this is a mostly dom!reader blog. i'll also write sfw or more vanilla fics on occasion & i might write sub!reader for certain female characters, but it depends. my reader will always be female

please don’t repost or translate any of my work! do not under any circumstances feed my writing to ai/chatbots.

i play genshin in japanese, so when i describe characters' voices/manners of speech, it’ll be based on the jp dub. this may also have an influence on how i characterize them

characters i may write for: (highlighted = faves <3)

women: arlecchino, candace, clorinde, dehya, furina, lisa, mona, nilou, ei, shenhe, navia, sandrone, columbina, xilonen

men: albedo, childe, cyno, flins, heizou, kazuha, thoma, ifa, ororon, sethos, lohen, wriothesley, xiao

i love the idea of the reader being an akademiya student with a rebellious streak who’s just constantly on the verge of breaking one of the six cardinal sins…like reader puts in a request for experimental supplies that seem suspiciously like they're trying to create artificial life. so cyno is sent to investiage and comes to their dorm to watch them put together their project from across the room, just to make sure they’re not breaking any rules. and after he’s asked a billion questions for his interrogation he even uses his alchemical knowledge to help out here & there (tho he insists it’s just to keep u from doing anything illegal) (nothing to do with him liking how pleased u look when things work out how u want)

or maybe the reader needs an escort into the desert bc they’re researching king deshret's mausoleum for their thesis and cyno gets paranoid that they're going looking for forbidden knowledge so he takes it upon himself to tag along since he knows the desert well. and he tries to ignore the weird feeling he gets in his chest when the reader playfully points out how obsessed he seems to be with them or thanks him for protecting them from monsters (partially sincere, partially to get his guard down so they can sneak away)

“Ajax, huh? That’s quite a powerful name for a dog.” The blacksmith—Arkhyp, according to the stitching on his apron—mused, handing you the newly engraved nametag you’d commissioned earlier that morning. “You a fan of the legendary hero?”

You accepted the ornament from his gloved hand with a passive hum, devoid of all the emotions that bourgeoned to life inside you over those four, familiar letters etched into the silver.

“Something like that.”

“Makes sense for a Snezhnayan, they rave about his stories all the time. Hey, train your little friend well enough and he may lead you to some outstanding treasure, just like his namesake,” the blacksmith winked, and you found yourself struggling to maintain a straight face. 

“Well, he is certainly…” you paused. Obedient wasn’t exactly the word you were looking for; it implied a certain level of discipline that his thrill-seeking mind just wasn’t equipped for. However earnestly he insisted that he would do anything for you, certain wishes of yours—to never cross paths with him again, for example—seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Not even registering as a possibility to him; spat right back out in a violent coughing fit like a fox choking on the bones of a carcass. He could stomach all the blood and guts in the world, but never that. Anything but that.

“Devoted,” you decided.

Arkhyp grinned as if he understood, though you were quite certain that he didn’t, and despite the subject of your conversation being stationed miles away across the frigid sea, your chest tightened nonetheless, weighed down by the knowledge that this exchange was nowhere near as innocuous as it appeared. 

With a polite dip of your head, you thanked the blacksmith for his work, attaching the sleek, stainless nametag to the collar you’d purchased days ago and slipping it into your travel bag.

As you made your way back to where your hired guide was leaning against a pile of boxes near Rossum’s Workshop, you found yourself wondering—for what was neither the first nor the last time that day—just what the hell you were doing.

Nod-Krai was warmer than you’d anticipated; both in temperature and general atmosphere. A far cry from Mondstadt's mild winds or Sumeru’s humid rainforests, but you’d been able to get by the past few days with a layer or two less than you typically donned back home in Morepesok. The people were friendlier than you’d been led to believe, too, with most being more willing to work themselves to the bone for your patronage rather than swindle you out of your Mora in a dingy back alley like you’d braced yourself for. Not that the latter didn’t still exist, of course; that was precisely why the first thing you’d done upon arriving at the port was seek out the most legitimate guide Nasha Town had to offer.

You wondered what Ajax had thought of the region during his brief time here. You wondered if he’d walked the very same uneven, scrap metal streets that clanged beneath your boots, if he’d stopped by the very same vendors you’d been chatting with, using what precious little free time he had to scope out potential gifts for his family at the curio shop or to try out a signature Nod-Krai hotdog at Speranza, solely so he could return to his mother and complain about how the food didn’t hold a candle to her home-cooked meals.

You wondered if he’d found Nod-Krai’s weather pleasant. He’d always been one to run warm—a body every bit as fiery as his hair, practically a human furnace in the subzero temperatures of your hometown. Warm strawberry preserve cheeks, warm hands gathering sweat underneath his gloves, warm sunlight emitting from a smile that was just bright enough to distract from the emptiness of his gaze. You wondered if he’d discarded his thick winter coat on the first day for a lighter one, or kept it stubbornly on his shoulders, clinging to the faint vestiges of your scent that remained from the last time he’d talked his way into your home—and soon after, into you.

You wondered why you were carrying a collar with his name on it, already preparing to quell the storm of his emotions before rainclouds even had the chance to gather. 

“All set?” Ratimir pushed himself off the stack of boxes when he saw you approaching, and the flowing red scarf draped around his neck snagged the attention of your brain yet again, like you were some kind of animal being trained in pattern recognition. It was the first thing you’d noticed about him. You told yourself it had nothing to do with why you’d chosen to hire him. 

He cocked his head, and you forced a quick nod before he could ask why you were staring at him like he’d just pulled a pistol on you. “Should be. I think it’s about time we head to the spot where those Voynich Guild merchants agreed to meet tomorrow. I’d like to scope it out ahead of time.”

The man gave you an approving grin. “You’re already thinking like a local, huh? Good plan. Things may have taken a turn for the better here recently, but you can never be too careful.”

You mustered a half-hearted smile of your own, deciding against telling him that this level of hyper-vigilance was second nature for you, whether you were in a foreign land or the comfort of your own home. It had to be, when at any given moment you could find everything you’d dared to care for held hostage by hands that would do anything for a taste of your skin.

“But before we head out, why don’t you give this a try?” Ratimir held something out to you; a colorful, translucent sort of candy that reminded you of stained glass, glazed with syrup and perched humbly on a wooden stick. “Hunajatta’s got the best sugar sculptures in town. My treat.”

“Oh. That’s…” Your gaze followed the point of his thumb towards the far end of the town square, where a delicate-looking woman stood next to a shelf of similar looking treats, honey, and melted sugar crystals. “Thank you, I mean, but I couldn’t—”

He waved his hand dismissively. “C’mon now, it’s just a couple of Mora. Tastes great, too. What kind of guide would I be if I didn’t have you experience some of Nod-Krai’s simple pleasures?”

You hesitated, eyes instinctively surveying the area around you for any sign, any semblance of him that could justify the foreboding you felt snaking its way up your spine every time you’d so much as acknowledged another person’s existence. Aside from the same few Fatui agents that had been hovering near Nasha Town’s Northland Bank branch for days now, nothing else roused your suspicions. 

You’d spent your first day in Lempo Isle consumed by paranoia, doing everything in your power to dodge any stray soldiers or undercover agents that had remained in Nod-Krai before ultimately ruling out the possibility of them somehow reporting your whereabouts to Tartaglia. Not only did he have no subordinates stationed here under the Palestar Edict, you also doubted his underlings even knew of your existence. He’d never trust any eyes to watch over you but his own.

At last, you allowed your wandering gaze to rest, landing back on the candy. It was tempting, admittedly, fashioned in a manner that had a homemade sort of charm to it, one that reminded you of Morepesok. Upon taking a closer look at it, you realized the sugar had been molded into the shape of a Frostfin Whale, the same ones you’d watched aboard your ship, awestruck by how they breached in the distant arctic waters. Its inner silhouette was bright orange with a glazed outline in an all too familiar shade of blue; like even its color scheme was meant to be some kind of cruel joke designed to keep him at the forefront of your mind. Just the way he liked it.

Clearing your throat, you reached out to accept the sugar sculpture. “I appreciate it.”

