery quality, a robustness built only from years upon years of wielding a weapon.

“Rough, but smooth,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“Your hands. You told me to describe them.”

“Ah, if the texture is displeasing, I can morph them into something more appropriate for—”

“No!” Childe props himself on his elbow without letting go of Zhongli. “I like them like this. They’re very…you!”

Zhongli laughs softly and looks at their linked hands. “Thank you. And it must be said—you have done well today. This is truly a precious gift.”

He’s done well. Childe’s heart beats a little faster, a tiny whirlpool forming in his midsection. He’s made Zhongli happy, made Zhongli pleased with him, and it’s the nudge he needs to take it a step further.

“We shouldn’t stop here—this is far from enough. We should be able to do more than this if we’re a couple, right? So it’s time to practise!”

Zhongli sobers, studying Childe’s face as though searching for the answer to an unspoken question.

“What?” says Childe. “I mean it! Practice makes perfect, xiansheng.”

“You are certain of this?”

“When am I not certain? Doubt is the enemy of progress, and I refuse to hesitate when the opportunity to surpass my limits is before me.”

“Then perhaps I should rephrase the question: do you wish to?”

Oh, he wants to. He wants to be able to sink into Zhongli and enjoy lingering touches and passionate kisses and, for one sweet moment, be free of the thought of a knife slipping between his shoulder blades. Zhongli doesn’t deserve a partner who can’t pay him the attention he deserves, and if there’s one thing Childe doesn’t do, it’s doing something poorly.

If he must temporarily set down his blade in order to be proficient in this, he will learn.

“Please, Zhongli. Just touch me.”

Zhongli’s expression is beautiful. His eyes widen just a little, his lips drawing tighter together, and he unlinks their hands, brushing his fingertips over the back of Childe’s hand and toward his wrist.

“It is said that physical contact has many benefits,” murmurs Zhongli, tracing the tender skin of Childe’s inner forearm, the touch of his fingers as light as feather, raising gooseflesh along their path.

“You should tell me about it.” Childe struggles to keep his voice steady, locked in a strange state between needing to bolt from the room and wanting to stay here forever, hypnotised by something so simple, but so addictive.

“Certain studies from the Akademiya have noted that touch between partners facilitates the release of hormones associated with bonding and increased affection. How curious that, as we engage in this exercise, such effects become more apparent and efficacious than I could have predicted.” Zhongli stops as he reaches the spot where Childe’s shirt sleeve is rolled to and massages the skin there, pupils widening to an oval from their usual slits.

Childe swallows, attempting to quell the bubbling in his midsection. Sure, he’s well aware that dating implies some level of enjoyment for each other’s company, but the way Zhongli voices it so directly pieces through him, deep and dangerous, and he needs to fight, fight—

No.

“Tickles,” he says, focusing on the slow circling of Zhongli’s fingers, “but warm. Weird… but good.”

With a quiet hum, Zhongli shifts closer, the sweet scent of whatever he washes his hair with wafting into Childe’s space. His touch still gentle—too gentle for what Childe deserves—he respects the boundary the fabric sets between them, not dipping under the roll of Childe’s sleeve, but over it, running his hand across Childe’s upper arm, feeling along the tricep and slipping inward to place a light pressure on his bicep.

“Those receiving frequent touch from those close to them also report lower levels of stress, in addition to other effects such as a lower resting heartbeat and lowered anxiety,” continues Zhongli, teasing at the lower part of Childe’s shoulder. 

Childe’s heartbeat is far from lowered. It hammers in his chest and his palms sweat at each movement Zhongli makes, his breath catching in his throat. He’s not anxious—he doesn’t feel useless things like fear—but this is so out of his normal that he can’t put his finger on what he does feel.

Warm. Gentle. Soft. Focus on the physical.

Zhongli edges a little further up, making contact with the top of Childe’s shoulder and Childe suppresses a shudder. The vulnerable flesh of his neck is inches from  Zhongli’s fingers, fingers that were once the almighty claws of the exuvia, able to rip through him in one easy slash.

Itching, crawling, scratching.

He shifts away.

Zhongli’s face falls and he pulls his hand back to his chest.

“Sorry.” Childe inches back into position. “I didn’t mean to… I’m not sure why I did that.”

“There is no need to apologise; we are far further along than we were just a short time ago, so let us consider this a victory.”

Zhongli’s words are kind, reassuring, but his disappointment is clear in the way his gaze dips away and his shoulders fall, and Childe feels seeping shame twist in his gut. How ridiculous he struggles with a simple activity that comes so easily to every other human in Teyvat.

Perhaps they were right.

Perhaps he really did lose his humanity eight years ago.

But for Zhongli, perhaps he can grasp at those faint threads tying him to the guise of ‘human’, and put up a good show of it.

Childe shifts into a sitting position learning against the headboard and pats the spot beside him. “Come sit here, I have an idea.”

Zhongli hesitates, then nods. “Very well.” He moves into position, not touching, but close enough that his body heat radiates into Childe’s space. “What would you have me do?”

“I’ll show you. Just… go with this, alright?” 

Childe shifts closer and leg brushes against leg, hip against hip. A tingle runs under Childe’s skin as they make contact, but having another body pressed so closely to his brings with it a sense of rightness. He and Zhongli are supposed to be this close, and the small part of him holding the remainder of his humanity slowly wakes in the intimacy of the moment.

Taking Zhongli’s hand in his own (why does it feel so good to touch him again?), Childe guides it around his shoulders until Zhongli’s arm is draped around him with Childe holding him firmly in position. 

“How is it?” asks Zhongli.

“It’s fine.” The response is woefully inadequate, but how can he describe this? The pressure across his upper back, the warmth seeping into him, the scent of Zhongli growing ever stronger the longer they remain this close. Is it better than the arm touches? Maybe. This is more invasive, placing Zhongli in a space he would usually only allow a person to be after breathing their last breath or just before. 

But Zhongli is alive. A real, alive person sitting in the bed next to him with his arm around his shoulders.

