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my writing is tagged by gender. i do not (currently) have any fem reader work, but please mute/block the 'female reader' tag in advance if that's something you're not interested in.

#[🦇] — sophie's musings— just text posts/answers to misc asks

#[🦇] — sophie's worship — writing i like from other authors

#[🦇] — blog recs! — blog recommendations

#[🦇] — my writing— my writing if you only want to go through that

#[🕸️] — sophie's summons — my summons :3!

#[💌] — love poetry — sweet messages that make my heart go awwww

#[⛧] — visual — images

© chococolte 2025. do not redistribute, plagiarize, translate, or use my writing without my explicit permission.

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Zhongli's expression stays the same, every muscle a disciplined quiet. His eyes have a certain quirk to them, crinkled and soft, but it’s the twitch of his knees and the glaze in his eyes that speak of the barking of emotions in his chest, and somehow, even with millennia of control, he’s not aware of how pathetically it gives him away. 

All he knows is that he wants to keep looking at you. He wants to ask you to do it again, even if it’s slow and teasing and agonizing and far from what he really wants from you. He wants to ask you to never do it to anyone else, even if he knows it’s selfish, and then he wants to press soft kisses to your skin until his mind stops buzzing and his lips are bruised— until he’s sure you’ll never make the mistake of entertaining someone else.

Zhongli clenches his fists until his nails pinch into his skin each time he thinks of that sickly possibility. Then he relaxes once he remembers you would never do such a thing to him. 

Even if it hurts to keep himself still, he wants more. More than you could possibly give him, but he wants anyway. He wants all of you.

Sometimes, he likes to wait for it. Zhongli watches you, a strange eagerness choking him as he waits for you to finally look his way. His chest feels full of something. He doesn’t know what it is— an indescribable emotion that turns him into a mortal’s pawn. He just wants you to glance over and notice he exists, and then he wants you to play with his heart some more, just to hear you laugh when you pull the reaction you want from him.

Whatever you do to him, he likes it. He likes that you do it to him and not anyone else. He likes that this part of you, teasing and cruel, belongs to him. 

The thought of you acting this way with anyone else makes him ill, which isn’t a word he uses lightly.

Zhongli knew himself before he met you. You make a stranger out of him, but even with the light of you blinding his senses, Zhongli feels the same sickly jealousy. He wants all of you. He doesn’t want anyone to experience even a fraction of the things you make him feel. 

If that makes him selfish, then so be it. If it makes him terrible, then he is. 

You set your hand on his thigh and give it a light squeeze. Then you're pulling away, and he misses the warmth of your palm instantly. He almost wants to laugh. You tease him because you have no idea of what he would do to keep you near him. 

Zhongli grabs your wrist, pinning your hand back against his thigh.

"Stay," he rumbles lowly, soft enough for only you to hear. He squeezes your hand and tries to engrave the feeling into his mind.

There's more he wants to say. He wants to tell you to touch him more. He wants to tell you about every dark, disgusting part of himself and still have the assurance of your presence— but he knows that if he spoke the full depth of what he feels for you, you'd pull your hand back in an instant. So, instead, he only asks for you to stay.

Your finger brushes against his inner thigh, and he purrs.

diluc

Diluc has to stop himself from begging you to keep touching him each time you do.

It's pathetic, and not exactly in a sad, pitiful sort of way, so he bites his tongue until you pull away and leave him aching for more.

It does nothing to kill the urge.

The touches are nothing. They're little things, the barest of skin-to-skin contact— you hold his hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, brush your fingers against his, touch him when you don't need too— sometimes, you hold his thigh underneath the table where no one else can see, and he just has to sit, unable to make a noise, unless he wants to completely ruin your perception of him.

He already has, if the way you smirk when he audibly shudders is any indication.

Diluc never thought of himself as someone so weak. You don't even have to touch him for the bundle of nerves in his stomach to flutter; you could smile, and it would do the same to him as you kissing his neck.

If it were anyone else, his reactions wouldn't be nearly so prevalent. No, he couldn’t stomach it if it were anyone else.

But it's you, he thinks, so it's inherently different. It's you, so how he'd react with anyone else is meaningless, because he would never allow anyone else to get as close to him.

It still doesn't keep the indignation from bubbling up when he, once again, proves how incapable he is at properly reacting to anything regarding you. It wilts just as quickly as it arises, though; he imperceptibly leans into your touch, unable to truly complain and lacking the desire to.

It's the fact that you do it so casually. You know exactly what to do to get the reaction you want out of him, and he preens under the attention, then gets upset that he does at the same time that he's eagerly leaning into your touch, before you torture him by pulling back.

Each time just makes the ache worse. Strangely, Diluc can't say that he hates it.

He wonders, like he always does in the silence, if you do this to anyone else.