He didn’t question you, but you could tell he was still curious about your skittish behavior, even more so when you made no effort to try the candy as the two of you set out for the path out of Nasha Town and towards Starsand Shoal. Amidst the creaking of kuuvahki-powered conveyor belts, cargo ships unloading, and Ratimir chattering on about all the must-visit spots in Nod-Krai, your mind was racing, drowning out all the noise with thoughts of sun-streaked hair and melodies sung in an oleander voice.

He wasn’t meant to be here. It had been months since he’d been deployed, and he never stayed in one place for too long anyway; a fact you were acutely aware of when every homecoming of his had become more and more of an unwelcome surprise over the years. You’d learned how to catch the little details at first; another one of your locks being scuffed, villagers keeping a distance from you, misplaced items in your home—sometimes with your belongings going missing, sometimes with completely foreign gifts appearing on your dresser—and, after a few days of cat and mouse, that familiar figure waiting at your doorstep. 

Sometimes though, he still managed to elude you, skipping right to the final step without any chance for you to brace yourself for the riptide that swept you up.

The last you’d heard, work had wrapped up for the Harbingers in Nod-Krai months ago—at least, that was what he’d claimed in the most recent letter he’d sent you. It was one of countless; a stack of earnestly sealed envelopes that piled up higher and higher as the seasons went by, each one unopened, but never discarded, even when it would’ve been so laughably easy for you to toss them into the fireplace that they rested near. A fitting testament to his presence in your life, you thought bitterly.

But when a business prospect, one that you couldn’t pass up given your hometown’s current conditions, had called you to the isles of Nod-Krai, you’d steeled yourself and decided to open the latest letter that had been delivered to you two weeks prior, just to garner some idea of where he was in the world.

His stint had ended with the evacuation, and that was where you’d forced yourself to stop reading. Before that all too comfortable ache began to dig its claws into your heart, reminding you of days where his letters couldn’t even make it past your front door without being ripped open and devoured by your lovestruck eyes, blinded by the rose-tint of his cheeks and ravenous for any scrap of him in his long absences. Now, those absences never felt long enough.

He isn’t meant to be here. You cycled the words over and over again in your head like a ballerina in a music box, hoping that if you repeated them enough, they’d be true. 

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem rather on edge,” Ratimir commented. “Surely the rumors you’ve heard about Nod-Krai aren’t that defaming?”

“No, nothing like that,” you reassured him, fiddling with the sugar sculpture in your hand, still untouched. To prove a point to him, you finally allowed yourself to bring it up to your lips and indulge in a bite. It was glossy against your tastebuds, sweet, and surprisingly more malleable than the glazed shell would have you believe. The aftertaste was pleasant as you ran your tongue over your lower lip, debating whether or not you should ask the question on the tip of it. “It’s just…by any chance, have you heard any news about Harbinger activity around here, lately?”

“Harbingers?” He scratched the back of his head. “Not that I can say. I mean, there certainly was a period of time where they had their eyes on us; Hisii Island, especially. But ever since The Marionette…”

He trailed off, or rather, was given no choice but to as your path ahead was suddenly blocked by three looming figures appearing from behind the massive rocky slopes outlining the beach, mere minutes after the two of you had exited town and entered the wild. 

Your heart leapt in your chest before you’d even gotten a proper look at them, free hand instinctively reaching for your pocket to grab hold of the switchblade you carried with you. An ambush. It had to be; there was no way they could’ve anticipated anyone taking this route if they hadn’t been tipped off about it. 

Ratimir didn’t seem quite as frazzled by the unexpected company, but you didn’t miss the protective step he took in front of you before greeting the men. Fingers wrapping preemptively around your knife handle, you inched forward to stand in line with him anyway, holding the sugar sculpture firm in your other hand in an effort to keep their attention off the weapon you were concealing. You may not have been the most adept fighter, but you at least knew how to harden yourself enough to form a convincing bluff; you supposed you had Ajax to thank for that. 

“What can we do for you, lads?” Ratimir piped, an obvious brave front he was trying to put on for your sake, but you were grateful for it all the same. 

“Just curious about this fresh face.” The largest man—presumably their leader, stretched luxuriously in a subtle announcement of his strength, arm muscles bulging and weapon on full display where it hung from his belt. “We’ve been getting an awful lot of new merchants around these parts, now that Nod-Krai’s been deemed a popular tourist destination.” He gave you a pointed look, the beginnings of a sneer creeping up on his scarred face. “We were hoping for a little showcase of your cargo, is all. Wanted to see what you’ve got to offer.”

Ratimir opened his mouth to speak, most likely to deescalate the situation, but you weren’t so naive as to think that this encounter could end in anything but these men getting their way if you didn’t stand your ground. 

“I’ve got nothing for sale,” you said bluntly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

A heavy boot, two—maybe even three—times the size of yours crashed down just centimeters away from where you’d tried to take a step forward. “Come on, now. That’s certainly no way to run a business.”

You bristled. Against your better judgement, you dodged Ratimir’s arm swinging out to shield you and took another step forward directly on top of the treasure hoarder’s foot, knife at the ready. But you didn’t even have the chance to finish pulling it from your inner coat pocket before something whisked past your head. A brilliant flash of blue, all the speed of lightning with none of the heat; a cold, precise strike that took a certain infatuation with violence to master. Your fingers tightened around your switchblade handle in alarm as the terrain transformed in a matter of seconds, eyes darting frantically around to try and make out your surroundings through the blur of makeshift spears, bodies collapsing to the floor, and the sickening flow of red-tinted hydro.

…Hydro?

Your blood ran cold, and when you recognized Ratimir’s cry of pain amidst panicked shouts of the treasure hoarders, it froze up in your veins altogether, bringing your racing pulse to a halt.

He wasn’t meant to be here.

Something warm and wet splattered against your neck, a splash of blood that didn’t belong to you. So, you did the only thing your frenzied brain could think to do, throwing yourself in front of Ratimir on instinct to ensure that no more harm could come to him. Because you knew, even at Childe’s most vicious, that your blood was the last in Teyvat that could ever satiate his thirst. He’d sooner tear the world apart and offer you its entrails than so much as think about hurting you. 

Physically, anyway.  

Sometimes, at your most defeated, you wished that he would think about it. You wished that the seemingly infinite supply of bloodlust he harbored for others, you could bear the burden of, just as you did with his love. It might have been less torturous that way, ironically enough, knowing that you were the only one who had to suffer at his hands. Sucking all the toxins out of him for yourself so that no one else could ever be harmed by them again.

You also knew that expressing this sentiment to him would be the equivalent of reaching your hand into his chest and ripping his heart from his arteries.

“Stop, Ajax! He’s with me, don’t hurt him!” The words were out of your mouth before you could think to fine-tune them, and you cursed yourself for being so careless when your phrasing was certain to only enrage him further.

At last, the veil of mist and swirling black sand began to clear from your vision, leaving nothing but puffs of frigid air floating around you in a ghostly fog with each labored inhale and exhale you made, and that familiar silhouette. Locks of ginger ruffled out as though he’d been electrified by his own storm, scarf billowing across his chest like blood gushing from an open wound, and blue eyes manic with the thrill of blades meeting flesh, however briefly the fix had been satisfied. 

“Aj—” you cut yourself off, praying Ratimir had been too preoccupied with his injuries to hear you call out Childe’s real name earlier. “Tartaglia. What the hell are you doing here?”

Childe took a silent step forward, and though his gaze was still locked dead on his newfound target, he was still unable to stop it from flickering to you, if only for a split second. An attack hound trained to respond only to the sound of your voice. At the mention of the Eleventh Harbinger’s title, Ratimir’s eyes went wide, fingers gripping the wound on his arm a little tighter, like suddenly, he was thanking every possible Archon that he’d made it out of that skirmish alive. 

“He’s not a threat,” you said firmly. “Don’t hurt him.”

The look on Childe’s face told you that Ratimir very much was a threat to him, maybe even more so than the group of men he would’ve turned to mincemeat moments prior had they been just a step slower in their escape. 