Tilting his head to the side, Childe rubs his cheek against the fabric of Zhongli’s coat. Smooth, with a slight bumpy texture, Zhongli’s upper arm muscles firm below the surface. It turns him weak and he shuffles closer, resting his head on Zhongli’s shoulder.

Zhongli is so patient and so still, and his soft, measured breaths tickle Childe’s forehead and hairline.

“This is nice,” says Childe absentmindedly, stroking his thumb across the back of Zhongli’s hand.

“It is a moment that I shall treasure in my memories forever.” Zhongli sighs and rests his head on Childe’s, loose threads of hair playing against Childe’s cheek. “And in the future, no matter what you choose to offer, know I shall appreciate every gesture, no matter how great or small.”

Childe releases his grip on Zhongli’s wrist and rests his hand in his lap, and Zhongli rests his hand on Childe’s shoulder, moving his thumb in soothing circles that seem to connect directly to Childe’s brain, slowing his thoughts and turning his eyes heavy.

Cosy. Intimate. Snug.

This is okay.

This is good.

Zhongli is far too good, far too patient.

Childe is the weapon of a foreign Archon, his actions tied to however she deems to use him. If she commanded him to never speak to Zhongli again, he would comply, for a blade can only follow the path of the hand that wields it.

And knowing his predestined duty, Zhongli would let him go, no matter how it might shatter him to do so.

“Why?” he mutters half to himself, half to Zhongli.

“In regards to what matter are you asking such a thing?”

“Why…why us?” Childe runs his tongue around his mouth, forcing out his next words. “Why me?”

“Why not you, is the question that I would return to you.”

“Because I’m…you know what I am. I don’t need to explain the obvious.”

“Childe.” 

Zhongli sounds gravely serious and Childe looks up at him, hoping he hasn’t committed some grand social faux pas of Liyuen conversation. But Zhongli doesn’t look angry, or offended. He’s frowning, but his brows tilt upward, and he looks at Childe with such tenderness that Childe could melt under that gaze forever.

“That’s my name.” Childe attempts a cheeky grin, attempting to hide how his heart simultaneously shrivels and shudders at the expression aimed directly at him.

“Have you considered that I may not care for what you are, but who you are?”

Childe’s heart snaps in two and crumples inward under the weight of those stupidly simple words. His jaw is tight but his throat is trembling and Zhongli keeps on looking at him like that.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What the heck is this?

Zhongli is leaning toward him, gaze lingering on Childe’s lips, and Childe feels his own lips part in response. He could lean forward too, close that gap and press his lips to Zhongli’s and…

Shoot, is this what it’s like to want to kiss someone? It always sounded like a messy and fruitless affair, but with Zhongli…oh, Tsaritsa forgive him, he wants to.

So he does.

Their lips meet tenderly, almost hesitant, and Childe sinks forward, balancing himself against Zhongli’s chest. Beneath his palm, Zhongli’s heart beats in time with his own, an unwavering beacon of life in a world so full of death and sin, where the strong will trample the weak and dominate those lacking the strength to dominate in turn.

As much as it pains Childe to admit his own weakness, if he wanted Zhongli could pin him to the ground under a geo seal, or crush him under a meteor, or use any of the numerous martial arts he’s mastered over the years to pummel Childe into the ground.

But here, everything is different. 

Zhongli is strong, but his touch is kind, nurturing. Zhongli could pin him down and do whatever he wanted with him, but he waits for Childe to deepen their kiss, only moving his lips when Childe does the same, following every movement Childe leads.

Maybe this is Zhongli’s strength, knowing that he could seize control of the situation at any moment, but chooses not to.

Gripping Zhongli’s shirt in his fist, Childe tries dipping his tongue forward to tease between Zhongli’s lips. Fontainian kissing, he’s heard it called, but he’s not going that far today, just enough to feel the dampness of Zhongli’s lips, explore this strange, wonderful man who is a pillar of strength yet a handhold of security.

If Zhongli is all of this at once, then he is stronger than Childe could have ever imagined.

Childe pulls back, drunk off the strange fuzzy high running through his entire body, and Zhongli looks the same as how he feels—wet lipped, wide eyes, nostrils flared with elevated breathing. Throughout the kiss, Zhongli continued to hold him close, and now they are done Childe doesn’t want him to stop.

“That was quite good.” Childe grins. “We should do that again sometime.”

“‘Quite’ is insufficient to summarise the degree of pleasure your proximity brought me, but yes, with the sentiment I would agree.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Is it truly dramaticism to accurately define the—'' Zhongli makes a surprised muffled sound as Childe clamps his hand over Zhongli’s mouth.

“Cut it out!” Childe laughs, removing his hand to rest it against Zhongli’s cheek. “You say such silly things, xiansheng.”

Zhongli laughs, leaning into Childe’s palm. “Very well, I shall hold my peace for now. But if you ever wish to hear all that I intended to express, there is plenty to be said, and I would be eager to share it.”

If Zhongli were to say those things, Childe would surely explode. Or implode. Or something equally violent. It’s too much, and he’s a parched man being dunked head first into a lake, drowning in the affection Zhongli pours over him.

But with time, as he reforms himself to overcome any obstacle, he will adapt to this too, and someday Zhongli will be able to speak his mind. He’ll make sure of it.

“Then I’ll ask you, one day, that’s a promise,” says Childe, lifting his pinky to tap it against Zhongli’s cheek.

“Then I shall look forward to that day.” Zhongli lifts his hand, reaching toward Childe’s face, but he retracts it before making contact, his smile fading slightly.

The joy fades, replaced with a nauseating ball of guilt in the back of Childe’s throat. Zhongli deserves a normal relationship with a normal person, not a weapon ready to strike him down at one wrong move. He deserves more, better.

“Zhongli?”

“Yes, Childe?”

“Can I trust you?”

He’s not sure why he asked it. The answer itself holds no merit—any logical person would answer yes, regardless of their intent—but somehow the whole world hinges on that single response, permission for himself to…he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know any of this.

But he wants to.

Zhongli sighs, squeezing his arm around Childe’s shoulders. “My dearest Childe, if I were to construct a road of Geo and set its path to Celestia itself, if you were upon it, I would bow not even to the Heavenly Principles themselves. Let there be no more half-truths, no more deception, and no more schemes between us. If you can trust my word, then I shall uphold that trust until the earth retakes me.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“It is.”

Trust. He can trust Zhongli. In this, anyway.

Zhongli isn’t going to stab him in the back, or slice a blade across his throat. Zhongli wants him. Zhongli likes him, and Zhongli wants to show him that. It would be so easy to let go, to accept all these strange and unfamiliar and wonderful things, but when he imagines Zhongli’s gentle touch roaming across scar lines and tissue taut from repeated electro burns, his heartbeat accelerates and his palms flash cold.

If only he could persuade his body of this, stow away those instincts that have kept him alive for nearly a decade, yet now hold him back from truly living.

“Then I’m going to try something. Don’t move.” Childe folds his hand over the back of Zhongli’s, intertwining their fingers as he lifts it toward his face. “You can’t hide what you want from me, so it’s up to me to give it to you.”

Zhongli frowns. “I would not wish to force myself upon you; I desire only that which you do also.”

“I want this. I want you, Zhongli, it’s just…complicated.”

“And that is perfectly acceptable—we have many days ahead of us yet; there is no need to rush yourself.”

Patient. Kind. Gentle.

Zhongli is safe, right?

What is he thinking? Doubt is unbefitting of a warrior such as Tartaglia. If he’s choosing a path, he must march upon it with full conviction, and embrace the consequence of that decision.

Zhongli is safe.

He pushes Zhongli’s palm against his cheek, his face burning and his pulse pounding in his ears.

Safe. This is safe. There is no danger here.

Warm. It’s warm, and geo energy pulses softly through the lines running through Zhongli’s skin, mildly tingly but not unpleasant.

Childe slides Zhongli’s hand down, brushing his lower cheek and jawbone, holding it against his neck.

A blade to his throat, the flick of a wrist. Red, red, red gushing over silken bedsheets. Limbs heavy, refusing all commands to move, to run. His body flung to the floor, a puddle of iron scented liquid pooling around his head.

Get up. Fight. Fight. Fight.

“Childe, I am here.” Zhongli’s voice drags him back to reality.

Childe swallows, trying to focus on Zhongli’s face. He’s too light, floating above the bed (which is thankfully not covered in his blood), but Zhongli’s hand is still on his neck, floating with him, steady and unwavering.

It’s just Zhongli, and just Childe. No blades or claws or teeth baying for his blood.

Fight.

No, not today.

Childe tethers himself to Zhongli, locking onto those kind eyes of his, shimmering like fine cut gemstone but soft like honey, and slowly he descends back to where he lies, bedsheets solid beneath his body and Zhongli’s arm still holding onto him by the shoulders. He swallows, taking stock of the pressure against his neck, of the faint hum of geo vibrating with the rhythm of his own pulse. 

“So am I,” he says, giving Zhongli the kind of smile he likes to see. “I’m here, Zhongli.”

“That you are. And while you instructed me to remain still, I would like to ask your forgiveness in advance for my next actions.” Zhongli shifts forward and before Childe has a chance to register what’s happening, Zhongli presses his lips to Childe’s forehead, lingering there a moment before drawing back, leaving a moist patch in his wake. “You have much to be proud of today.”

Proud? Of being a normal human being doing normal human things? If anything, the fact that today proved such a struggle is further evidence of how much better suited he is to being a weapon than a human.

Zhongli talks such nonsense.

Childe averts his eyes. “I don’t think so. This is what I should be able to offer you; I’m not taking pride in something so ordinary. A warrior must seek his pride in pushing the horizons of possibility, not walking the path others have already forged.”

There’s a pause, then Zhongli sighs. “Childe, will you look at me?”

He can’t. If he looks at Zhongli, those damn eyes of his will bore straight through him, opening up parts of him he swore he’d locked up for good, never to be released again to a world that would dig its claws into any vulnerability he dare show.

But letting a simple pair of eyes break him would be weak, and Tartaglia is not weak.

Slowly he looks back to Zhongli and nearly melts. Despite all the trouble Childe’s put him through, Zhongli smiles at him, subtle and tender and all too kind, only for him.

“If you refuse to be proud of your own achievements, then I am left obligated take that mantle in your stead.” Sliding his hand up to cup Childe’s cheek, Zhongli strokes his thumb against the corner of Childe’s lip. “For how far you have pushed through your limits today, I am proud of you.”

Cheeks hot. Palms too cold. Mind racing. 

Pride? What pride is there to be had in this?

Heartbeat in his throat. Skin tingling. Stomach churning. Oh, Archons, he’s going to be sick.

What foul magic is in these words to make him feel this way? He likes compliments as much as any man, but he never felt this way upon receiving the medals of service pinned in his quarters of Zapolyarny Palace.

No, it is these devious words Zhongli utters, turning him weak and cold and too hot all at once.

“Childe, did you hear? I wished to tell you that I am proud of you.”

“Cut it out!” A surge of adrenaline flashes through him and Childe flips out of Zhongli’s hold and shoves him flat to the bed, pinning him by his wrists. “Cut it out,” he growls, tightening his grip.

“Cut it out? I’m afraid I do not follow.” Zhongli doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight back, he just lies there, watching Childe’s face with quiet concern.

Childe wishes he would fight. He could raise a blade to a blade, but there is nothing he can do to defend himself against Zhongli’s treacherous mouth.

“Stop saying… that.”

“Ah, that I am—”

“Yes, that.”

“Why?”

“What?” “For what reason should I cease telling my beloved how I feel about him?”

“Because you…” Childe trails off, steadying his breath and taking in the situation—Zhongli pinned underneath him, his own mouth twisted in a snarl.  Archons, he truly is the weapon he seeks to become, a blade unable to comprehend anything other than how to strike out at friend and foe alike. He releases Zhongli’s wrists and braces himself on his hands above Zhongli, knees tucked at each side of Zhongli’s waist. “I don’t know. Sorry, I shouldn’t have… are you hurt?”

“It’s alright; given the circumstances, it is not unexpected for you to be on edge. But there is no need to be concerned, for I am unharmed—fortunately, pillows are not a terribly solid surface to land on.” Zhongli chuckles and turns his head to place a kiss at the base of Childe’s wrist. “And if my words were too much for you to bear in your current state of mind, I would also like to extend my apologies.”

No, he doesn’t deserve this. He was the bad guy here. He pinned Zhongli, and now Zhongli is apologising to him?

Zhongli didn’t even say anything wrong. He was being nice. He told Childe that he was proud of him. Proud. For something he did that didn’t involve sticking a blade through a creature’s skull. When was the last time anyone told him that?

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to hear it again.

“No, it’s not you, you didn’t do anything wrong, you just caught me off guard and I… Anyway, it’s my fault, and if you want to say it again, I won’t stop you this time.”

Zhongli pauses, then a beautiful smile draws across his face. “Childe,” he says, reaching up to brush the back of his hand against Childe’s cheek, “I am proud of you, and may you ever hold those words close in your memories, lest you be at risk of forgetting them.”

Childe’s throat is tight, and his chest compresses in on itself, squeezing the air from his lungs. His eyes sting and he clamps his teeth on the inside of his cheek, sucking until his mouth is dry and barren.

What the fuck is wrong with him? All because of some stupid, sappy words.

Pathetic.

And Zhongli keeps looking up at him, keeps smiling, keeps stroking his cheek. Zhongli, who lies all the way down there on the bed, so far away.

Too far.

Before he can change his mind, Childe slumps onto Zhongli, wrapping his arms around him and burying his head in Zhongli’s neck. They’re pressed chest to chest and he holds tighter, tighter, tighter. He’s drowning, drowning, drowning in Zhongli, but surfacing for air would be far worse.

He needs this. 

He needs this so much and he can’t let go.

Zhongli slips his arms around him, pulling them closer, and Childe does not flinch.

For a few minutes, the blade is sheathed, and the human who he’d thought lost a decade ago is allowed to rise, to feast on this banquet of affection and care Zhongli lays before him.

Zhongli slides a hand up Childe’s back, pausing with his palm pressed between his shoulder blades. “May I?”

“Please,” Childe sighs into Zhongli’s ear, “please, Zhongli.”

“You are remarkable,” murmurs Zhongli, his hand coming to rest on the back of Childe’s head, teasing his fingers through Childe’s hair to massage his scalp. “Adaptable, brave, tenacious… it would be a tragedy indeed if the poets do not one day set their pen to recording your deeds.”

“I think there’s already a song someone wrote back in Snezhnaya, but that was after the winter feast and might have had something to do with fire water.” Childe chuckles. “I’ll have to get you to try some one day.”

“Then I shall look forward to it.”

They lie quiet for a few minutes, Zhongli working a kind of magic through Childe’s hair, and Childe relaxes with each stroke, a dead weight atop Zhongli as he allows his eyes to close. Such things are not meant for Tartaglia, but here he is, an arm around his waist and the breaths of his lover curling in his ear. Body against body, embrace met with embrace, a leg slipping between Zhongli’s, limbs entangled, chests rising and falling in synchronisation.

While he’s not ready for other things couples like to do—the thought of wandering hands, grabbing and pulling and tugging sending a cold sweat to his palms—this is a start, and if this pleases Zhongli enough that he wishes to stay with him for now, the rest can be worked upon in time.

In time… he and Zhongli really are in this for the long haul, aren’t they?

“Hey, Zhongli?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this good for you?”

“This is perfect.”

“Even if we can’t… you know? Not yet, anyway.”

“As I said before, I shall treasure any action we can share together. I do not require that to be satisfied with your presence, nor is it a condition for my continued affection.”

“I’ll make it worth you waiting, mark my words. I’ll be the best you ever had.”

“Childe, hush.”

There’s a gentle pressure running from the top of Childe’s head to the base of his neck, and it takes Childe a moment to realise it’s Zhongli. He should feel insulted, a Harbinger of the Fatui having his head stroked like he’s some common dog, but the rhythmic movements sap his ability to give a single care.

Zhongli presses his mouth to Childe’s ear. “No matter what nature of activities you may choose to engage in come the future, there is no need to push yourself for my sake. For me, you are more than enough as you already are.”

Enough.

It’s a strange word, one Childe often likes to scoff at. Enough suggests complacency, a willingness to settle, a dead end to progress and improvement. Nothing is ever ‘enough’—his skills, his rank, his mastery of electro, hydro, the heretical powers of the deep. His life is a push toward more, more, more, for those who fail to improve are inevitably left behind, crushed in the dirt to rot with the remains of the sinners below.

But for Zhongli, he is apparently ‘enough’ and it sits differently, a little egg of contentment incubating behind his heart. He is enough, not too weak and naive, as Skirk had told him he was before striking his sword from his hands with a flick of her wrist, nor too wild, as his parents said before asking—no, begging—him to go along with the ‘generous’ Fatui recruiter.

He is Childe, Tartaglia, (maybe Ajax), and he can be here with Zhongli, and anything he gives is enough, and Zhongli will never expect more.

Zhongli tightens their embrace and Childe returns it, nuzzling into the warm corner between Zhongli’s neck and shoulder.

“Is this enough for you?” asks Zhongli.

Childe pushes himself up onto his forearms, looking down at the adoration written across Zhongli’s face, taking in the warmth of having another body slot so tightly against him, and smiles.

“Oh it’s more than enough for me. But there is one thing that I’ve not quite had enough of today.”

“Ah. And what might that be?”

Childe pecks a kiss to Zhongli’s forehead, then flops onto his chest, tugging Zhongli closer to him. “I’d like it if you touched me more. So please, can you do that?”

With a chuckle, Zhongli noses into Childe’s hair, and he starts working his fingers in circles over a tension point in Childe’s back, sending the long neglected muscles into ecstasy under the sudden attention and care. “My dearest Childe, there is nothing I would rather do more right now.”

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 14: Negotiations

Chapter 14 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, cooperative whumpee, defiant whumpee, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, royal whumper, conflicted whumper, threats of death, threats to innocents, threats to children, fantasy politics

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Miranelis

Talking with the servant had given Miranelis a brief taste of the way life used to be when he had never seen the Wolves in person, when he had known Kyollen Naskor only from tense diplomatic meetings and dusty language textbooks. Now Kezul’s shoulders looked even broader, his hair even wilder, his furs even more out of place. And his face, unlike the others’, was far from impassive. Miranelis, who had spent these past several weeks studying the man, knew that look for a desperate determination. But they knew the two in front of them would read it as fury—not only that, but childish fury, a toddler’s tantrum. If they didn’t run in fear from what Kezul’s wrath might bring, they would look on the ruler with contempt, as someone unfit to deal with as an equal.

“Wait,” Miranelis said desperately to Kezul, as if what they had begun weren’t already undone. “I need just a few more moments to explain…”

“How long does it take to request an audience?” Kezul stopped with his arms crossed over chest. And as if it hadn’t been bad enough already, all four Wolves followed a few paces behind him, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Perhaps Miranelis could still salvage this. They hastily turned to Perajeon. “On behalf of the throne of Danelor, may I present—”

“No need,” Perajeon interrupted. “I know who this is.” To Kezul, his face would most likely have appeared to be a blank mask. But Miranelis could see the shocking depths of the anger there, and hear it resonating in the man’s deep voice.

“Please,” Miranelis said, their desperation showing through in their voice, all hints of propriety abandoned in an instant. “If you hear us out—”

“I know who you are.” Perajeon spoke past Miranelis to Kezul now, the fury in his voice no doubt even plain to Kezul and his Wolves. Yes, the Wolves definitely heard it, because their hands tightened around their weapons. But Perajeon either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “You’re the one who sits on the throne while its wood is stained red with the blood of our queen. You’re the reason we starve while our farms burn. You dare to set foot in my gardens? You dare to send one of the queen’s own people to speak on your behalf?” At that, Miranelis cringed back at the naked scorn in the man’s voice. But even though he was talking about Miranelis, none of it seemed directed at them. It was as if Miranelis wasn’t there anymore.

Miranelis doubted Kezul could understand more than half of what Perajeon had said. His Wolves, of course, would understand none of it. But even the Wolves could surely read enough from his tone to know what kind of welcome they were receiving.

Before Miranelis could call out a word of warning, the Wolves surged ahead of Kezul. Two grasped the man by his arms, another forced him to his knees, and the fourth placed the tip of his sword to the man’s throat. “What would you like done with this creature?” the one holding the sword asked. It was clear what he hoped the answer would be.

Miranelis felt the absurd urge to laugh as the horrible scene played out. They had been afraid this would go badly. They had known, in fact, that failure was the most likely result. But even in their darkest imaginings, they hadn’t imagined it would go quite this badly. All that was missing was the flames.

There was something else in the Wolf’s tone, something Miranelis didn’t understand. Some kind of challenge, a look in his eyes and in the way he held himself. It intensified when his glance went to Miranelis, then to Kezul again. And… was he looking Kezul in the eye? Miranelis had come to notice, over the course of the past few weeks, that Kezul’s Wolves were reluctant to look at him directly. Most of the time. But today, this one wasn’t.

Kezul saw the challenge, too. Miranelis was sure of it. He tensed, those nerves Miranelis had seen in him back in full force—and then some. The nerves turned to raw anger—real or feigned, Miranelis didn’t know. They didn’t think it mattered. Either way, any good they could have accomplished here was over and done with.

At this point, the best Miranelis could hope for was to survive it themselves.

And at this point, with Miranelis’s best chance at saving their people coming to the room in front of them, they weren’t sure they wanted to survive it. After all, hadn’t they agreed to this so that they could help their people?

“Hang him up and gut him,” Kezul ordered, his voice dark and thrumming like the first tremors of an earthquake. “Leave him on display here in front of his house. Him and all his family.”

The servant tried to run. One of the Wolves caught him by the arm, flung him viciously to the ground, and kicked him in the stomach. The servant curled into a quivering ball. When he looked up again, he was staring at the tip of the Wolf’s sword. He didn’t try to move again.

When Miranelis looked back on this moment later, they wouldn’t know where they had found the courage to speak. They didn’t even have it in them to try to run like the servant—their limbs felt as if they had turned to water. They were surprised they were still standing, with a liquid spine balanced on top of liquid legs. But somehow, they heard their own voice, sharp and clear. “You can’t do this.”

Kezul turned to him abruptly—him and all his Wolves. His eyes burned with an anger deeper than Miranelis had ever seen in him before. Anger and—fear?

“I can do whatever I please,” said Kezul, in that same terrifying voice. “This is my country now, and its people are mine to rule as I see fit. You do not give the orders here.”

“But the stakes—everything we talked about—you know what he can offer you—” Why was Miranelis bothering? It didn’t matter. This plan had never been never going to work. They didn’t know how they had fooled themselves into thinking otherwise. Well, yes, they did—they had talked themselves into it because they, deep down, didn’t want to make a principled stand. They wanted to live. They had wanted to believe, against all logic, that the selfish choice was also the noble one. That they could save their people.

They had chosen the wrong side. They had chosen the conquerors who had killed their queen, who had caused Havedrial’s death, who had made the halls of the palace run red with blood. They had known from the start what Kezul and his Wolves had done—they had been the one to scrub the blood from the floor.

Now there would be more blood. Because of Miranelis. Because Miranelis had led them here. And the rest of Danelor would still starve.

Perajeon was talking again, even with the sword to his throat. “What were you thinking, bringing him here? Are you a traitor, or simply a coward?”

“Only a coward,” Miranelis whispered miserably. It was what they had always been. They spoke so quietly they didn’t think anyone heard.

The Wolves dragged Perajeon to one of the trees with the white leaves, and bound his wrists to an overhanging branch with his own sash. The man looked like he had a lot more to say, but it seemed he had finally figured out it made more sense not to say it. That might have had something to do with the fact that he also looked like if he opened his mouth, he might well vomit on the ground. His eyes were locked on the dark metal of the Wolves’ swords.

With him secured in place, the Wolves pushed into his house, hurrying past the servant curled miserably on the grass. A moment later, they came out with bloody swords—so much for the house guards—and prodding the rest of the household ahead of them. Two more servants, a round-faced woman who had to be Perajeon’s wife, and their two children. One of the children was about the age Miranelis had been when they had taken the palace service exam. The other was too young to have lost the last of her baby roundness.

The older child marched along white-faced, hands clenched at his sides, plainly dreaming dreams of vengeance. The younger stumbled behind with tear-streaked cheeks, making small noises of fear that made her mother wince as if each were a physical blow.

When Miranelis saw the children, they thought they might throw up. They were grateful they hadn’t eaten in hours, although from the roiling in their stomach, they weren’t sure it would matter. Miranelis had done this. Miranelis had brought the Wolves to them. Because Miranelis had wanted to live.

Miranelis could dress it up however they liked. They could talk about how they had wanted to save Danelor from starvation. In the end, they had wanted to live. And Kezul had given them a way to justify their own survival to themselves.

“If you do this,” Miranelis said desperately, trying to catch Kezul’s eye, “no one in Danelor will ever sit down at the table with you again. In Danelor or outside of it. The people will turn against you, and the more than you kill, the fewer there will be to grow the next harvest. Faraille will have the excuse they need to tear up their treaty. The only option you’ll have left is more blood and death and fire.”

In their talks over the past few weeks, Miranelis had come into believe—or at least hope—that Kezul truly didn’t want that. But Kezul didn’t look at them now. So maybe they had always been wrong. Maybe they had only ever seen what they had wanted to see—the excuse they needed to save their own skin.

“They’re children.” The words burst from Miranelis’s throat, even though they knew he was pointless to speak. What was the use in expecting human feeling from the son of Vorhullin the Unmaker?

One of the Wolves cuffed Miranelis viciously upside the head. Miranelis’s ears rang. “Quiet,” the Wolf growled. “Unless you want to join them.”

That made Kezul look over at them, his eyes still burning. “I thought I made it clear my prisoner wasn’t to be harmed.”

“Your prisoner has said too much already.” There was something underneath the Wolf’s words, something Miranelis didn’t understand but Kezul clearly did.

Perajeon shouted and raged and cursed. Miranelis hadn’t taught Kezul any of those words, but they were certain he understood—some things needed no translation. Kezul motioned to one of the Wolves. The Wolf took a position in front of Perajeon. He wiped his sword clean, sheathed it, and took his knife into his hand instead.

Perajeon’s furious tirade turned into broken, angry sobs. He stared at the weapon. He stared at his family, who all had tears of their own streaming down their faces.

“If you don’t care about the children,” Miranelis said, “then remember why you’re doing this. There’s a reason you asked for my help. It would have been easier to kill me. But you convinced me to work with you instead. You didn’t go to all that trouble just throw away this chance.”

Their words were meaningless. There was no chance, not anymore. Perajeon would never work with Kezul now, would never trust their conquerors—and why should he? Miranelis had been a fool to trust them. A fool to believe, even for a second, Kezul might have their best interests at heart.

The Wolf raised his knife.

“Wait.” Kezul’s voice was a crack of thunder.

The Wolf froze. The man’s babble cut off. Even the children paused in their sobbing.

Kezul stepped between the Wolf and Perajeon. He took hold of Perajeon’s chin. “I hear you have diplomatic resources,” he said. “Is that true?” Or at least, that was what Miranelis assumed he had meant to say. His pronunciation was atrocious, the word he used for resources was more properly applied to food rations, and he had put the words all out of order.

But Perajeon seemed to understand enough to get the impression. “What does it matter?” he spat. “I won’t offer anything of mine to you except this.” With that, spit in Kezul’s face.

Kezul froze. Slowly, as the Wolves gripped their weapons tighter, he wiped the spittle from his face.

“What would make you reconsider?” he asked. Miranelis didn’t know which surprised them more—that he had understood what Perajeon had said well enough to respond, that he had used the proper word for reconsider, or that the man had spit in his face and Kezul hadn’t slit his throat on the spot.

Perajeon lifted his chin, wrenching it from Kezul’s grip. “I won’t respond to threats.” His reddened eyes were wild. Apparently he had decided that if he and everyone he loved was going to die anyway, and there was nothing he could do about it, he might as well thoroughly earn his death.

“I’m not threatening.” Kezul stood, hands at his sides, and regarded the man with those dark, burning eyes. “What price would make you reconsider?”

For a moment, the man just stared at him. So did the Wolves. So did his family members, who looked like they didn’t understand a word of what was happening. Miranelis couldn’t blame them. What must the man be thinking? He was tied to a tree, inches from having his guts spilled on the ground, and now Kezul was saying he wasn’t making threats?

Finally, Perajeon graced him with a savage smile. “An end to your rule. Remove your army from the Danelor and put one of our own back on the throne. Leave this place and never come back. That is my price.” He spat again—on the ground this time.

“That, as you know, is not an option. The conquest is over and done with.” Kezul’s response indicated that he had understood at least most of that—another surprise. A greater surprise was the fact that Kezul still didn’t gut the man, or order his Wolves to finish this. “Given that, I ask you again—what is your price?”

It took Perajeon a long moment to speak. “My family’s freedom.” His voice shook. He was clearly reluctant to speak the words aloud, obviously afraid Kezul would laugh in his face and tell him this was a game he had invented to entertain his Wolves. Miranelis wasn’t so sure that wasn’t the case. It wouldn’t be the first time Kezul had played this kind of game. Miranelis still had the scars.

“And?” Kezul asked.

The man blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

“You said you don’t respond to threats,” Kezul said. “And threatening is a poor way to open a negotiation, I’m told. I have behaved… rashly. I wish to begin again. To have a real negotiation, and not promises extracted at the point of a blade. Considering that, take your family’s survival as a given. If we were sitting at a negotiation table, if your family’s life were not on the line, what would you ask for?”

Perajeon gave a short, harsh laugh. “You destroyed our countryside, burned our crops. You held a blade to my children’s throats. I’m hanging here in front of you, waiting to die. And I’m supposed to believe you’ve… changed your mind?”

Kezul jerked a hand toward the Wolves holding Perajeon’s family and the servants at swordpoint. “Let them go,” he ordered in his own language.

They looked at him. Then they looked at Miranelis. There was something in that look. That same something that they had sensed earlier. It was an undercurrent running through this entire chaotic exchange, a thrumming note of tension vibrating underneath the fury and terror that permeated the air. Miranelis might not have sensed it at all—it was a subtle thing, and there was little room here for subtlety—if not for the fact that it always seemed strongest when someone was looking at them.

“Let them go,” Kezul repeated. This time, his voice was a crack of thunder, loud enough and deep enough to make his Wolves step back involuntarily. “I won’t ask again. Or do you need a reminder of what happens to those who displease a son of the Unmaker?” He gave the man’s bindings a pointed look. “This man will not die here today. But that doesn’t mean no one will.”

The Wolves’ hands shifted on their weapons. For one brief, confusing moment, they looked as if they might turn those swords on Kezul. But then they lowered the weapons and stepped back. They waved the woman and children, and the two servants, toward the back garden.

None of them needed to be asked twice. The woman took the children’s hands and pulled them away with her, with one last glance toward her husband. The servants quickly followed. The servant on the ground, encouraged by a kick from one of the Wolves, crawled the first few steps, then got up and managed a hobbling jog.

Kezul reached up and undid Perajeon’s bindings. “Well? Is that enough of a show of good faith for you?”

The man, for once, had nothing to say. He stared at Kezul like he didn’t recognize him anymore, like he was trying to figure out who this man was. Miranelis felt much the same.

“What is your price?” Kezul asked.

Perajeon glanced over his shoulder toward where the rest of his household had disappeared, as if he was considering joining them.

“Go, if that is your choice,” said Kezul. “I won’t harm you. But if you go now, you lose your chance at whatever you might have asked of me.”

The man looked toward the waiting Wolves. With a gesture of his hand, Kezul called the Wolves back to him. It did not escape Miranelis’s notice that the Wolves were slower than usual to respond to his direction.

“I want nothing from you,” Perajeon spat, finding room for a last bit of defiance.

“Is that true?” Kezul asked. “Are the people in your valley that well off after the war? Do they truly want for nothing?”

“And whose fault is it that they want for so much? Can you give back the crops your armies burned? The houses? Can you raise the dead?”

“My father’s army,” Kezul said. “Not mine.”

“Is there a difference?”

“You tell me,” said Kezul. “Are you alive right now? Are your children? Is your home still standing? My father would have had no patience for this conversation.” His speech was slow and stilted, but surprisingly coherent. He really did have a mind for languages.

“I’m surprised you do.”

Kezul glanced at Miranelis. “Perhaps I’m growing used to your people. Whether that is good or bad is anyone’s guess.” He held Perajeon’s gaze until the man squirmed. “Now. Your price. Or are we finished?”

“Enough food to feed everyone in this valley for the next three years,” the man said, holding Kezul’s gaze steadily instead of looking away. “That’s how long it will take to begin to recover from your father’s army’s destruction.”

“And how much would that be?”

The man listed off amounts that made Miranelis’s eyebrows jerk to the sky and their chest tighten. It would have been impossible under normal circumstances. And right now, all of Danelor was starving.

“We don’t have that to give,” said Kezul. “But we can, with your help.”

Perajeon blinked. It looked as though he hadn’t expected to be taken seriously. “And in exchange?”

“Convince the other noble houses to work with me,” said Kezul. “I hear you have the combined resources to convince neighboring countries to work with us. Use them.”

“To work with you?” The man shook his head. “Our resources are not unlimited. We have many useful friendships, yes, under the blessing of our queen. But our queen is dead. Your blessing is… forgiving my bluntness…” He glanced at the Wolves’ swords. “Less of a recommendation.”

The Wolves, sensing an insult, began to step forward. Kezul waved them back.

“Without those resources, I cannot meet your price,” said Kezul, using the wrong word for resources again. “With them, perhaps I can. Will you try?”

“And what guarantee do I have that you will honor your word?” Perajeon asked.

“You’re alive,” said Kezul, “when it would have been simpler for me to kill you.” There was that undertone of subtle tension again, as Kezul looked to his Wolves and the Wolves looked back instead of dropping their gazes. “I need what you can offer. You need what I can offer. I cannot give my word, but I can say that if you make it possible for me to give you what you ask, then I will.”

“And if I say no?”

Miranelis held their breath.

“Then you may go.” With another wave of his hand, Kezul motioned to the Wolves back another two paces. They moved slowly, reluctantly. But they did move.

“I can also make no promises,” the man finally said. “But I will do my best.”

Kezul nodded to the man. “Then the next time you speak my name,” he said, “remember that I spared you. Remember that we both want this country and its people to live.” This time, the sharp wave of his hand was directed at Miranelis. “Mir, I think we’re done here,” he said, still in Miranelis’s language. “Let’s go.”

As Miranelis hurried to follow him, they felt Perajeon’s curious eyes on the back of their neck. Maybe Perajeon was wondering what he was doing with Kezul. Maybe he was simply confused at the name. The people of Danelor did not shorten their names.

They had the absurd impulse to call back over their shoulder, to say they hadn’t chosen it. But after all, it had been a long time since they had raised an objection to what Kezul chose to call them.

---

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[lshark-cs]

Iron God Chapter 26 [Xigon]

CW: Mental breakdown? Disgusting snake.

Xigon couldn't move or breathe. His body was cold and everything around him was quiet. He knew he was alone, and it terrified him. He needed someone. Anyone. Even Qila was better than chills and silence.

I wish you would die.

Minutes dragged on like years.

Die.

He didn't want to die. He didn't know whether it was even possible for him to die, but the mere thought of it was horrifying. To not exist. To not be. Like the thousands of people marked on his arms. And here, Haode thought Xigon didn't understand, when the truth was he understood better than anyone.

Give up already.

He refused. Xigon never gave up. What he wanted, he got, one way or another. How should this be any different?

Then he felt it – a pull, deep and irresistible.

His lungs swelled painfully with his first breath in what must have been hours or days. Xigon's eyes snapped open. His hands clenched tight. He twitched and whimpered as he struggled to re-establish his breathing and heartbeat. Slowly but surely, warmth and color returned to his skin. Confusion clouded his tired mind as some strange instinct forced him toward the door that hung ajar. He crawled, heaving in pain, and tried to make sense of what drove him. As if it had ever made sense that birth and dying drew him like his lantern drew moths in the night.

Once he got through the door, he tried to sit up and look around. His surroundings were bafflingly unfamiliar even though he knew nothing in the halls had changed. Or had they changed? He leaned his back against a wall and found he could not reorient himself. His eyes grew wide with that realization. Dark specks floated across his vision.

Cold silence surrounded him. It clouded his head like heavy dark smoke. Inch by agonizing inch, he crawled on.

He didn't understand why. He'd never understood. Xigon's suffering mind drifted back to his first encounter with Qila. Two villages at each other's throats like starving dogs. All that death had pulled him close, refused to let him go. How he'd feared yet craved it, needed it. How Qila had eventually found him standing over two dead armies.

His arms strained. He dragged himself forward, palms and knees aching against the cold floor. Water dripped onto the stone. Each breath came more strangled than the one before it. Was he crying?

He was. He was crying, and not quietly. It was as if part of him knew what he would find at the end of the thread that pulled him.

Soft footsteps echoed down the hall.

Xigon looked up and registered that something alive was in front of him. It was white-hot, blazing bright. It hurt. He wanted it gone. The primal urge to kill whatever was in front of him consumed all other thoughts. His eyes fixated on the center of that heat, the heart, and burned violet as he tried to snuff it out.

It only dimmed slightly before steady fingers clamped his eyes shut. Sobs shook Xigon as whoever it was brought his head down, keeping him blinded and defenseless.

"Shhh, shhh. It's me." Qila spoke in a soothing tone. "Calm down. Focus."

Xigon's heart beat faster at the sound of Qila's voice. He clutched her arms and tried to use his hands instead of his eyes, but with his gloves on, there was little he could do.

They sat like that for some time, Qila restricting his vision while he dug his fingers into her arms, nearly tearing holes in her sleeves with how tight he held on. His breathing was heavy and erratic. Qila's touch only upset him more, but it couldn't be worse than cold and alone, he told himself. Beggars couldn't be choosers. His nemesis was better than no one.

Still holding his head down, she let him open his eyes again. "I found out Ami made you take Rager," she told him. "I'm sorry we left you alone. Everyone's worried sick about Channei. She's injured."

Not just injured, Xigon realized. Not if he felt this kind of pull. Channei was likely dying.

He hoped he was wrong, but that sense had never lied to him before.

There was a tug in another direction. He felt as if he were being torn limb from limb. His voice came out a strained wheeze. "Channei..."

Qila let go of him. "Can you get up?"

Right behind her, he saw a vision of Haode holding a bloody dagger.

Xigon bared his teeth. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up. His eyes were ablaze with violet.

Qila reached out to steady him. "Xigon?"

He managed three stiff words. "Help me walk."

She obeyed without another word.

They made it to the bluehole room after what felt like a hundred miles, one step at a time. The heat of so many souls was an assault on his heightened senses. Xigon shut his eyes and turned his head away.

"I brought him," said Qila. "Seems like you all and he had the same terrible idea."

"Thanks, Master Qila." He heard Kolo's voice, louder and more confident than he'd ever heard it. "Master Xigon, I need you to do that thing you did a while ago. With my mind and the broken pieces. Remember?"

He did remember.

"It sounds insane, I know," said Kolo. "But I have a feeling this could help us. Please."

The tug of impending death overpowered his mind. He extended a shaky hand. "Take my glove off."

"Xigon, in this state, you'll kill her." Qila tried to pull his arm down. "Wait a while."

"We don't have a while, Qila." Kolo yanked Xigon's glove off. "All right. Here goes nothing." She pressed his hand to her forehead and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Xigon wasn't even aware of doing anything. His power seemed to work on its own. He flinched, then opened his eyes and saw Kolo backing away from him. She had an expression of utter shock, as if lightning had struck an inch away from her face.

Azvalath ran to her side. "Kolo, what happened?"

"Stand back a second, Aza." She took Xigon's hand again. "I know what to do now."

Her eyes gleamed a harsh violet. Light pulsed in tangled threads beneath her skin. Qila gasped and let go of Xigon. His jaw fell open as he realized what Kolo was about to do. The understanding came a few seconds too late.

Xigon's inner ears exploded. His vision blacked out, then went white, then everything swam back into view. He thought he was falling, but he couldn't tell up from down. Qila caught him again, but she could barely keep him on his feet.

"There, I think I destroyed most of that poison." Kolo let go of his hand. "Can you save Channei now?"

Xigon realized with amazement that his head was almost clear. "Yes." His heart swelled. "I can. Thank you, little devil."

"Not devil," she corrected. "Goddess."