Diluc sits with the thought for a moment before realizing very, very quickly that he hates it. It makes him sick, imagining you so much as brushing hands with someone else. Innocent touches to anyone reasonable, but it makes him want to pinch and tug at his skin until it bleeds.

He wishes he could tell you. He wishes he could ask you, at least, if he’s special, or if this is just some sort of game to you. Maybe you only like him because of how powerful it makes you feel. Maybe you just like the gifts. Maybe you just like the way he looks at you, because Diluc is self-aware enough to know he can’t hide it properly. 

Diluc would kneel and kiss your feet if it gave him any sort of assurance of being at least somewhat important to you. He would do more if it meant he knew whether or not this was real to you. 

His dignity is meaningless in front of you. He can’t say it bothers him. 

You lift his chin with your finger, forcing him to meet your gaze.

His lashes tremble. His skin feels like it's on fire. He can feel his blood pumping through his body and his heart in his ears, rushing like nothing he's felt before.

He loves you. He loves you in a way he knows is far from innocent or pure. He loves you enough to want to keep you forever.

It's terrible, what you do to him. Worse still is what he knows he'd do if you did it to anyone else.

kaeya

You have no idea what you do to him, do you?

Kaeya thinks that, if you did, you wouldn't be nearly as willing to play with him as you are now.

You kiss his skin and then pull away before he has the time to react. You do it so casually he has to wonder if you even know what you’re doing at all. He can’t decide whether he loves or hates it.

In a way, it sets his skin aflame. It makes him think that you might actually care for him; in a way that’s uniquely his, one he doesn’t have to share with anybody else. But it also makes him wonder if maybe you just like toying with him; maybe you just like seeing him twitch as he suppresses every urge to do it right back to you. 

Maybe you like knowing how much power you have over him, if you realize it at all. 

Kaeya doesn’t know what he thinks. All he knows is that it feels nice when you touch him, even if the contact only lasts for a moment. He knows he hates it when you pull away. All he knows is that he wouldn’t mind if you touched him more, and if you wanted him to, he would never let himself be touched by anyone else again. He knows he hates how weak you make him and how, if only you would ask, he’d be willing to do anything. If it meant he could have you, selfishly and entirely, then Kaeya would curse his bloodline and shirk his duty. 

If it meant you would love him even a modicum of the way he loves you, he would depart with all of the things that make him up. 

You brush your skin against his, and for a moment, Kaeya thinks he sees stars. It’s a terrible thing. A weak thing. Worse still is the smile on your lips. It makes his heart clench painfully in his chest.

When you touch his thigh, he wonders if this is how he finally dies. He hates how he can still feel your touch even after you pull away, the heat of your palm still warming his skin. 

Then, because his mind can’t let him have just one thing, he imagines you with someone else. It’s a human thought. Even if he had you all to himself, he would still be plagued with the same visions. Kaeya sees you touching another with the same tenderness, kissing their throat, intertwining your fingers and holding their warmth, and then he sees you smiling— except you look happier, and he knows it’s the sort of happiness he could never bring you— and then all he knows is agony, because he knows he could never let you have such a thing unless it was with him. 

He knows he’s greedy. He knows he’s selfish. He knows that you deserve someone less sick than him, but he can’t bear the thought of living in a world where you’re anywhere but by his side. 

“Are you like this for anyone else?” he asks once you’ve laid a soft kiss against his neck, unable to stop himself. There’s a gross vulnerability in his tone that he wishes he could tear out. 

“You know it’s just you,” you say. 

Kaeya knows that. He just wants to hear you say it. 

“Say it again,” he says, and despite himself, looks at you like you’re something eternally precious to him. You are. He can’t help but be afraid of you knowing that.

“I’m only like this with you.” Your fingers are in his hair now, brushing along the nape on his neck.

“Good,” Kaeya says, and this time, he decides to believe you.

al-haitham

Al-Haitham freezes each time you touch him. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like it. Rather, it’s the amount of restraint he has to use to keep himself still. 

You kiss his neck like it's nothing, pulling away fast enough that he has to wonder if you even know what you're doing. The glint in your eye says you do. The fact that you don't realize what exactly it does to him tells him otherwise.

If you did, then you wouldn't do it as much, especially where other people can see. The surge of emotions that sparks in his chest can't be compared or defined by any human word.

It makes him feel dizzy. It makes him feel wide awake. It makes every thought slow like they're deep in a mire at the same time it causes another hundred to take their place. It makes him, strangely, want to laugh, adrenaline rushing off the high of your attention. It makes him want to whisper every single one of his thoughts and sickly desires into your ear until you never look at anyone else again.

Al-Haitham's body pulses and his veins burn. The fact that each touch could so easily be considered innocuous, if only he didn't already know that their purpose was to make him squirm, just makes his heart all the louder in his ears.

His expression stays neutral each time. The only thing that speaks to his utter depravity is the way his hands slightly shake, itching to touch you. He's unsure if you notice.

If you knew the sorts of things he thought about involving you, you wouldn't want to kiss him at all.

Good, then, that he has no intention of ever telling you; not when he can't be assured you'd stay by him. So, instead, Al-Haitham sits still and accepts it, withholding himself from acting out on his baser urges.

It's particularly difficult when you laugh afterward, maybe enjoying the way he doesn't do anything to stop you. His silence says more than his voice ever could. He doesn't push your hand away when you press it against his thigh. He doesn't tell you to stop when you kiss his neck, even when you do so in the Akademiya's library, rather enjoying the attention it brings.

It feels like you're claiming him. The way no one can believe he lets you do it, in a way, feels like he's claiming you. After all, how could people see such a sight and still think they have any right to you?

Rarely does Al-Haitham ever feel insecure. He feels no sense of shame when you kiss his neck in public, or when you less than subtly grab his thigh under the table. You pull away the next second, and he has to sit with the brand of your lips and your touch, trying to hold onto the sensation for a little while longer while his face stays impossibly still.

But sometimes, he imagines you doing the same thing to someone else. It's a reminder that people other than you exist, and he finds he doesn't quite like it. No, he hates it. The mere thought disgusts him. What need do you have for anyone else when he's right here?

"You only do this with me, correct?" he asks, and it's the first time he’s even referenced your actions at all in conversation. There's a strange note to his tone, and even Al-Haitham can't quite place it.

"Only you," you reply easily, mirth coating your voice. You press another kiss to his neck to accentuate your point.

"Good," he says, his eyelashes fluttering.

neuvillette

The first time you touch his thigh, Neuvillette is struck dumb.

He wasn't expecting it. Without thinking, his leg bounces, and you laugh. Neuvillette’s breath catches in his throat, and he clenches his jaw to stop himself from making a greatly inappropriate sound. 

You tear your hand away the next instant. He misses your warmth immediately and almost asks for you to touch him again— before he remembers that asking such a thing is improper— so instead, he nods politely with a strange feeling in his chest.

Even that, he knows, is not the proper response, but you daze him; everything slows for the brief moment you decide to bless him with your touch. His idea of proper would have been grabbing your hand and keeping it there, just to feel you for a little while longer.

Neuvillette has never experienced anything similar before. He struggles to understand his emotions and the way his body responds. He doesn't quite understand why his heart picks up when you brush your hand against his, or why he has to remind himself that he can't just grab you and intertwine your fingers without asking, nor does he understand why he wants to do so in the first place. All he knows is that being in your presence reduces each of his thoughts to their barest components— images of you, you, and you.

He finds that he doesn't hate it. Even when you do it in front of other people, which just makes the journalists in Fontaine buzz with noise and curiosity. That, he notices rather quickly, pleases him and soothes some dark part of his subconscious that cries like a selfish serpent each time you look at anyone else.

Let them see and let them whisper it amongst themselves if in the end it proves that he's yours, and let them write their tabloids if it means everyone knows not to try and take you away from him.

That, he finds, is his greatest fear.

Kissing his neck provokes similar reactions. His eyelids flutter shut, and his fingers tremble with the numerous wants running through him, each equally adept at destroying him and equally indecipherable. It's a display the complete opposite of what he should project as the Iudex, yet he can't find it in himself to care, not properly.

It's you. It's you. It's you, and your every touch feels like rebirth, and he terribly, selfishly, doesn't want anyone else but him to experience it. 

Neuvillette knows you do it to provoke a reaction out of him. It’s on purpose. You like seeing the falter in his step, hearing his breath catch in his throat, and you like knowing you’re the cause. Part of him wants to deny you the satisfaction, if only to see you press harder, touch him more, if it means watching his mask fall. The rest of him just wants to give it to you. 

You make him weak. You make him selfish. You make him feel like a mortal man. 

“Am I special to you?” he finds himself asking. The words don’t feel like his, but they’re wrenched from his throat all the same; coated in that terrible, terrible vulnerability he wishes he knew nothing of. 

Strangest of all was that you weren’t touching him. There was no teasing laughter, no gentle brush of your fingers. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, and he asks because he can’t stand not knowing. 

He can’t stand the thought of just being a thing to you. 

“Of course you are,” you reply easily. You close the gap between you to brush some of his hair out of his face, and the touch feels electric. 

Of course he is. 

“You are special to me as well,” he says, trying to keep his thoughts off his face.

What would he have done if you’d said no? 

Neuvillette isn’t sure. All he knows is that he detests the very thought. He detests the thought of not being important to you. He detests the thought of your relationship merely being something you do to entertain yourself, even though he would gladly be entertainment if it was all he could be to you. He detests the thought of someone else being in his place, feeling your touch— he’s disgusted by the notion that all of what you give him could so easily be given to someone else.

What would he have done if you’d said no? 

As a Harbinger, he should have more pride than he does, but Childe's only arrogance is his belief that he's special to you. That belief was the only thing he had to ground himself in the abyss, and he clings to it as if to let go would mean death. In his mind, it would be no different.

You were the only thing he had, even if he only knew you in the form of whispers and imperceptible kisses of wind. He didn’t need to touch you, no matter how tortuous of an existence it may be, as long as he could feel you.

That was enough. He thought it would be enough.

Seeing you is an entirely different matter however, and quickly, he finds himself wondering what your skin would feel like under his calloused fingertips.

He wants you to touch him. It's a selfish want, but one he carries with him all the same.

He wants you to play with his hair and hold him close as if he's something precious. He wants you to run your fingers along his spine and see him as he reveals every dark, nasty part of himself. He wants you to look and still find something to love.

Childe doesn't speak a word of his desires. He sits with them in the dark and tries to will them away. He tries to withstand their passage, but only ends up choking on each thought.

He tries to hold himself at night, imagining his arms are yours, but it only makes the ache worse.

He imagines loving you, and you loving him.

When you summon him to your chambers, Childe has to hold every nerve in his body to keep himself from running to you. It’s with a clearly restrained gait that he reaches you, just barely, his knees still wobbly and the floor a shifting kaleidoscope of colors.

It doesn’t bother him. Childe feels weightless, alight with fervor, and it’s a struggle to stop himself from rushing forward just to breathe a little closer to you. He drops to his knees, bowing his head until his forehead sits against your marble flooring.

Touch me, he thinks.

He somehow manages to choke a greeting out of his throat, unable to stop the small shudder that runs through him when he feels your gaze settle on him.

It feels right, being beneath you. It feels right, the slight tension in his body as he waits for you to speak.

Childe doesn’t say anything else. You’re the only one he truly respects, the only one he’s ever felt so fervently for— in your name, he would burn the world and scorch the earth. For you, he’d stain his hands so terribly the waters turn red. He holds no desire to clean his hands with anything other than your forgiveness— and so he doesn't dare to speak out of turn, unable to bear the thought of you being upset with him.

"Come here," he hears you say, your voice gentle and cooing. Childe doesn't hesitate, taking your words as a command, crawling towards you like some sort of dog.

Despite how eager he is to be near you, his hands rest dumbly at his sides. His fingers twitch, aching to touch you for just a moment, but he sits still, trying to be good. Without your permission, all he can do is sit, no better than a well-trained hound.

Childe looks up at you with a dumb, dopey smile on his face. He knows he must look like a fool, dazed just by sitting so close to you— he can already feel heat spreading across his freckled cheeks, and he knows it must be obvious— but he can't find it in himself to care.

It’s you.

You're so close he could touch you if he dared. Your warmth is only a few inches away from him, and he inhales, trying to breathe you in. For a brief moment, he allows himself the blessing to imagine what it would be like to touch you.

He imagines running his fingers against your skin. He imagines brushing against your hand. He imagines his palms gliding across the length of your robe, pretending the silk is your flesh. The thoughts strike him dumb, and he lets out a small whine before he can reel himself back in.

It's a breathless noise, but one he's sure you heard.

Your hand reaches forward to cup his cheek, and he nuzzles into your palm, leaning into your warmth as if trying to drink you in.

"So cute," you say, and every dark, needy part of him lights up all at once.

Childe makes another sound, a soft whimper drawn from the back of his throat. His russet lashes flutter shut, and any sense of propriety is promptly thrown to the side.

Touch me.

Another sharp shudder runs through him when you rub your thumb over his cheek. He almost falls limp against your hand, his breath locked in his throat, but he manages to steady himself in time.

His hands find your ornate robes within a second, and then he's clutching onto them until his knuckles are white. Childe can feel himself digging little crescents into his palms, but your touch means he's unable to focus on anything else, and the thought of lessening his grip makes him afraid you'll pull away.

Childe bites his lips, trying to stifle another noise. He never wants this to end. You could spit in his face, and he would thank you for it.

Just as he jerks forward, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, overwhelmed by how good your touch feels— you're letting go, and pure, unbridled fear rushes over him.

"N-No!" Childe begs hoarsely, unable to realize that he's acting out of what he's allowed. "No, no, d-don't stop, please! Please, please…" he pleads weakly, fingers digging into your robes again, tighter this time.

Unshed tears wet his eyes. If it means having your attention on him, he would do anything. Nothing is too far beneath him. He’s already done unspeakable things in your name, hoping to garner your favor; if it means having your touch for one second longer, then there’s no low he wouldn’t fall too— no covenant he wouldn’t break, divine or mortal. 

As long as it means being by your side at the end of it, any agony would be worth it. No shame is too much for him to bear. 

"Oh, puppy," you murmur softly. One of your hands cups his cheek, while the other gently tugs at his hair. "How could I say no to you?"

The fear coalescing around his heart dissipates, and the fingers that were clutching onto you lessen their grip slightly.