A crackle of electro lit the air around you, veins of uncontrollable heat, shooting in all directions with little care for the fate of who they pierced. That lurid, eerie purple haze that could only belong to his Delusion. Laughably appropriate—you’d always thought so—a physical manifestation of the fantasies his mind spun for him. In the blink of an eye, the stormclouds had gathered, the rain had come pelting down, and the lightning had struck. 

Your heart seized up, throat running dry as you tried to muster up a reprimand, a reassurance, something to calm Childe down before you finally bore witness to exactly what lengths he would go for you. 

Then, he grinned. Wide and strained, nothing authentic about it; stretching across his face so unnaturally in comparison to the rays of unbridled sunshine he directed at you. Coupled with the tiny freckles of blood decorating his skin, he was more of a predator baring its teeth, really.

“Sorry about that!” he chirped, canines catching the light in a way his eyes never could. “I have a troublesome habit of getting lost in the heat of a battle. Those three were finished off so quickly, I barely had a chance to reel myself in. You’re not badly hurt, are you?”

There was a certain charm there that made up for his lack of sincerity, but you saw through every layer with ease. He knew, you realized with a start. He’d known from the beginning that Ratimir wasn’t a threat, but still took the opportunity to harm him, anyway. For the first time, you got a proper look at the wound Childe had left behind. It was long, running all the way down from Ratimir’s forearm to his shoulder, but notably shallow, piercing his skin just enough to create a thin, neat line of blood. A very intentional warning. 

A few meters away, lodged in the dirt, you found the culprit. Childe hadn’t struck the man with his swords of torrents, he’d struck him with an arrow. Your stomach curled in on itself as the thought of just how calculating his shot must have been to achieve that angle without any risk of mistake, all while taking out three other men at once. His days of struggling with bowmanship were long-gone. 

Ratimir stared blankly at Childe for a few beats, as if he were worried his head may very well be bitten off if he dared to respond. Then, he gave it a slow shake. “It’s…not as bad as it looks,” he rasped. “Not much deeper than an animal scratch, I’d say.”

“Glad to hear it.” Childe’s jaw flexed, whether from the effort of maintaining his smile, or the effort of suppressing every reflex that told his fangs to snap viciously, you weren’t sure. “You really should be more careful around these parts. People are counting on you to guide them safely, yeah? Not a good look if your client gets attacked under your care.”

He took a step between you and the blond man, a visible shadow passing over his features when he spotted the sugar sculpture you’d dropped in the fray, as though the candied whale ignited some kind of personal grudge within him. Then, his foot came down to crush it with ease, crystals of blue and orange shattering under his sole and wood splintering into the wet sand. 

“And you should be careful about accepting gifts from just anyone,” he added, that insufferable mockery of a smile morphing into something even more insufferable; a pout. Not only that, but a genuine one, like somehow, his feelings had been wounded more severely than anything else he’d just torn into with his blades. “Especially from so-called guides who lead you straight into ambushes that I spotted from a mile away.”

Your eyes narrowed in a warning of your own. “Tarta—”

“I’m a little offended, really,” he continued dramatically, now completely ignoring the bleeding man behind him. “I gifted you plenty of sugar sculptures in the mail. You got them, right? I send you all kinds of sweets from all over the world, and this is what you resort to? Whatever a stranger thinks they can do for you, I can do it better. So you don’t have to waste even a second on this garbage, yeah?”

There was another unpleasant crack as his boot dug deeper into the sugar sculpture until it was practically one with the black sand of the shoal. He was just short of rambling now, agitated, barely getting breaths in between his words. You chewed your bottom lip, eyes darting from Childe to Ratimir, trying to think of a way to get rid of the latter before Childe directed his attention to back him and the situation escalated into something far worse than just childish gripes over candy.

“It’s just a local specialty, Tartaglia. He was being polite.”

Childe shot Ratimir a look that said he was nothing more than the dirt under his feet, then turned to gaze back at you as though he would gladly become the dirt under yours. Even as annoyance quickly overtook your fear, you indulged him, holding his stare as you addressed Ratimir in the hopes that it would do less to rile him up. “Even if you say it’s not serious, you should still get your injuries treated as soon as possible. Are you able to head back to Nasha Town yourself?”

“I…yes, I believe so. But what about you?”

Childe was growing impatient, now, you could feel every restless flex of his muscles as keenly as if they were your own. The tips of his fingers twitched, itching, begging for an excuse to summon his blades again, or better yet, to pull an arrow from his arsenal and dig its spear into this bastard’s skin himself. He took another possessive step to the side, to the point where your body was more or less eclipsed by his; like the idea of you even being in Ratimir’s line of vision was too much for him to bear. 

Between the salt of the sea and the metallic scent of blood, a surge of something else hit your nostrils; your favorite perfume, wafting from his coat. He really had taken your words to heart last time and gone back to Liyue to purchase a bottle of his own. Had the circumstances been different, you might’ve had the chance to process how the revelation had your spine tingling. 

Shoving the thought aside, you spoke up before Childe could tank your reputation in Nod-Krai any further. “Don’t worry about me. You saw how easily Tartaglia sent those guys packing, didn’t you?” you forced a smile. “I’m in good hands, just go get yourself patched up.”

Ratimir eyed you dubiously for a moment—or, rather, the small sliver of you that Childe allowed him to see—and without him needing to say a word, you could tell that it wasn’t the treasure hoarders that he was concerned about. Childe, on the other hand, was all smiles again, beaming so fiercely over your acknowledgement of his strength that his eyes squinted into happy crescents that would never have you thinking he’d been one unchecked impulse away from cutting this man open. 

“Alright,” Ratimir agreed slowly. “Take care, then. And thank you, um, Mr. Tartaglia, for stepping in.”

The irony of his gratitude wasn’t lost on you, nor how shamelessly Childe accepted it with a cheerful wave. You watched closely as Ratimir shuffled away gripping his bloody shoulder, waiting until you were certain he was out of earshot before you spun around and flattened your palm against Childe’s chest in anticipation of his next move. Sure enough, he wasted no time before trying to lean in and embrace you, only to be met by your hand shoving him back. 

Unfazed, he placed his own palm over it, right above where his heart beat in his ribcage. “I missed you.”

“You’re such a fucking child,” you spat. 

You were almost, almost satisfied by how taken aback he looked, if only it wasn’t swiftly followed by a self-congratulatory chuckle. “I suppose Her Majesty granted me quite the fitting name, then.”

“I can think of a few that fit better.”

“Yeah? You know I'd love to hear you call me by them.” That undeservingly cocky corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk, but in spite of your annoyance, you would take it over his nauseating display of faux friendliness, any day.

His lips looked pinker than usual, you noticed, a little less chapped and desaturated in comparison to the unforgiving frost Snezhnaya coated every living being with. You forced your eyes away, but not before he caught wind of how you’d been taken by his crooked grin, if the way it spread even wider was any indication. 

“I have to go,” you said suddenly. “I have business with the Voynich Guild tomorrow, and I still need to visit the venue.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Nod-Krai?” He made no attempt to move out of your way, like what you’d said was nothing more than a passing breeze in his gale. “Why did you feel the need to hire that…that…” His fingers curled and uncurled, coming to tap erratically at his collarbones, and just like that, he was a ticking time bomb again, speeding up his own explosive demise with every vile thought of Ratimir so much as breathing the same air as you. “That bastard could’ve gotten you killed. Why would you ever, ever trust him over me? You know I would’ve been here for you from the moment your ship docked, if you’d just said the word. ” 

“That’s precisely why I didn’t,” you snapped. “The better question is, what are you doing here? I thought you’d left Nod-Krai weeks ago.”

In a direct contrast to your harshness, Childe brightened, and you had a half a mind to cut your tongue off right there for making such a stupid mistake. “You read my letters?”

Indignation rose in your throat so quickly that you nearly choked on it, trying to find the least incriminating way to phrase your reply. 

“No,” you shot back immediately. “I just heard that the Fatui—”

“I’m glad,” he interrupted. So delighted, so boyishly giddy that it threatened to resurface an old, traitorous feeling that was always lying dormant within you, something that shouldn’t have chipped away at your resolve as easily as it did when you knew full well where that would lead, every time. “Ah, I’m real glad. I can see the stack of envelopes growing every time I come home, y’know. Was beginning to worry that maybe I was wasting all that ink and paper.”

You weren’t sure what perturbed you more, how casually he spoke of his regular break-ins to your house, or the fact that he’d continued to send you letters so religiously anyway, knowing that they would all go ignored.

“And you never once thought to stop?” 

He blinked at you, like you’d asked him some kind of trick question. “Never.”

You gritted your teeth, more exasperated with yourself, than anything, for playing so foolishly into his hands. “You didn’t answer me. What the hell are you doing here, Ajax? How long have you been following me?”

“Mm. Only since yesterday afternoon. You really threw me for a loop by coming to Nod-Krai, y’know. I was impressed, if not a little hurt.” He threw his arms leisurely over his head in a rewarding stretch, evidently proud of himself for overcoming what he saw as just another challenge. A test of skill for him, a living nightmare, for you. “Guess it was fate that we found each other here, huh?”

It made your insides churn, that he’d managed to stalk you for so long without you catching on to him, that the discomfort you’d been feeling since that morning should’ve been obvious to you as early as yesterday. Even worse than that, was how Childe had managed to find the patience to avoid approaching you until now. If you hadn’t been attacked by those treasure hoarders, there was no telling how long he would’ve gone completely unnoticed. 

“Anyway, I’m here on more personal business, this time,” he continued, nose scrunching up in distaste. “You know the situation back home, yeah? The flow of Mora’s compromised, supplies are running scarce. I’m here at The Rooster’s suggestion to handle some exchanges for my family.”

The image of their faces came to mind, faces that carried so much of him in them; all the love without the horror that came with it. Your features must’ve visibly softened when you thought of his younger siblings, because the adoration in Childe’s gaze burst to life so intensely, you could feel it seeping into your skin like warm, thick honey. 

“That’s why I’m here, too,” you admitted, a rare glimpse of normalcy you allowed yourself to share with him. “Project Stuzha’s been a pain for a while, but in recent months especially…I haven’t had much of a choice other than to start expanding to other regions.”

At that, Childe gave a click of his tongue that caught you off guard. An expression of disapproval, however slight, towards the cause he’d served with unshaking faith since he’d been sent to do as a child. “I don’t like where the situation's been headed lately,” he muttered. “Don’t like it at all. The people we’re meant to be doing this for are suffering more by the day, and Pierro. Archons, I swear that geezer’s hiding something from me. Refuses to give any substantial answers as to wh—” he paused abruptly, and you wondered for a moment if he was holding his tongue to prevent himself from divulging something confidential—though, that had never really done much to stop him in the past. 

The hollow blue lakes of Childe’s eyes froze over, zeroing in on a spot on your neck. A small, barely noticeable streak of red just below your jaw, where Ratimir’s blood had landed on you. His teeth clenched, not with the fear that it was his doing somehow, but with rage. He had no doubt in his mind that he hadn’t struck you in the skirmish earlier, not a single arrow of his would ever dare graze your skin; he’d sooner put one through his own head. 

“That man…” he began. Low, so much lower than his usual register and yet, so much more natural than all the energy he’d typically force into his voice. “Hey, what was his name? I didn’t catch it.”

You knew better than to answer that, even if his fate may already be sealed now that Childe’s sights had been set on him, you would do everything in your power to keep him at bay for as long as you could. Maybe, if Ratimir knew what was good for him, he could make himself scarce until Childe left the region. 

“Why does it matter? He’s gone. I doubt any amount of Mora I pay will ever have him working with me again after that.”

“I’m more concerned with the price he has to pay.” Slowly, Childe reached out to you, gloved thumb harnessing a droplet of pure hydro as he swiped it over the filthy stain tainting your skin, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing in careful but deliberate circles until you felt the patch begin to go raw. You could tell it was taking every ounce of his strength to maintain that illusion of gentleness when all he wished he could do in that moment was tear the man responsible apart with the very same hands that coveted you like a treasure. 

“Why did you stop me earlier?” It was almost soft enough to deceive you, if not for that underlying tremor, a seismic shift far beneath the sea floor. “I had him. No one would’ve known. There are so many people I could protect you from if you’d just let me.”

“What happened to not harming innocents?” you hissed.

The corner of Childe’s mouth twitched, and for once, he seemed to have the sense to hold his tongue. But you knew what his answer was without a word needing to be uttered. Innocent was relative, when it came to you. In his eyes, there was simply you, and everyone else. 

You’d never known that blue could be so violent before him. His blue was a far cry from the heavens stretching above your heads or the cerulean water lapping at the island’s shores. Even the deepest, murkiest pits of the ocean still managed to foster some form of life. Not his eyes, though. They were more akin to whirlpools that led somewhere ever deeper, greedily swallowing up any light that had the gall to try and reflect off his irises.

The droplet of hydro he’d been cleaning you with tinged pink, then dissolved unceremoniously onto the sandy ground along with the rest of the blood drying at your feet. Once he was satisfied, he discarded his dirtied glove altogether to get rid of any residual trace of that man’s existence, flinging it to the side with so much force that it soared over the black sand entirely and into the hungry tides.

He was having notably more trouble than usual concealing his unrest. You could all but hear it bubbling up under his skin, threatening to boil over and flood everything in its path with searing hot water. It was so rare for you to witness it for yourself—the very instant his mind labeled someone as more than just a toy to spar with, the moment he decided that their life was his. 

You had to do something quick, before the island he’d protected just weeks ago became his own personal playground. Swallowing down the bile of misgivings that rose in your throat, you reached for his bare hand, pulling it up to the light so that the ring adorning his fingers—your ring—glistened, ruby flecks so reminiscent of the crimson dotting his face.

And just like that, a reset. His eyes refocused from the visions of violence he was daydreaming about, breath hitching the same way it always did every time you touched him on your own accord. You were touching him, holding his hand as though it was made of the same flesh and blood as you, not the weapon he’d fashioned it into. His fingers clamped around yours with all the force of a boar trap, like your affection was a physical entity he could latch on to and keep for himself.

“Just…nevermind any of that, Ajax. It’s done. You were here, and that’s what matters,” you murmured, resolute, even as the words felt so unnatural on your tongue. A placating mask that you’d crafted with such perfection, it would put the costumes of the Koloveisky Troupe to shame. “More importantly, I have something for you.”

He perked up, head tilting with such an honest curiosity that it gave you whiplash, how effortlessly he transformed before your very eyes.

“It’d be mean of you to mess with me right now,” he scrunched his lips to the side, puffing out a faintly freckled cheek. “I’m really upset, y’know.”

You could’ve scoffed out loud. Mean. What weight did “mean” hold in the face of something monstrous? 

“I’m serious. You said my ring wasn’t enough last time, didn’t you?”

He watched, not daring to blink and miss a second of how your thumb traced over the fragments of ruby decorating the silver band, a shape and texture permanently etched into your consciousness, along with every other part of him that had made a home there. You felt his fingers tense when you wrenched your hand out of his grip, barely subduing the instinct to grab you again as you retrieved the collar out from your travel bag.

The leather strap unfolded, nametag jingling like a windchime when it came into view. Childe’s eyes went wide as moons, and you found yourself wondering, as his pupils dilated, how a color like black managed to be less all-consuming than his blue.

“Don’t act so surprised.” You pushed the collar forward, encouraging him to take it from your hands before you could think too hard about what you were doing. “You must’ve seen me at the blacksmith earlier today.”

Childe’s lips parted, then closed again, and you could’ve sworn a quiver ran through his lean frame as he took a closer look at the characters engraved in the silver. “Didn’t think…” he sounded winded, breaths far less stable than they’d been after he’d taken down three men. “You got this for me?”

“It has your name on it,” you said plainly. 

It was a gift with just enough distance to it. Something to satiate him without crossing into a kind of intimacy that you refused to foster with him, anymore; closeness that somehow felt exponentially more vulnerable than molding your bare body to his.

On your first day in Nasha Town, you’d passed by a small shop that sold hand-carved fishing rods. They’d pierced your heart with their hooks, almost succeeding in reeling you in as memories of the boy who would cut open ice-fishing holes for the two of you to spend hours and hours sitting by resurfaced from the depths of your brain. The visceral pang that had gripped your chest wasn’t because that version of him was lost to time or had never been real in the first place—it was precisely because it was still alive, one and the same with the dark passenger that had merged with him somewhere along the way. 

At last, he smiled, a genuine, golden sunbeam breaking through the oppressive stormclouds that had been looming over your head for days. You let yourself relax a bit; though, you probably shouldn’t have felt quite so relieved that your paranoia had paid off.

He ran his thumbs over the leather, completely and utterly mesmerized, and you knew without a doubt that he was already envisioning how the material would feel pressed against his neck. 

“You were thinking of me.” Not quite a statement, not quite a question; somewhere in between sheer disbelief and sweet vindication.

“I always am.”

It wasn’t a lie, to be fair, just not nearly as romantic as it sounded on paper. Yes, you were always thinking of Ajax, the same way one might constantly be thinking of a festering, open wound in their side. 

Without warning, he surged forward, crashing into you with so much force that you began to wonder if you’d leaned just a bit too far into appeasing him this time. But, like always, he was acutely aware of every part of your body, even when reeling with elation, strong forearms wrapped around your waist in time before you could be sent toppling to the sullied sand. 

“You’re gonna make me crazy,” he murmured, like he wasn’t already far past that point. His nose pressed into the spot right below your jaw, dragging down your neck to take in a selfish helping of your scent. His exhale came as a blissful, shaky sigh, warming your skin and drawing out goosebumps that you knew he’d take notice of immediately. 

Sure enough, when he spoke again, there was an unmistakable smirk in his voice. “But y’know, I’d love it even more if it was your name on the tag instead of mine. Doesn’t matter what I’m called, all that matters is that I belong to you, yeah?”

You swallowed, then swallowed again, fighting to keep your voice steady and your composure in check. “Like you need any more reminders.”

Childe let out another giggle, still breathless, though this time, it was because he was busy trying to inhale as much of you as his lungs would allow. As if his coat wasn’t already drenched with your perfume. Greedy bastard. 

You placed your hands over his where they were clasped tight around your back, tugging at them in an attempt to set yourself free. To your surprise, he complied without a struggle, only for you to realize why soon after. He was gazing at you expectantly, throat bobbing as he tilted his jaw back and pulled his shirt collar to the side, the expanse of his neck on full display, waiting to be claimed by you. 

“I’m glad you like it,” you coughed, blatantly ignoring how he held out the accessory to you. “Now, I should really get going. Like I said, I still have preparations to make for tomorrow.”

“Put it on for me?”

Childe tilted his head innocently, and you nearly sputtered. You already knew he’d have absolutely zero qualms about wearing the collar in public—not when he always found a way to proudly show off any marks you’d left on him, fur-trimmed coats and thick winter scarves be damned—but you being seen in public with him while he sported it was a different story.

You shot him an incredulous look, gesturing to the bustling port not far off in the distance. “Are you fucking insane?”

Even he seemed to recognize the pointlessness of answering that. “Doesn’t have to be here,” he whispered. “Come back to my place. Please? I’ve got something for you, too.”

When you opened the door to Childe’s temporary quarters, the first thing to strike you was that his scent had already filled it.

Vaguely sweet, vaguely musky, and achingly nostalgic—an aroma so filled to the brim with memories that inhaling more than a whiff at once was almost too much for you to bear. Visions of snow-swept ginger hair that loved nothing more than to be under the gentle comb of your fingers, a bedroom of knitted blankets and hand-carved wooden toys that hadn’t been redecorated since he was sent away from it as a child, scarred, toned muscles pressing against your body to keep you warm in even the harshest of blizzards, they burst to life all at once behind your eyes. It was a scent that embodied dread and comfort, luring your feet to step into it while your mind screamed at them to turn and run. 

You stepped into it. 

The second thing that struck you was how warm it was without a single fire lit, like the sun itself had taken up residence in his room. In spite of yourself, your body welcomed the temperature’s cozy embrace.

Before you even had the chance to shrug off your coat, he was helping you out of it, giddiness practically rolling off of him in waves as he pressed the fur shamelessly to his face with a pleasant hum, then made a beeline to the back of the bedroom; presumably to fetch whatever mystery item he’d brought you here for. And, you hoped, to clean the blood off of his face. 

“Make yourself at home,” he called over his shoulder. Looking around, you could tell that he certainly had. For someone who’d made a hobby out of invading your privacy, he seemed to have little care for protecting his belongings if anyone were to ever do the same to him. It wasn’t exactly messy per se—you knew firsthand that he’d been raised better than that—but there was such an ease to it all, just like everything else about Ajax. 

His suitcase was wide open, a few loose articles of his clothing scattered here and there, and a few that you were positive belonged to you. Still, you looked away from them as if you shouldn’t pry, not wanting to think too hard about what he’d been doing with your garments. Aside from that, you spotted pouch of Mora spilling out onto the tabletop like an invitation for thieves, a small, antique-looking blade with a handle carved of emerald, and a stack of half-read papers with The Regrator’s seal on them that suddenly made thinking about your stolen clothes the more favorable option.

Tiptoeing your way around his luggage, you settled on taking a seat at the edge of his bed. Immediately, a fragrant, powerful flood of his shampoo overtook your senses, once again mixed with the unmistakable scent of your perfume. He’d sprayed it on his pillows.

You began to feel a bit lightheaded.

“Don’t be mad, okay?” Childe piped, finally reemerging from where he’d been digging around on the opposite end of the room, one hand tucked behind his back like a schoolboy eager to show off his latest finger painting.

You raised an eyebrow. “Not the most promising way to preface your gift.”

“Well, it’s more of a re-gift.” He shuffled over to you with a sheepish chuckle that almost felt insulting when you knew that any chastisement you gave him for once again taking your belongings, any feigned remorse he’d express over those ugly, ugly habits of his, would become nothing but a candle in the wind when the cyclone of his desire hit. He would do it again and again, every time. As long as there was more of you to have, he’d take it. 

You said nothing as he stopped in front of where you were seated on his bed, looking contemplative for a moment before he decided that he took issue with towering over you. So, rather than joining you on the mattress, he crouched down to the floor. To his knees. Naturally. 

In his cupped hands was a wooden figurine; a ballerina, one that you would’ve recognized by the weight of it in your palm alone. 

It was one of the first gifts Ajax had ever gotten you, years and years ago at a festival where he’d nearly dislocated his arm from its socket in an effort to win you a prize in a game of chizhik. You still remembered how he’d handed it to you with a palpable desperation to please, like your approval was the only reward ever worth competing for, even in his young mind. It was immeasurably bittersweet now, knowing the overgrowth of obsession that seed would sprout into one day. 

Suddenly, your lightheadedness felt more like full-on vertigo. 

“You…W-when did you—?” you stammered, not even caring to mask your shock. “I’ve been looking everywhere for her.” 

The ballerina’s arm had broken months ago, not through lack of care on your part, simply from natural wear and tear over the years. You’d thought about taking her to get fixed, you’d even thought about fixing her yourself, but you had never been able to bring yourself to. It felt just a bit too cruel, trying to mend the memory of something broken beyond repair.  

You’d turned your home inside out searching for the doll after noticing its disappearance, not once considering that it may have been Childe’s doing; because despite his tendency to “borrow” objects that reminded him of you, he’d never touch a gift that he’d given you, especially not one as precious as this.

“I noticed that her arm had come off last time I was home,” he admitted, visibly feasting on the nostalgia written all over your face. “Asked Mama to teach me a few things about whittling, then I patched her right up. I just haven’t had the chance to return her ‘til now since you’ve been awfully difficult to pin down, as of late.”

You ran your thumb over the brand new appendage he’d crafted for you, smoother and slightly paler than the rest of her body, but still blending in almost seamlessly with the rest of the doll. A tiny heart had been carved on the left side of her chest, you realized, probably to cover up where the wood had previously splintered. The more you looked at it, the more you felt like it was your heart that a blade was being driven into.

“What d’you think?” he asked, so soft and simple, playing perfectly oblivious to the utter havoc he wreaked on you. “Do I have a knack for it?”

A lump rose in your throat. “It’s never too late to become an actual toyseller.”

He shot you a lopsided grin, and it blossomed into something uncontrollable over what you said next.

“Thank you, Ajax. I thought I’d lost her.”

Against your better judgement, you rested your hand on his head, warm tufts sticking out between your fingers like sprouts beginning to emerge from the earth. He let out a content little sound, golden lashes fluttering shut and chin perching happily on your knee like it was meant for him. You could tell yourself it was harmless, a small scrap of affection to express your gratitude, but that was always how it began; with your fingers threading gently through his hair, soothing his mind and working up his body, all at once. 

In the sea of rejections and cruel words you hurled at him with the hopes that one day, one of them might stick, a scrap of affection was a meal for the starved.

He nuzzled into your thigh with a long, deep inhale. And despite how obvious it was that he was savoring your scent, hoping to catch a trace of what was between your legs, it all still managed to feel so innocent. Trying to get to where your essence was the strongest. 

“Missed you,” he murmured. “God, I missed you.”

You tensed under his cheek, the same way you always did when he uttered those words. Because you knew, more than anything, that he meant them. There was so much purity in his pursuit of you, however stained with blood it was. It wasn’t solely a ploy to get what he wanted; he would have gladly stayed nestled into you for the rest of the day, just breathing you in and out with no ulterior motive. If only you’d let him. 

But you couldn’t let him, because intimacy like this went against every rule you’d set in your mind. Tender, chaste, and oh so natural—it was too dangerous, too close to the trap you’d found yourself locked in with no escape for years, padded with just enough softness to distract you from the iron bars beneath.

At least when you used him, you could pretend that there was nothing more to it. You could pretend that he was a mere outlet for your pleasure that you could toss aside whenever you saw fit; and he would let you. He would make himself useful, every single time, and if you didn’t have a use for him anymore, he would make one. 

“I have to go,” you said suddenly. “There’s a lot of work to do before sunset.”

Childe’s fingers gripped you with such ferocity the instant you shifted in your spot that you may as well have not even moved at all. Even more troubling than that, was how passively he’d done it, not so much as lifting his head an inch from where it rested snug in your lap.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled into you, lips moistening the fabric of your pants and seeping into your skin. So warm. “Stay with me. Please? Missed you. Stay a while and then we can go together. I’ll protect you this time. Just…just stay a little longer.”

In another life, the soft petals of his voice wouldn’t be laced with poison. You hardened your expression again, forcing your hand out of his hair and earning a childish grumble of protest. “You know you don’t mean that, Childe.”

He lifted his head, visibly put-off by the acres of distance those few, short letters of his title put between you and him every time you resorted back to them.

“I missed you,” he repeated, and if the wounded knit of his brows hadn’t been enough to pluck your heartstrings like a lyre, the desperation that cracked his voice certainly was. “I miss you, even when you’re here. You’re so hard to reach, you’re always so fucking far. I-I…” 

You could see the gears turning in his head now, searching for some kind of solution, anything to keep you with him for just a little longer. But he knew as well as you did that there was only one real path ahead; the only way he could make himself indispensable to you. 

“I’ll be good,” he whispered, straightening up in his spot, one arm wrapping around the backs of your calves, the other reaching out to retrieve his collar from his coat pocket. “Promise.”

The silver clinked softly, and a chill ran up your spine. “Ajax—”

His forearm squeezed around your legs, eyes pleading and throat bared. Unmarked, fresh as fallen snow just waiting for you to leave a trail, evidence of your existence on him.

“You still haven’t put it on for me,” he pointed out. “I at least deserve that, right? Did my best to keep you safe. Worked hard to fix your doll. I did well for you, right?”

You relented; not because his logic was particularly convincing, but because the sweet frenzy of his whines was already pooling liquid heat inside of you, a betrayal from your body that you knew his nose would sniff out like a drop of blood in the water. Childe’s throat bobbed with excitement as you spread the leather before him, one end of the collar in each hand, and brought it up to his waiting neck.

Then, you tossed it across the room.

“Fetch.”

He cocked his head to the side for a moment, just short of endearing, before his teeth came down on his bottom lip, biting down with such intensity you’d think he was trying to physically contain the arousal that erupted in him. Pupils blown wide in the low light, he rose from his spot, only to shrink right back down when you clicked your tongue in disapproval.

“Dogs walk on all fours.”

He didn’t even bother to hide his delight, from the twist in his features to the noticeable throb between his legs. You were thankful that he had no choice but to take his eyes off you as he crawled away, because the sight of him had your thighs squeezing together in a manner that probably wasn’t normal. If only he felt even an ounce of humiliation over a warrior like himself being reduced to such a pathetic display, it would’ve been infinitely more gratifying for you. Instead, his limbs trembled, not with shame, but with raw, unbridled lust, every step on his hands and knees making his pants strain a little tighter around his cock.

You hadn’t even ordered him to, but like a good boy, he still picked the collar up with his mouth, carrying it between his teeth as he made his way back to you. Then, he dropped it proudly at your thigh, a smile playing at his lips and gaze swimming with longing, with the hope that you might praise him for going above and beyond for you. 

But you held your tongue, simply picking up the collar without a word of approval and leaning down to wrap it around his throat. You knew better than to be too lenient with your praises this early on—if you gave him an inch, he’d take the whole world. 

The fit was perfect, leather molding to his skin just as hungrily as he’d press his frame into yours, not allowing a single gap or crevice. Childe made no effort to control how his breathing picked up over the brush of your fingers, each touch, however faint, sending another bolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins until he was practically left panting once you’d finished fastening the accessory around his neck. 

Two of your fingers slipped underneath the band to give it an experimental tug, and when the tag bearing his name jingled, you could’ve sworn you saw his hips stutter over the sound alone.

It was a view that you couldn’t help but admire—black leather against pale skin, cheeks already beginning to dust pink at their apples, and a nametag hanging from his neck that should’ve weighed him down with dishonor, not bathe him in a glow of pride like it had done. Suddenly, you began to see what he meant about the appeal of your name being the one laying claim to his body.

You grabbed hold of his jaw, tilting it from side to side and trying to ignore the holes his searing hot gaze branded into you, not once leaving your face no matter which angle you directed his head. A compass following the polar star.

“Suits you,” you said at last. 

He puffed out his chest a little, like your dog was the greatest thing he could ever be. A Harbinger, a hero of legends, a dominator of star systems—all those legacies paled in comparison to even the simplest of praises you offered him. 

“It’s too bad you don’t know how to behave.”

He batted his eyelashes. “Gonna teach me how?”

Giving the silver an irritable flick, you leaned back, freeing one of your legs from his near-iron grip to nudge his chest with your foot. It heaved in a shuddering breath, already anticipating the trail of your touch down to where his length was swelling more and more between his legs. But to his disappointment, it never came. Instead, you pressed your toes into that infuriating little opening in his suit, showing off a sliver of his scarred stomach like a dog that put just a bit too much trust in everyone it met.

When even that touch led to nothing more, Childe made a small, impatient noise low in his chest, eager for a punishment just as any well-adjusted person would be for a reward. There was already a fine line between pain and pleasure for him, but when it came to you, they were one and the same.

“Come here,” you ordered softly, patting the spot next to you on his mattress.

He didn’t have the chance to linger on the loss when your foot pulled away from him, brows lifting, so adorably reactive as your legs spread to invite him up in the space between them. Instantly, he sensed that something was off; it was too easy, there was no challenge, most importantly, he hadn’t done anything to prove himself yet. You both knew each other better than to believe either of you would be satisfied with just this, but that still didn’t stop him from rising obediently from his spot and settling down into you, heart thumping wildly like a wagging tail beating against the mattress.

You tried to ignore his expression as you began to undress him without a word; utterly lovesick, adoration swimming in the pits of his pupils and mouth twitching like he was fighting back uncontrollable giggles. His scarf draped over the white sheets like a bloody waterfall when you undid his suit jacket, soon followed by the skeleton of his mask and his burgundy button-up—shades of crimson ranging from a fresh, open wound, to dried, darkened blood that caked his skin, clinging to his body never to be fully scrubbed off. 

There were new scars for you to admire under his clothes—there always were. You could’ve blamed your tinge of annoyance on the expectant, almost smug look plastered on Childe’s face when his bare chest was revealed to you, but in truth, the fault was wholly your own for how predictably your gaze fell down to observe it. 

Your eyes skimmed over the gruesome sight of his injuries from Fontaine, scars discolored and raised even long after they’d healed—if you could even truly call it healing, for injuries of that scale. You were still unable to dwell on them for too long without wincing over the reminder of how close you’d come to losing him. Being free of him was one thing, losing him was something else entirely.

Fingers light, you traced over each scar with a tenderness that weakened his body more than the slice of any blade ever could.

“How did you get this one?” you asked, dragging your index finger down the path of a long, jagged scab that just barely missed his nipple. It was hard, stiff, and when you brushed over the dusty pink bud passively along the way, he whined as if you’d just struck him.

“Can’t remember,” he replied breathlessly.

“And this one?”

A stitched-up gash just below his belly button, disappearing below the waistline of his pants along with that trail of wispy red hairs. The scar contracted with his stomach muscles under your touch, another weak noise rising in his throat when you refused to follow it all the way down beneath his clothes, where he ached for you.

“Dunno.” He squirmed. Once, then again when your hand still remained motionless. You could hear the plea in every jerk of his muscles; touch me, touch me, touch me. "Hah. Wilderness Exile?” he tried again, a bit more frantic this time. “Just…please. Hey, please.”

“You’re a slut, Ajax,” you muttered, curling your hand around his bulge all at once and giving it a harsh squeeze. It pulsed, coming alive at your fingers with a heartbeat of its own. “God, anything makes you hard, huh?”

He all but doubled over, such a strangled, pitiful whimper over a single touch. It may have been laughable, how a sea of enemies paled in comparison to the effect your fingers had on him, if only it weren’t equally as cruel. Because that effect could never stop him when it mattered most—in fact, it was precisely because of it that he was willing to go to any lengths necessary to keep you. 

“Only you,” he breathed out.

He’d been doing well, up until now, controlling those pesky impulses of his that only ever seemed to bow their heads in your presence, but the instant he caught your scent wafting from his favorite source, his last shred of restraint crumbled. Your ring wasn’t enough, your collar wasn’t enough, he needed you, he needed your marks on his skin and your insides squeezing around him in a way that you never allowed your arms to. 

Childe dove into you, hands slinking around your waist to pull you flush into him and strong fingers grasping at any inch of you they could reach, practically clawing at your clothes to get to the soft planes of skin underneath like a fox plucking the feathers off a freshly caught sparrow. Your hand was still wedged between his body and yours, setting off a burst of arousal in your core when he pressed the shape of his clothed length into your palm. Fully hard for you, ready to be used.

“Control yourself,” you warned him, shifting to break free from his grasp.

“Can’t.” He shuddered as his nostrils filled with your essence, rocking shamelessly into your palm. “Can’t, can’t, can’t. You know I can’t. ‘S why I need you, right?”

To say that whatever influence you had over him was control didn’t necessarily sound right, not when you so often felt unbearably helpless in the face of his devotion, even when he was at your feet, waiting for your orders like a mad dog trained to kill at your command. Still, you supposed that was as close to control as it got for someone like Ajax. When even he himself had no real grasp on his instincts, he counted on you to reel him in; a collar and leash every bit as emotional as it was physical. 

You smacked his hands away, and before the pain could only serve to work him up even further, you ripped your fingers off the curve of his cock for good measure.

“Don’t touch me.”

His hips grinded into nothing, the dizzying fog of lust that had been spinning around his head dissipating momentarily. “H…ah. What?” 

“I don’t like these hands,” you said. “All they do is hurt people. So you don’t get to touch me with them.”

For once, the expression on his face didn’t sway you. Pupils dilating into starless night skies, mouth hanging open with no clever words ready on his silver tongue, brows furrowed into a look of utter dejection, it was all so gratifying. Coupled with the collar wrapped around his neck, he may as well have been a scolded puppy with its tail tucked between its legs. Except what was tucked between his legs still throbbed despite your cruelty, pumping hotter with adrenaline the colder your stare grew.

“Not you. Never you.” He reached for you a second time, knowing full well that his hand would be slapped away. A sharp smack echoed through the room like lightning, and his groan followed like thunder. “Y’know I’d never hurt you. Never. I’ll make you feel good. So, so good…”

Again, he sought out the comfort of your body under his hands, hands that felt so empty when they weren’t gripping your flesh or a weapon, and again, he was met with a harsh sting on his skin. 

“I don’t like this mouth, either. All it does is lie.”

You moved away from him on the bed, and his collar jingled as he leaned forward to follow you, a faint grumble of protest erupting in his throat before he realized what you were making room for. Lifting your hips off the mattress, you dipped your fingers under your thick winter clothes and wiggled your way out of them. Childe watched, mesmerized, as you slipped your underwear off, a thin, sticky line of your slick attaching from the fabric to your cunt that made his eyes gleam like blue fire.

“You sure about that?” he cracked a lazy grin. “I can make it do something that I know you’ll like.”

Your insides clenched, and you could’ve brushed it off as your heat reacting to the cool air if not for the wetness that came seeping out right after; another betrayal from that bothersome body of yours that had never stopped recognizing him as the man you loved. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, you bundled up the underwear in your fist, using your other hand to grip his jaw.

“Open.”

He complied immediately, already salivating, like even the filthiest parts of you were the most delectable meal he could’ve ever asked for. You shoved the makeshift gag past his lips, flooding his tongue with your slick and wedging the fabric between his teeth so that all he could taste and smell was you. You, you, you. A laughable excuse for a punishment, really.

Childe’s eyelids went heavy, a drawn-out moan of relief vibrating around the cloth and making your composure slip just enough to have you shedding the rest of your clothes a bit quicker than you would’ve liked. If he hadn’t already been in ecstasy, the sight of your chest falling free, bare body inching back towards him, could’ve had him tipping over the edge completely untouched. 

“Hold it,” you told him sternly, oblivious to the fact that there was something much more pressing than your underwear that he had to hold in. Regardless of how hard he was fighting to not unravel right then and there, he still hummed dutifully in reply, lips already gleaming with spit around the garment with no plans to ever set it free from his jaws again.

Sitting up on your knees, you threw one leg over his waist, straddling his lap and hovering your dripping heat just a breath away from where his dick twitched for you in the confines of his pants. Something between a growl and a whimper buzzed in your ears as your fingers at last came down to unbutton them and pull his cock free, leaving him to gaze helplessly at the view of your hips coming down on him without being allowed to grab them like every fiber of his being screamed for him to do. 

“Hands to yourself, puppy. Got it?” 

Unpleasant reminder aside, a ripple of glee still passed through Childe’s skin over how you took a moment, just like you always did, to admire him before taking his length inside of you. It was so warm, radiating heat and reddened in a much less innocent way than the tip of his nose or the flush of his cheeks after a day of trekking through snow plains. Hot and heavy in your hands and dripping with pretty beads of precum at its swollen tip, as if he ever needed the extra slick to slide into you with ease. He was a perfect fit, every single time. 

You lined his dick up with your entrance and sank down on him all at once, not giving yourself the opportunity to think about how his awestruck stare made your chest tighten. Everything else in the world could change, but this would always be his favorite. However wild he went when rutting into you from above, however much he loved to prove himself with every snap of his hips, nothing could compare to when the weight of gravity pulled you down on him until every last inch of him was engulfed in you, allowing your bodies to merge as far as their physical constraints would allow. 

As your walls wrapped around him and he let out a low, primal moan like he’d found his purpose inside of you, you feared that he took one step closer to tearing those constraints apart with rabid teeth. Rules, reason, time, space—nothing was safe with him but you. 

Your hands rested on his shoulders to steady yourself as you adjusted to his stretch, broad and scarred and trembling with the self-control it took him to not cage your body in with his arms. His muscles flexed erratically under your palms, and when you pushed down on him to help lift yourself up on his dick, the veins in them bulged like lightning, canines sinking into your underwear hard enough to tear through it. 

Only Ajax could make something you’d turned into a habit feel so inexplicably thrilling every single time, as if it was the first all over again. Your body knew his even better than your own at this point, but there was so much exhilaration in the familiarity of him nestling back inside of you, his first and only. All the unpredictability of adventure with all the comfort of returning home, rediscovering pleasure through each other over and over again. 

Curses, muffled and half-formed, spilled out from his mouth around the gag. You could see his drool seeping into the fabric, mixing with your essence and trickling from the corner of his lips. You could see his tongue struggling to slide out from behind your underwear and lap up the stray rivulets, not wanting to miss out on a single drop of that intoxicating taste that had him more hopelessly hooked than Fire Water ever could.

Every little sound he made was another jolt zipping through your senses, and it had you digging your nails into his skin a bit harder than intended as you dragged your walls back down along his cock, squeezing and sculpting around its shape so seamlessly; pure muscle memory. Childe’s hands fisted at the sheets, forehead falling against yours so he could find at least some relief in skin to skin contact. Insatiable as ever, even when he was already making a home in the deepest parts of you. 

More drool pooled on his tongue as you began to pick up the pace, warm addictive velvet taking him in over and over again in a growing rhythm, so much hungrier for him than you’d ever let him know. His eyes flickered back and forth between where his dick was disappearing inside of you, and the view of you riding him to your heart’s content, unsure of where to focus his attention when each sight made him more manic than the last. 

Then, when you pulled off of him almost entirely save for the taunting press of your cunt around his swollen tip, he settled for locking his gaze on the spot where your bodies met, just to make sure it was real. Just to make sure that you were willingly taking him inside of you, swallowing up every last inch of his cock in the snug compartment of your walls. Where he belonged.

“G…ood, s’good.” It came out a garbled mess through your underwear, but you knew that you could’ve sucked all the air out of his lungs and still he would’ve found a way to voice his pleasure to you. “Y’feel…taste s’good. Fu—mmm—f-fuck.”

Saliva was coating his chin now as he moaned and grunted around the gag, dribbles splattering against your skin and making your stomach twist wonderfully over a sight you’d sworn to yourself you’d never bear witness to again. 

“Filthy mutt,” you huffed, swiping up a rivulet of drool and shoving it back into the hot cavern of his mouth. “You’re making a mess.”

He sucked mindlessly on your thumb as soon as you made the mistake of bringing it near his lips, far too drunk on your taste suffocating him and your insides sealing themselves around every ridge and vein in his length to care about anything else but having as much of you as possible. Maybe he thought he could get away with it, maybe he wasn’t thinking at all, but he gave in to his reflexes once again, releasing the bedsheets with a whine of frustration and grabbing handfuls of your body. 

If you’d been in a less euphoric state of mind, you would’ve scorned yourself for how long it took you to realize something was wrong, you would’ve been a bit more disgusted by how natural it felt to have his scarred hands all over you, ringed finger pressing indents into your skin. Warm, warm, warm. 

But the wave of reality that came crashing over you was always cold. The very same hands that maimed and destroyed in your name, you were letting touch you again, with the audacity to think that he was allowed to love like a normal person. You stopped the rock of your hips completely, digging your nails into his skin to pry him off of you. When he only latched on harder with a whimper of protest, one of your hands came down on his cheek, just hard enough to darken the pretty pink flush of his face into a deep red print. As painful as it looked, you knew he would relish in it for days to come. 

“Fucked stupid already?” you hissed. “What part of no touching don’t you understand?”

“Ple…ase.” He nuzzled his face into your hand, longing for any shred of contact you would grant him; a slap, a sharp drag of your nails, a tight curl of your fingers around his collared throat, anything was less agonizing than being denied you at all. 

Your palm was wet in a matter of seconds, from the pearls of sweat beading on his skin, the fountain of saliva that had spilled from his mouth and—most troubling of all—the wet gleam of tears pricking at his eyes, giving them the illusion of light. You told yourself not to fall for it, but the raw desperation rolling off of him in waves was no illusion, and it winded up your heart just as tight as his cock winded up your insides.

“Please,” he slurred again, doing his best to form words around the ball of fabric filling his mouth. “Wan’ touch. Mmph, mish…miss you.”

You said nothing, refusing to indulge him even when his hips bucked up into you and brushed his cockhead against the roof of your walls to make you see stars.

“M sorry, hah. S…orry.”

“I can’t understand you,” you mocked him, hooking a finger beneath his collar to pull it tight against his vocal chords. “Speak clearly.”

“Sorry. ‘M real sorry, won’t do it ‘gain, promise.” A choked grunt vibrated against the leather, but even so, he did his best to listen to you, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed down as much of his saliva as he could. “Sorry. Mmph—fuck. God, please. Just…just wanna. Need you—”

He cut himself off, or rather, you cut him off when the flutter of your walls elicited a sharp gasp from him, so fucking loud, even through the buffer of your underwear. It was useless to deny him any longer, not when he could feel firsthand how your body reacted to his begging, not when you knew he’d never stop until he had every inch of you in his grasp. If he couldn’t have it, a shallow scratch from his arrow would be an afterthought to the devastation he unleashed on anyone he deemed to come between you.

You reached into his mouth to pull out your underwear, so thoroughly soaked that it was weighed down by his drool, and tossed it to the side. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment as he lost the sensation of his mouth stuffed full of you and his tastebuds engulfed by your essence. His tongue swiped over his lips to savor the residual traces of your slick, a canine licking its muzzle clean after devouring a meal. 

“So fucking greedy,” you muttered. “Nothing’s ever enough for you.”

At last, you let Childe have his way, anchoring yourself back on his shoulders as you began to ride him once more. He didn’t waste a single second before taking full advantage of his freedom, hands like gaping maws and fingers like ravenous canines, desperate to bite out chunks of your flesh and swallow them down to keep for himself. His biceps squeezed around your torso as he pulled you into him, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, so that you could feel the pound of his pulse reverberating through your ribcage as if it were your own.

His death grip all but knocked the wind out of your lungs; a reminder of what exactly he was capable of, what he could do to you if only that fine thread of obsession didn’t hold him back. “Easy, puppy,” you huffed. “I won’t be able to move like this.”

“Stay—hah—like this for a while.” His head burrowed into the crook of your neck, rapid breaths warming your skin like sunlight breaking through mist. “Please? Stay, stay, stay.”

“I’m right here, Ajax,” you kept your voice calm, unemotional, hoping to cool off the flames he was fanning with his own delusions. 

“Don’t go,” he prattled on, pressing frenzied kisses down your throat, kisses that were sure to evolve into deep, lasting bites if you didn’t reel him in. “Don’t get rid of me, ‘kay? Won’t hurt anyone with these hands if you just—ah!” A long, broken keen ripped from his throat as you gave up on being able to ride him properly and started grinding your hips down against his, instead. “Fuck. You can’t leave. Can’t.”

He was even more emotionally charged than usual, something you wouldn’t have thought possible if not for the teary-eyed wreck he’d become beneath you. It had been so long since he’d seen it for himself, physical evidence of you with another person rather than just bits and pieces of information he’d gathered in his absence. It made his skin itch, his gums tingle with an incessant, all-consuming need to tear that man apart, then use those very same teeth to sink into your flesh with every ounce of the passion he’d use to maul. 

The entire world had been shrunk down to your pillowy heat now, like he was only every whole in the fleeting moments where his length was entirely sheathed by you before you slid back off of him again. His hips began rocking upwards to meet the grind of yours, lifting you both off the mattress with the sheer intensity of his thrusts. Amidst the sounds of his ragged panting and the wet smacking of his skin trying to merge with yours, his collar jingled in a faint melody, silver nametag swinging in sync with his earring each time he bottomed out inside of you.

“You…like the sound, don’t you?” you realized, struggling to keep oxygen in your lungs for more reasons than one. “Getting off on the reminder that you’re just a dog?”

The moan he let out was so angelic in comparison to the unforgiving piston of his hips. “Yours. