So you did it once, twice, every time you saw the slight furrow of his thick brows or whenever you saw that he had finished a thick stack of paperwork. The kiss was both you can do this and a good job to Varka.

But now he kept seeking it more,

Even if he were outside of the Knights of Favonius Headquarters. For example, the two of you were eating at Good Hunters, and he looked at you long enough for you to notice— you already knew what he wanted. So you would lean in and he would lower himself every time until he felt the kiss.

Varka swears the food becomes a hundred times tastier after that.

And you had grown a habit of kissing his scar..s. Scars. You now had a habit of kissing and touching his scars.

Not that Varka minded, he would even encourage you to keep kissing it. He wore his scars like medals of honor— he was proud of the marks on his skin and you never looked at it with pity.

Which may or may not be why he didn't want you to stop.

You pressed a kiss on the scar on his right side of his face after you slipped in the warmth of his embrace, his heavy arms wrapping around you and one of his hands rubbing your upper back as you melted against him. "With how much you're kissing me there, aren't you afraid of leaving a permanent mark on my face?" "You're being ridiculous again. Besides, you won't even mind if I did leave a permanent mark of my lips on your face, would you?" He laughed, loud and totally Varka. "I'd even show it to the whole of Teyvat." Varka's lips formed into his signature grin and you can't help but roll your eyes fondly. But you also found yourself nuzzling against the larger scar on his neck— the one that was always hidden beneath his clothes and would only become visible in nights where Varka felt safe enough to take his armor off. Your breath would fan against Varka's neck, eyes blinking slowly while Varka could feel your body easing on his. Your fingertips grazed on his rough skin, tracing the outlines of the scars of the heavy arm that wrapped around your waist. You shifted and raised your leg to settle it on Varka's hip, and the ridiculously large man pulled you closer immediately. "Sleepy, sweetheart?" Varka asked, and he heard you hum in response. "Sleep, I'll be here when you wake up." A soft reminder that sounded like a promise. No expeditions, no waking up to find the bed cold, Varka will be here beside you when your eyes open and he'll already be awake and giving you a good morning.

Isn’t there something, or more specifically someone, that concerns you more right now? That fills you with dread and worry? For example, the person who gave you that charm?

It should have been a tremendous relief for the Wanderer to go back to Sumeru City victorious after he had finally gotten his revenge on Dottore. He should have been celebrating and perhaps gone back to check on Lesser Lord Kusanali, but no, his heart was in distress while clutching the woven charm that you had made for him.

It may not be as big of a threat as the second harbinger to the whole nation, but it made him uneasy all the same.

Had it been something like ignoring you, it would have been an easy fix—but no, it wasn't.

You were... Well, a very obvious individual when it comes to your affection. With that said, you were specifically affectionate towards one person, who was the Wanderer or Hat Guy, as most would call him.

Everyone knew you liked the Hat guy despite him mostly replying to you sarcastically.

Even Hat Guy himself knew that you liked Hat Guy despite his attempts to make you annoyed with him and give up, which only rendered them futile because you always looked at him with the brightest smile that you had as if he were the greatest thing that had happened in this wretched world. It was impossible to not find out that you like him.

At first, the Wanderer thought that maybe whatever Dottore was spewing out of his mouth was nonsense, baseless, and false. But when your eyes locked and you turned away in a way the Wanderer didn't think you had it in you, his heart sank.

It was denial first—maybe you didn't want to talk, maybe you were simply tired from all that moving around from Caravan Ribat and back to the rainforest again. The wanderer turned back. Perhaps you'll talk tomorrow, just not today.

He waited days that turned into weeks, and somehow, a part of him continued to ache. Dottore's voice echoing in his head.

I wonder what that person would think if your past... was suddenly revealed to them?

You truly didn't mean to turn around so quickly that day. Deep inside, your heart skipped a beat and then sank in a bottomless pit. In your mind, one name was persistent to remind you that the Wanderer you were looking at had a previous name—Scaramouche.

When it was announced that the people from the rainforest were allowed to go back to the city, you were overjoyed.

You just weren't ready to read the documents that were lying on your coffee table—names, experiments, and Scaramouche, the sixth harbinger—a puppet, a weapon, and a monster because his creator deemed him too human.

You wished you had never read those documents; your head ached from them, and you simply can't go shouting around that this wanderer was the sixth harbinger; you'll be seen as crazy.

You kept it to yourself instead, and now you look even more suspicious whenever you avoid the wanderer. The people around you have now speculated one thing: You were rejected by the Wanderer.

Which made the said man sigh because he was trying to find an opening to talk to you.

So he hid first, and the moment you turned around, you were pulled to the side. You gasped in surprise and blinked. "Hat guy!?" you exclaimed, eyes going wide to see the familiar man in front of you. Surely he wasn't going to— "Calm down, would you?" The Wanderer frowned as if he read your mind. He folded his arms across his chest and then spoke again, "Why have you been ignoring me?"

Somehow those words were more of a surprise to you; you didn't expect that question. Honestly, you weren't expecting all of this at all. You hesitated and forced out a smile. "Me? I haven't..."

"Stop lying. You're too obvious."

"I'm not—"

"You're lying again."

That made you shut up. The two of you stared at each other, and he was uncharacteristically patient for once. It was when you lowered your eyes that the Wanderer spoke, "You... read something, didn't you?"

You looked up, heart traitorously skipping a beat.

The Wanderer continued, "Something about me."

You kept quiet, and just from your expression did the Wanderer confirm it all: that yes, you had read something about him. The very part he despises. "You didn't tell anyone about this?" he asked. You frowned. "Why would I tell anyone? It's not my story to tell."

His purple eyes bore into you, and you heard him sigh, "Then tell me, now that you have read about my past... does that mean I'm unworthy of your affection now?"

You froze, looking at him in shock. "What—hey, are you distracting me from the fact that you were—" You immediately shut your mouth and tried again. "Why don't you tell me if whatever I read was true or not?"

The Wanderer took a deep breath. "If I said it was all true?"

You bit your bottom lip before answering, "T-Then... I don't know what to say."

The Wanderer didn't say anything—oh, he hated Dottore with every fiber of his being. He slowly raised his hand and opened it; on it was a woven charm. The one you had made for him before you departed for Caravan Ribat. You stared at him and looked at the Wanderer's purple eyes, and somehow they were staring back at you—soft, softer than the ones you had dreamt of.

"Your charm," he said, his voice lower now. "I kept it on my person the whole time. I wanted to thank you for it," not that he was a believer of charms and all that. "I thought of you," the wanderer felt. He wasn't used to this type of thing. "I just wanted to let you know."

You held the woven charm you had made and stared at him; you saw the Wanderer stare at you for a moment before he lowered his head and hid his face with his hat, turning his head to the side. "I better get going now."

A shaky breath left you. "I read everything. Even if it hurt my head, even if it shook me to the bone that the person I liked for too long was... that." The wanderer didn't turn around; he just listened. You were sure of it—that he was listening. "You never... made me feel unsafe. Not only that, you helped Sumeru and stayed here, and even if you don't admit it, you made it your home."

Varka is a huge man. When I say huge, I mean huge huge.

Everything about him is overwhelming because he's all: broad chest, broad shoulders you can grip on, heavy arms, ridiculous body heat, and his sheer size alone is unbearable in a good way.

So when he pulls you in for an embrace, it's over— because you basically disappear in it.

He's huge in a way that one arm was enough to wrap around your waist and pull you even closer; it was enough to make you feel safe and secure, and it was surely enough to stop you from drifting away. Varka never hesitates nor does he hold you with uncertainty, he holds you like a man proclaiming that his arms are your safe place now.

And you melt against him.

Which Varka absolutely loves.

Varka is incredibly physically affectionate, and it's not even in a subtle way because this man doesn't know how to be subtle. He's affectionate instinctively, dramatically him—it was simply his nature. That makes affection for him effortless.

He's affectionate in a way that he'll:

pull you in mid-conversations just to feel you on him wrap the two of you with his cloak tucks you automatically under his chin, his blond hair tickling your skin sprawling across the bed and the couch and pulling you in with him just because.

The reason was simple: he likes you close to him. It has become the default state of things between the two of you.

He is also very clingy when he's exhausted, sprawling on the bed or anywhere he thinks is comfortable enough to sleep, and he'll immediately pull you closer when you walk towards him. In the end, you end up sprawled on top of him while he whispers, "Stay here," as if you had a chance when you can't even move properly with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist.

As I said, Varka has ridiculous body heat—he's warm. The kind of warmth that seeps through the bones and settles in when the night becomes cold and exhaustion creeps in. What you don't know is that Varka melts when you reach for him on those nights.

Actually, he melts when you reach for him. Whenever, wherever, no matter the time and place—if your arm stretches out just to touch him, he's a goner.

In the process of Varka being a combination of affection and warmth, you developed a habit:

crawling towards him in bed when you feel exhausted sliding your hands beneath his shirt just to feel his heat curling fully against him because you can feel his large arms wrapping around you.

He encourages it shamelessly. With a big grin and a very pleased look on his face.

He would even just lean down just enough for you and then guide your arms around his neck with one of his hands and a grin on his face while his other hand pressed on your waist.

So when you press soft kisses against his jaw and whisper, "Hold me?"

The grand master visibly melts.

He knew he was wrapped around your finger.

Soft gasps, half-lidded eyes, and kissed lips whispering his name—those were the things that Childe did to you.

Your eyes gazing into his deep blue ones, how your lips pressed against his skin, or how you clung to him while his hand traced the arch of your back—it drove him wild.

Yet when he whispers, “Stay for the night," and you reply under your breath, “I will," he holds you tighter—not quite how friends should, and yet, you weren’t quite lovers either.

Childe never took affection lightly; each touch that he had made you feel was all driven with purpose. So when he asked you to stay after a night of intimacy and the day after that and the next day after that, he truly believed that your heart was his to hold.

You and Childe had seen each other’s scars and vulnerability; both of you had shared beds and warmth and touched each other with terrifying familiarity.

But neither of you brought up the topic of what are we?

There was no confession or a proper discussion.

And neither of you had asked each other to be each other’s lover.

So when you kept staying and kept coming back to him, he thought he didn’t need to ask because it had been implied already that you were each other’s, no? It’s implied in the way both of you slipped into each other’s arms, beds, and lives.

It’s implied in late nights, in love-bitten necks, and in intimacy that felt tender.

Childe never thought about it too hard, he didn’t worry over it.

But he saw you somewhere near a food stall, cloak clinging onto your figure to keep you warm from the cold air in Snezhnaya, leaning over towards a man he deemed irrelevant.

It shouldn’t have made his blood boil, it shouldn’t have made him clench his teeth in annoyance and he took a step forward but when he heard your laugh from where he was standing— he froze.

At that moment, he told himself— if he were to step in between you and the man you were laughing with, what would he say?

That he was your boyfriend and he didn’t like the way that guy is looking at you?

Your body may be mine to hold but your heart isn’t. And he didn’t like the thought of that, his feet moved— walking away.

What right did he have to feel betrayed when you were acting so familiar over someone he didn’t knew about? Childe clenched his teeth so hard he thought it might crack because the jealousy arrived anyways— hot and humiliating.

And now a thought creeps into his mind:

that all those intimate moments are nothing but temporary comfort, intimacy without obligations to you, while he’s here going crazy because, for him, it was dangerously close to love.

Ajax had treated all of those nights with a devotion that was meant only for you.

But now your eyes bore into him as the silence felt too loud in the room where both of you held each other for many nights. You frowned when you just saw him there standing, because Ajax would already be annoying you.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, placing your cloak on the couch before turning towards him fully.

Ajax’s lips twitched, forcing himself to smile before laughing softly. It sounded wrong. “Funny thing actually, baby," he said quietly, his tone sharp around the edges and it made your heart beat faster.

“I realized I have absolutely no right to be jealous.” He ran a hand through his ginger hair and took a deep breath. “I realized you’re not mine," He whispered under his breath.

You froze. Ajax was looking at you with his dull blue eyes staring at you and you saw it— the hurt behind his eyes, the way his brows furrowed subtly.

“Were we not—“ The question didn’t even make it out before he exhaled sharply and looked away. “I thought… we belonged to each other.”

The silence was deafening. Ajax sounded so wounded— he looked at you again and his voice sounded raw. “The thought of you with someone else makes me sick.”

He let out a laugh, quieter now. The honesty of his words lands heavy— Tartaglia never feared losing fights but losing you?

It terrified him.

“It’s ridiculous. I’m sorry—”

“Ajax.”

He looked at you when you called his name, how it sounded like it was trembling at the edges made his heart clench. You stepped closer when your eyes met and reached out, “I.. didn’t think you were waiting for me to say it.”

His eyes never looked away from you even when you closed the distance between you.

But confronting something like this needed time.

Things become careful, which was worse in your—not because Childe hesitates before touching you, but because the two of you were stuck in between friends and lovers and don’t know how to confront it without the fear that something might change even when people around them has already assumed they were together.

It had been days after the confrontation, it was late at night with you in Ajax’s room again as the harbinger wiped off the blood on his knuckles from a mission.

Everything felt achingly familiar.

“You know, most people would call this dating.” He said without looking up, as if he was testing the words he had just spoke out.

You looked at him and whispered with a light tone, “Would they?” You heard him laugh at your words.

“Baby, we sleep in the same bed.” He paused before saying, “Repeatedly.”

You shifted on the bed and slowly sat up, “I thought you hated labels.” You said softly.

He finally looked at you and was quiet for a second but when he spoke— it was quiet. “I do.” His eyes softened, “But I hate uncertainty more.. because I’m certain I want you to be mine and I want to be yours.”

“Can I .. be your boyfriend?”

“Yes.” You said immediately that even Childe looked surprised, and there— you had a smile blooming on your face.

Because you had been waiting for him as well.

So now when people ask what both of you are, Childe was already there grinning and saying shamelessly, “That’s my baby.” With unbearable pride.

Well, there is a reason on why he had become such a clingy dragon.

It was because you had voluntarily helped a neighbor of yours into moving some things inside their home after Fontaine had been engulfed by the sea. You had been helping since the morning, exhaustion clinging on you as you helped until the evening, and unfortunately accidentally slipped which then resulted in you having a small cut on the palm of your hands.

But you didn't expect that this small cut made your hydro dragon worry when you came to him and pointed out the cut on your palm.

After that, it was like a blur of events where Neuvillette told you too rest while bringing you to the bed and the smell of tea lingering on the bedside and then something warm slithered between your legs and then a low rumble above your head.

You felt like you were pressed between two warm bodies but the exhaustion kept you asleep, your mind just thinking that it was nothing.

Until you woke up and found yourself tangled in loose silver-white scales as if someone might take you in the middle of the night when Neuvillette isn't looking.

Now you were there again, eyes blinking slowly and somehow feel scared that the ground beneath you will break from the weight of Neuvillette's dragon form. You felt the Neuvillette's body moved and then a low rumble above your head.

You look up and you saw those familiar purple-shaded slit eyes staring back at you.

"Neuvillette?" You asked, sleep still lingering in your voice and his huge dragon head lowered itself until you could reach it by an arm, you saw how his eyes softened and you reached out to rub Neuvillette's jaw.

A low rumble left him. Not quite a purr, not quite a growl, as if he was saying you're awake.

He leaned in, snout nudging you slightly as his eyes softened even further. You smiled, "You're getting more comfortable, hm?"

It wasn't like Neuvillette wanted to always use his dragon form whenever you were sleepy but there was a simple reason as to why he uses it:

With your cheek pressed on his scales, your body pressed against his huge form and your eyes half-lidded from sleep, you looked absolutely beautiful.

And he was smitten with you, that's the thing.

And so when rain started outside, it was not from sadness or grief.

It was from overwhelming affection for you.

He told himself, you'll come back eventually.

You always did. With your eyes red and your consistent sniffling as you knocked on the door and eventually whispering "Scara.." when you saw him.

And he knew he can never be a good man because even until now, he wants you to come see him.

An hour passed since you walked through that door and then another, the wanderer sat there patiently.

but oh, his mind was a traitorous thing.

Where were you?

Because all of a sudden he felt everything— the silence that felt wrong, the stillness in the room, the way he stared at the book for too long. He paused, taking a deep breath before closing his eyes.

Have you finally realized that his hands were too cruel to hold you?

Or was your exhaustion towards him was bone deep that you didn't want to see him anymore?

Both were possible, and the thought of it made him pause.

.. So what if you don't come back?

So what if he could never say that your arms are the safest place he had ever felt in this damned world?

He can carry it to the grave for all he cared, but the thought of never feeling your skin against him was the most unbearable. There was this itch beneath his ribs that was ache, love and fear all at once.

He looked for you, the moon shining above him almost felt like mockery. His feet moved on it's own and his mind only focused on the sheer thought of getting to you. He looked over towards the pond where you usually waited, towards the cliff where you whispered "beautiful" with your eyes gazing at the scenery, towards the fountain where you tossed a coin and wished.

His eyes could not see your silhouette.

His feet stopped by the railings near the tavern and he looked at the lush greenery of Sumeru. A breeze passed by, cold in the night and he thought of you.

"Scara?"

The wanderer's head snapped towards the direction immediately, eyes wide at he stared at the owner of the voice. It was you. His lips moved before he could think about it twice because if he would regret it if he won't be able to say this—

"Stay."

You stilled, eyes staring into his purple eyes— not because of the word that left the wanderer's lips but because of the emotion behind it, of how it was said. Quiet, urgent, trembling at the edges as if everything will be too late and the guilt will eat him raw if he said it a second late.

He turned his body towards you, not stepping closer. Not yet. "Stay, please. Even when I'm difficult. Especially when I'm being too difficult." And what he meant was:

Stay, in this relationship of ours, stay within my reach, stay within my arms. I know I'm difficult to love, but I want you until the very end.

And love mending wasn't always immediate, it was like sewing with careful hands.

This was the hardest part for the Wanderer. Because you were there, yes, but you became careful. Too careful. You still lingered, still asked if he had eated or rested, still return but now:

You hesitate before touching him, you ask for permission for things you'd naturally do, you didn't hover when you see him stressed, you leave sooner than before, you no longer leaned against him nor do you reach for his hand automatically— it wasn't that you didn't love him anymore, but rather it was due to comfort being replaced by fear.

The wanderer noticed each one of it, and he hates it. This was not the [Y/N] he fell in love with.. yet he had no one to blame but himself.

What does he do? He closes the distance himself, unconsciously. The wanderer is the one lingering, is the one brushing his hand against yours, he tries to find ways just to keep you longer but you remained the same.

And one night, The wanderer suddenly says, "You keep leaving like you're afraid I'll ask you to." His tone was careful or rather, he was simply stating something he observed. You looked at him as the silence stretched and then quietly said, "Wouldn't you?" There it was, the wound finally spoken aloud. The wanderer stared back at you and suddenly he looked human, the realization settling deeper in him that he was the reason why you were like this. "..I was afraid," The wanderer finally admitted, voice raw and frustratingly vulnerable, "I have become dependent on you, [Y/N].. and it scares me that someday you will leave me too and I'm left alone carrying a piece of you wherever I go."

You realized that beyond the walls that the wanderer had built was an aching abandoned child, using sharpness as its defense and the wanderer mends the only thing he holds dear.

He reaches for your hand first before whispering a quiet and rough, "Stay for a while. I want to hear about your day." He wasn't good with words, he never was so he let his actions do the talking.

Affection with the wanderer is so rare that it feels like an endangered species.

He swears he doesn't like PDA or any touching at all but his fingers always try to reach for you whenever you were close enough that hooking his pinky finger with yours is always subtle.

The problem is that when you try to hold hands in public, he already has his brows furrowed as if in annoyance, very visible that you stop walking.

And the problem is that when he feels you stop walking and he looks back— only to see your lips already formed into a frown and your eyes looking at him, his heart never fails to ache and he can't help but finally admit to himself that he has a soft spot for you.

And so he speaks and it always goes like this;

"Tch. Here, give me your hand." He says, a frown on his own face as he initiated in finally taking your hand. He tugs you closer to pull you under his hat, but even with your hands linked together— he still sees that frown on your face. He feels guilty, and somehow he hated seeing you frown more than this holding hand thing. "Hey." He whispered— slightly awkward but loud enough for you to hear, you turn your head to look at him and immediately sees his eyes soften— slightly. "Stop frowning, it feels wrong."

And that's the closest thing to "I'm sorry." in the wanderer's language.

Unfortunately for him, when you two were finally alone, you didn't speak to him. Which made him irritated— not to you, never to you but to himself. He stepped closer and he breathed in deeply to ease all the tension in his body before he brushed his fingers onto yours.

"[Y/N].." Because he believes your name is an endearment itself. When you turn away to move a little further from him, he let out a quiet huff. "Can you be angry at a nearer distance? In front of me would be nice."

Of course, you both resolve it at the end— because he finally learned to stop baring his teeth at love.

But in rarer moments, the wanderer knows he doesn't need sleep but when he does feel that tiny bit of sleepiness crawling at the corner of his eyes, he would whisper out; "Do you still love me?"

You always smiled at him, fingers in his short navy blue hair. No mocking look, no sarcastic answer. Only a soft and firm reply to ease his doubt and reassure him, "I do."

Soft light, the smell of grape juice, a voice retelling their day, the dip of the couch when you lean back, the warmth from the fireplace— that's what Diluc Ragnvindr's senses caught.

The flames from the fireplace in the Dawn Winery illuminated on your face as you talked, a glass of grape juice that he prepared especially for you was in your hand.

His eyes stared at you while your lips moved and occasionally let out a small smile when your eyes would lock in a gaze with his, both of your bodies close enough that your knees almost touched.

Diluc wanted it to but he didn't dare.

Because he is careful with affection,

That is simply his nature, to restrain affection because he didn't want to make you feel overwhelmed.

Even when he doesn't.

It wasn't that he doesn't yearn for your affection— the problem is that he doesn't know if he was allowed to even be this close to you.

Even when your arms wrapped around him and your lips pressed against him, his hands hovers for a moment before settling on your waist.

His touch never linger for too long;

His hand on the small of your back— not totally pressed but just enough for you to feel its there, His fingers grazing against yours deliberately but never truly holding your hand— just enough for you to know he's still there beside you as you both walked,

And you simply thought that maybe Diluc is simply not clingy, which is funny because what he really wants is to press his face on your neck and nuzzle against it absentmindedly when the night feels a bit colder than usual and he wants slow sleepy kisses in the morning with you tucked in his chest.

That is not the definition of not clingy.

So when he found out that you welcomed his affection, that you also yearned for his affection while whispering sleepily one night, "I want you to hold me more,"—

Diluc melts.

And suddenly his touches lingers more, kisses become more frequent— slower and needier yet reverent all at once, arms slithered around your waist while pulling you closer whenever possible.

Because all he wanted was you, and all he needed to hear was that you also want his affection as much as he wants yours.

Scaramouche has survived needing nobody because he had survived many things: loss, fear, the betrayal, betrayal and betrayal. It was a never ending cycle that wrapped around his heart, skin and bones squeezing him until it suffocated him.

So when you came to him with your hands open in front of you as you offered your heart to him— he did not know how to hold it gently.

Because whenever he tried to hold something precious, all of it lead to the same lesson:

People leave.

Loving the wanderer was both heaven and hell because he always expects you to leave. He always expects you to say that you're exhausted even in the happiest moments in your relationship because in the back of his mind .. you'll eventually leave him with his heart hollow— a place you had called home.

Yet, despite every argument that took place in your relationship, you always stayed. If it gets too heated, you say I'll let you cool down and leave him alone but you never left him for too long.

You cradle his face and suddenly he realizes that he now has something to lose.

That's the thing that scares him: that one day you wake up and realize that this relationship is tiring. That one day you'll tire from his mood swings, you'll tire from his complaints, you'll tire from him eventually.

"You're too much." "Why can't you just stop bothering me?" "Then leave."

And you flinch every time from his words, just enough for him to see and he always regret it, he does, but his pride kept him in place even when the eyes that always held love for him were glossy from the tears you refused to shed, "I'm sorry for being too much."

You eventually leave, not out of anger or hatred but out of exhaustion.

The wanderer stares at the door as it closed and a terrible thought sinked in his mind and his blood ran cold, what if this time you never came back?

what if this thought of his becomes reality?

He never knew how to ask for assurance, he never knew how to say I'm scared you'll see that I'm not the person you want. He never knew how to say, please tell me you won't leave. He never knew how to love without biting the person offering it first.

Childe's the clingy whiny type. Trust me on this one.

He can show you all the ways he can be clingy but for one, it was through roughhousing.

He has too much energy, too much playfulness in his bones to not roughhouse, and it was his favorite part whenever you two were confined in one space because he was able to catch you quickly.

Running around the said space only for Childe to catch you in a matter of seconds though sometimes he would deliberately slow down for you.

Because at the end of it, you would still be wrapped around his arms laughing and speaking with a happy lilt in your voice, "You don't play fair at all."

If you deny him a kiss out of fond annoyance, that's when a slight whine would leave his lips while your palm is pressed against his lips, "You're not playing fair either, I thought the winner gets a kiss?"

In the end, he will have his kiss.

When the adrenaline wears down and all that's left was something soft and warm, that's the time he would lean down and press his face on your neck with his breath fanning over your skin.

He didn't need you to strip down every piece of fabric on your skin to keep him close, he will always be closer to you than you'd ever imagine.

He's the type who always wants you pressed against him, his face on the back of your neck while his arm tightened around your waist. It didn't matter when on where, his hands will always find yours.

In quieter nights, however, Childe's touch would be gentler, almost too careful — like if he held you too close, too tight, everything will break like fragile glass.

That's when you know there's a lot in his mind that he wouldn't voice out unless asked by you. Instead of prying it out of Childe's chest, you pull him closer with your hands cupping his face and your lips finding his forehead as his ginger hair tickled your nose. In times like this, you didn't need to speak too much because Childe would melt and a soft sigh would leave his lips before he voice out the thoughts lingering in his mind.

Thoughts of his siblings,

Thoughts of the abyss,

Thoughts of you,

And when you whisper his name, "Ajax." He knows peace again.

It's not that Wriothesley didn't know how to flirt, He just didn't particularly know how to act in front of you. Especially you. He could have asked you out by now, or perhaps even invite you for tea but even when you were in front of his desk reviewing documents for the past two hours — the only words that he had said ever since you came were, "Good morning, what brings you here today?" "The files are in that drawer, careful not to make a mess." "Make yourself at home." You were someone who frequently comes down to the Fortress of Meropide on behalf of the Iudex Neuvillette, at first Wriothesley didn't mind your presence. But now he was getting distracted. It started when you had talked back at him when he mentioned something sarcastic. You were looking at him with you hand on your hip and your brow raised as if you weren't talking to the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide. But that struck him. Because you looked good with your eyes narrowed and your hand on your hip as you regarded him. He didn't understand why something inside him stirred that day. Your eyes looked up and caught Wriothesley's pale blue eyes already staring at you. "Is there something wrong?" You asked with a tilt of your head, Wriothesley let out a smile to cover up the fact that he was staring for minutes now, "Wrong? There's nothing wrong. With you around, nothing is." You huffed out through your nose, "You're distracted." Wriothesley couldn't help but agree, "Of course I'm distracted, I've been thinking of ways to make you join me for tea this afternoon." You blinked, surprised by his words. "Why? He smiled, "Why not? I want your company." You narrowed your eyes and released the folders that you were holding on the desk and crossed your arms across your chest, "I'm here for work." Wriothesley didn't mind your answer, "Then you can stay for rest then." He let out his signature grin and copied you, crossing his arms across his chest as well. "What I'm saying is that I like your company. Is it wrong to want more of it?" Of course it wasn't wrong, but you didn't expect him to say it out right. When Wriothesley said that you can stay for rest, it was like he just wanted you to be.. there. Your presence near him. You felt heat creeping up from your neck and quickly turned your head away from him, but Wriothesley had caught how your ears tinge pink. "Then.. I'll accompany you in your afternoon tea." "How about we have tea now? You look like you need the rest already," "Mister Wriothesley, please stop being ridiculous." Your eyes bore into his pale blue ones and somehow behind it was something warm. Deep inside, you were actually looking forward for it.

There was one thing about Wriothesley that felt safe. Perhaps there was two things, two reason as to why he felt safe. At first, it was awkward as most relationships would be but gradually you realized that underneath that attitude of his was a clingy puppy. One is that he reaches to you out of affection, not out of possessiveness. Two, he loves whispering, "My pretty baby." in your ear, and it will always make you shiver in the best way possible. Wriothesley is clingy. Not in a clingy whiny but clingy in a way that he wants his hands on your skin, he needs you pressed on him. His favorite part of the day would be you slipping in his arms and curl on his lap even when he needed the stack of papers on his desk done. Being busy + you in his arms while he's busy? Favorite combo. Because now he can finish work while touching you, knowing you're this close to him. Unless, well, a certain idea pops inside your head and you would look up at him through your lashes and oh boy, does he melt and before you know it, his hands are already on you, pulling you closer to him. You're not a weakness to him, you're a distraction. You're the only distraction he let himself have, he liked it when you need his affection the most (and he would tease you first before giving you what you want). When you get sleepy, that's when the whispering comes out. Wriothesley would kiss your temple and whisper, "Sleepy? Do you want to sleep on the couch or stay here?" Because your comfort is his top priority. And you would always fall asleep still on his lap, especially when he continues to whisper; "Sleep, sweetheart." "I'll wake you when I'm done." It was always accompanied by him kissing the side of your head like he was lulling you to sleep, and eventually he felt your breath become even, your face on his neck. That's why you felt safe with him, he reaches out to you naturally — as if the mere idea of you away from his touch, from his arms, from his reach was absurd. He didn't know where to put his hands when you're not there, not a day goes by where he wouldn't kiss a spot on your face. That's just how he shows his love for you.