"Mhm," Childe hums at too high of a pitch, but he's much too drunk on you to think about anything else, much less whether he's ruining your perception of him. He hides his face in your hand.

Your puppy, he wants to add, but his mind is too frazzled to get the words out.

Your fingers in his hair tighten, and Childe can't help the little bit of drool that falls from his lips.

scaramouche

He shouldn't be ecstatic with just this much.

All you’d done was look at him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, and it was enough for him to feel every nerve bursting like stars all over, pin pricks dancing under his skin. It was enough for every ugly, horrible little part of himself to reveal themselves like he'd done nothing to hide them.

The sudden surge of emotion, an incessant and desperate need to please you— to give you no reason to give him away— breaches the surface far too quickly. His every move is then dictated by how it might affect you, whether it'll give him your favor or ire; and an ever increasing chittering spawns in the back of his mind, crying for you to touch him.

All you'd done was look at him.

Scaramouche tries to ignore it at first. He, very pointedly, does his best not to think of how his skin burns when a thought of you touching him enters his mind unbidden, nor how it simultaneously destroys whatever preconceived notions he had of himself.

He knows titles are meaningless in front of you, but that doesn't quite quell the petulance he feels when he crumbles each time you look at him. You don't have to touch him for every wall to burst like they were nothing. You don't even have to be near him. Your eyes meet his for a moment, and it's like everything he is shatters.

It makes him feel disgustingly weak and as insignificant as the day he was born.

Scaramouche is one out of many; one interaction you may have out of hundreds. He knows how many clamber for your affection, and how many more would ruin themselves for it.

You hold his gaze for a meaningless amount of time, and he knows it means nothing to you. His body still reacts like it does. He knows once you've turned, you'll have already found something else to capture your attention. His pulse still churns as if you’d just held his face in your hands.

It's nothing to you. It should mean nothing to him.

He hates the fact it bothers him.

He shouldn't care. It's not the same as you abandoning him. That you look at him at all should mean something. But it doesn't change the way fear bundles inside of him when you look away, nor does it change the disgust that rises at the very fact he feels that way at all.

He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t bother him. But it does. It does.

It eats away at him like a festering wound. It hurts like nothing before it. He wonders if you’ll grace him with a look, and when you do, that’s the only thing that matters. When you turn away, he wonders how he ever got to this point. When you don’t, it’s like his breath’s been wrung from his lungs, and he wonders again, at what point did he let himself fall so far. 

It’s a point of irritability for him, and he ignores it like acknowledging it would be the death of his ego. Knowing that it would only serves to make him suffer more.

Whether you smiled or twitched your brow shouldn't feel the same as being reborn or having life torn from him. 

You haven't left him yet. He constantly feels like you're about too.

Scaramouche has to sit and watch when you interact with others. It feels like torture. You smile, and for some reason, it feels like fire washing over him. You laugh, and somehow, he hears it as vividly as he would if he was next to you; only it hurts because he's not the one you're sharing it with.

He could at least pretend he wasn't so pathetic before. He could hold himself up with some pride, even dignity— mask his emotions well enough they couldn't be used against him. Now, sitting in front of you like this, he can't even have that much.

It's piety, worship, love, or something in between or all of them at once. He's weak all over because of it, and it makes him furious at the same time it makes him euphoric.

He wishes he was stronger. Tempered by the abyss, and he still can't resist falling into you.

Your hand runs across the nape of his neck, and he shivers, skin burning where your fingers brush. A soft, shuddery breath escapes him, and his fingers curl where they're latched onto your robes.

If it was anyone else, maybe he would have mauled them for seeing him in such a state. People are perfidious; quick to betray, and even quicker to exploit whatever they've gleaned. Faster still to take away anything that makes him happy.

It's not just anyone, though. It's you. And despite how terribly he fears and how deeply he wishes to bury his emotions, his want of you runs deeper. If it means holding your attention, then you can have anything. If it means feeling your touch, then he'd let you use whatever you wanted against him.

If it meant having the assurance of your presence, then he'd kneel and discard his every title and name. He'd become nothing, if he knew he'd still have you.

“Good boy,” you whisper, and Scaramouche instinctively moves closer, rubbing his knees raw against marble, trying to breathe in your warmth.

He despises how fast he weakens at your beckoning; how he can't even will himself to resist, or fathom the thought of it— malleable to your every whim, and unable to be truly angered by it. He only shifts to be nearer to you, dreaming of your touch, hoping to share some of your eternity.

A whimper rises from his throat, trying to kill his desperation.

"Don't leave me," he says, the words wrenched from his throat. "Don't leave me."

Don’t betray me, he wants to say instead. Don’t abandon me.

It's a disgusting display of weakness. He wishes he could kill his voice so he wouldn't speak at all, but even without a heart, his emotions feel like they might choke him.

The things you do to him are terrible. Pleas for you to only look at him sit and die on his tongue. He reels himself back in before he can make a fool out of himself even further, but he knows you only have to look at him for a little bit longer for any sense of resistance to die alongside his pride. 

"I won't," you say softly, holding his cheek against your palm. "I'm here."

Scaramouche leans into your touch, hiding his face against your hand. He manages to keep himself from making an improper sound through sheer will, though he has to clench his jaw and close his eyes. 

Even just knowing he has all of your attention makes him feel dazed, and as you rub your thumb over his cheek, he can’t even muster any anger at being reduced to such a state. He hums, somehow leaning even further into your touch. 

“I’m here,” you say again, and Scaramouche whimpers into your palm.

zhongli

Zhongli dreams of you every night.

He knows he shouldn’t. It’s not proper of him, nor is it right for him to sully your image with his thoughts. Still, though, the thoughts come unbidden and leave him a wreck in their wake. 

What troubles him is what he knows to be the cause of them.

Zhongli has always been eternally grateful. He's sat with the love of you until it permeated every thought. He's lived beside the worship of you until it coated his every word and nerve. 

Being able to serve you past fantasies in his imagination brings him purpose, and that should be enough. And for a time, it was. 

He could see you and feel fulfilled. He could breathe your air and feel like the thousands of years spent waiting for you had been worth it. Even following you around like some sort of dog was more gratifying than splitting the earth apart. This, he thought, is enough.

This sense of greed, then, shouldn't exist.

Zhongli pretends it's not his own, but the truth is that every thought is painfully his. 

He imagines you running your fingers through his hair. He imagines touching your skin. He imagines you whispering praises against the pale column of his throat, and he imagines being yours in such a way that he knew he was special to you. He imagines you breathing his name and it feeling like rebirth. He imagines your touch. He imagines being able to worship you selfishly, entirely, in a way that no one but him could claim the honor of.

In a way, he thinks he deserves it. To be tortured with visions of things he knows he doesn't deserve and thoughts he knows you wouldn't approve of. 

Zhongli would think of you often before, when all he had of you were the prayers on his lips and promises of piety. It was difficult to imagine you as something physical, but still, his heart stirred. His most meaningful company was the thought of you beside him.

What he thinks of now is different.

He wouldn't have dared to imagine touching your skin. He wouldn't have let the thought escape the darkest of his subconscious. He wouldn't have dared to let himself the simple fantasy of you speaking his name like he's something precious to you. All he wanted, then, was to share the same plane of existence as you. A selfish want, but it was pure.

What pervades his mind now is some sort of sacrilege. He should know better, but he still sullies you every time he closes his eyes, unable to fight and equally unwilling too. 

His greatest arrogance. Even with thousands of mortal lifetimes lived, he still can't rid himself of it— even with his own self-hatred, his thoughts continue to defy him. 

Even when he knows he's failing you, he falls deeper. 

It's worse when you interact with others. Zhongli hugs your shadow and trails after you always, eager to please but always hiding behind a mask of propriety and decorum. He likes to pretend to have a semblance of control in your presence, though he knows that if you’d only ask, he would rid himself of it entirely and be thankful for it.

You're perfect, which is why you're kind even to those that don't deserve a modicum of your attention. You smile, and each time it's not directed at him, he tries to choke the indignance out of him. It’s selfish of him to expect that he be the only one to receive your affection, despite how his mind whispers it’s because he hasn’t done enough to prove himself to you. 

Why else, it supplies, would you waste your breath on those undeserving of it? 

He reminds himself of his place. It assuages him for only a moment.

Zhongli dreams of your breath. He dreams of you cracking him open and bearing witness to every depravity and every virtue and still whispering your love to him. He dreams of looking at you and knowing that he means something to you. He dreams and he wants so terribly, and he knows none of it is his to imagine.

He reminds himself of his place, repeating the words over and over in his mind. He whispers them to himself at night in hopes that maybe, it'll finally stick this time. 

Be pleased with this much.

He's meant to be. He tells himself that, maybe, if he perseveres well enough, he'll be rewarded. 

Maybe you'd let him touch you?

He wouldn't ask for much. Maybe you would be kind enough to let him hold your fingers in his. He wouldn't do so for long. Maybe, if he was good, you'd let him kiss your fingertips with the reverence you deserve. 

It’s an impossibility, he knows, but it's his sole comfort. If he withstands just for a while more, you'll be proud instead of disappointed that he's fallen so low. 

Then you ask for him to kneel, alone in your chambers, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Zhongli does as you say immediately. He falls to his knees so quickly that his mind doesn't have the chance to catch up. Vaguely, he understands that maybe he should be ashamed with how fast his body responds. He decides he doesn't care. All he knows is that you're looking at him, and that it feels sweet and good, and that he doesn't want you to stop. 

His breath is lodged in his throat. His heart sounds like a roar in his ears. Nothing exists but you and your words. All you have to do is whisper a word that could vaguely be understood as a command and he would be at your feet, ready to be used. 

He wants you to touch him. 

You smile, and his nerves feel alight with fervor. Zhongli’s hands stay clenched on his knees, trembling with the strength needed to resist touching you. 

You haven't given him permission, so he keeps himself still. 

You cradle his face in your hands. He can feel the warmth of your palms caressing his cheeks, and he wonders— how can there be anyone who doesn't worship you? 

“Good boy,” you say, and Zhongli inhales sharply. 

For you, he wants to say. Only for you.

He doesn't, afraid to speak; afraid that to murmur even the softest of praises would cause you to pull away. 

Does he tell you, he wonders, that he wants you to play with his hair? Does he tell you he wants you to love him completely, innocently, selfishly? Does he tell you he wants you to touch his skin, anywhere if it means having that small piece of contact? 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” you ask, and he can hear the small tint of mirth in your voice.

The question strikes him dumb. His body burns and his blood is singing. Zhongli doesn't care if you find him amusing. No, he delights in it. It doesn't matter as long as he means something at all to you.

His fingers twitch, and just barely does he manage to keep his hands to himself. 

The fear is overwhelming, but the acerbic aftertaste at the thought of you with anyone else is worse.

The shame at his own hubris gnaws away at him, but Zhongli can't find it in himself to entirely let it go, to better himself as he should. If bettering himself comes at the cost of losing the opportunity to be entirely yours, he would rather be consumed by his pride.

He knows he should be disgusted by himself. To want is a terrible sin. It's one thing to worship you, and another to see himself kissing your skin every time he closes his eyes.

When Zhongli is beside himself, alone with only his thoughts to keep him company, he wonders what it would be like to be yours. His mind supplies every possibility with no incentive. He aches, and wants, and feels so vividly and impudently that he thinks his thoughts must be some kind of punishment.

You're everything, he thinks. There is nothing in this world that is comparable to you.

What would it be like, to feel you? Would you give him that honor? Has he done enough to deserve it? Or do you torture him so, filling his mind with images— things he should never think, things he should never imagine— because he dares to think himself worthy of calling himself yours, in a manner no one else has before?

Zhongli's greatest failure is that he's unable to stop himself from wanting.

He's ached before. He ached for the thousands of years he spent without you. He ached when he saw you for the first time, enraptured, unable to understand how a form could be so perfect. He ached when he let his fingers linger on your skin for longer than he should at every opportunity, he ached when he wondered if you found his achievements worthy of praise, and he aches every time he has to leave your side.

This hurts more, somehow. To want for something he knows he could never receive. To want for something he knows he isn’t worthy of. But knowing doesn’t ease it, when he follows after you every day like an old, obedient dog; when your back is as familiar as the sky overhead, as commonplace a view; when he imagines what it must feel like to have your fingers run along his skin, touching and prodding, pressing long enough against his skin to leave imprints in their wake.

He wonders how heavenly it would be, to be yours. He imagines it so frequently it begins to become difficult to differentiate reality and fantasy. Your skin, his skin. His warmth, your warmth. Your touch, your touch, your touch.

You.

Zhongli doesn’t realize that he’s said anything at all until you’re staring at him, a certain look on your face that makes him stammer. It’s only the two of you, and suddenly the room feels much smaller than it is; every uniform pattern underfoot suddenly holding him still, the air suddenly dry, and his body suddenly tense and taut.

Zhongli wonders if this is fear. He wonders why it feels so cold. Why suddenly all he can see is you— why suddenly, nothing else matters.

His heart is tumultuous in his chest, aching and creaking and so, so loud. He can feel it in a way he’s never felt it before, and he wonders if this is how every mortal who’s ever knelt before him felt. Did they, too, feel their throat tighten by a phantasmal hand? Did they, too, feel so tiny and insignificant; like their lives were in the center of another’s palm, to be lauded or ignored?

Did they, too, wonder if they were enough?

You’re smiling, he realizes, but he doesn’t know if you’re smiling because you find it all amusing, or because you wish to comfort him.

Your smile is a thing of wonder. He finds it doesn’t matter if you’re doing so because you find him funny or pathetic; his fingers tremble either way.

“I was waiting for you,” you say, and you speak the words so softly he wonders if he misheard.

venti

Venti is aware he's too selfish for his own good.

He knows he shouldn't be as needy as he is. Ideally, he would rise at your call and simper at your demand; and he does, except he does it even when you haven't spoken a word.

Watching you with others feels like a brand on his skin. A strange, terrible emotion that he knows must be some sort of blasphemy. Venti washes it down with whiskey and wine and tries his best to mask it with mirth. You wouldn't like him if he was anything but the blithe bard who worships you.

He worships you. That's the problem, he thinks.

You don't even have to do anything specific for his skin to feel like it's not his own. You glanced away from him. You smiled at someone else. You laughed at something that wasn't him. You exchanged this look with someone else and it almost felt like there was something there in your eyes, something he could never have—

Venti stops the thoughts there. It's always been like this. He's demanding when he shouldn't be.

He's not ungrateful. He chokes on how intensely he loves you. It's so suffocating it hurts.

Venti wishes he could worship you properly.

He wishes he could have you all to himself. He wishes you'd never look at anyone else. He wishes he could have some sort of assurance that you love him past your words. He wishes he could stay by your side always, that he could stick himself to you, that he could intertwine your nerves and bodies until everything he is becomes all of you.

Selfish.

What you give him should be enough. But it's not.

You say you're looking for a consort. Venti's heart twists with a sickening flutter.

He imagines it so sweetly it's painful. He dreams of loving you purely. He writhes with restless agony every night. He wants to hold your hand and feel your warm palm against his. He wants to rest his head on your shoulder. He wants to touch you, delicately and softly, until he knows every part of you. He wants to know you, enough that it's a semblance of how much you know him.

That sort of intimacy is something he doesn't deserve. He wants it anyway.

Venti knows his thoughts are some sort of sacrilege. He doesn't care. All he wants is for you to hold him closer than you have before.

You'd be warm, he thinks, and his fingers twitch imagining it. He'd be safe with you.

He would be yours.

Selfish to want and arrogant to believe he has any place so close to you. Neither matter.

Venti lies his head on your lap, trying to appear as small as possible. Love me, he wants to whisper. Love me.

He doesn't. Instead, he says: "choose me."

Venti doesn't look at you. He tries to project confidence in his voice, but all that comes out is a weak tremble. It's still a plea, after all. He's still only begging you, even if he tries to paint it as something else.

You card your fingers through his hair, pinning his hair behind his ear. The softness hurts. It hurts more than the fact you haven't said anything yet.

He braces himself, hugging his arms to his chest.

"Okay," you say, voice warm and so, so soft.

Venti's chest heaves.

childe

Childe knows his thoughts are wrong.

His desires aren't what they should be. He should be happy you glanced at him at all, and for the brief, blissful moment where everything is you and you're all he knows, he is.

You look at him, and the world is right. The euphoria feels like it might break him each time, but he somehow manages to stay standing. A testament to his worship, he thinks, that he can hold on just long enough for you to look at him some more.

Then you look away, and suddenly it feels like you've just gouged out his heart and gutted him.

It's not your fault. You breathed life into his body, but you can't shoulder each of his mistakes.

A mistake, he tells himself. Something he needs to fix. You wouldn't like him if he showed you that part of himself.

It becomes harder to fix when you announce you're looking for a consort.

Suddenly, everyone looks more disgusting than they did before. They're not just people who are demented enough to believe they have any right to your time or attention. They're people who now believe they're worthy of you, and it's that thought that makes him sick.

There is nothing in this world that comes close to you. There is nobody in this world that could hope to be truly worthy of sitting by your side.

He feels his stomach twist because of the hope that dwells within it.

Childe remembers when you were all he had. Your whispers were his only company in the abyss. When he's with you, he's reminded of it, and every time you look away from him, he's reminded of how many times he called for you and was met with dead air.

People think he was saved when he was ripped from the abyss. Childe thinks anyone who believes that are fools. The day he was ripped from you felt more like a death than a miracle.

He doesn't blame you. You saved him and that should be enough. You look at him and that should be enough. You breathe in his presence and he should be euphoric to share your air. And he is, but so neatly tucked along the inseams of his soul are thoughts of how much better it would be if he didn't have to share you at all.

Childe tells himself the thoughts aren't his. The dreams aren't his. The will to make them into reality isn't his own. The urge and the turmoil aren't of his own making.

You're not his. Your gaze isn't his. Your attention doesn't belong to him. Your love is not uniquely his own. It can't be, he tells himself, but then you smile so sweetly in his direction, and he wonders if it could.

He knows he's pathetic and needy and sick. He knows the burning in the back of his eyelids every time he sees you with another is far from holy and far from what you deserve.

Childe's disgusted by the fervor and desperation of those around him. He's disgusted far more by his own desires. He's disgusted that he begins to lean into them as time goes on.

You smile, and he buzzes. You laugh, and his world tips. You look at him and he wonders if the affection he sees in your gaze could be anything more.

"Ajax," you murmur, petting his hair.

Childe kneels before you like a loyal hound. He doesn't move, hunching his shoulders. He wishes he could make himself smaller. Maybe he'd be more palatable. Maybe you'd like him more like that.

"Pick me," he says.

He doesn't realize he's spoken until your fingers stop threading through his hair.

Childe freezes, an apology on his lips, but he can't bring himself to speak. He can't bring himself to look up at you, either, his copper lashes trembling.

"I have," you say, your fingers resuming their ministrations as if you'd said the most obvious thing in the world.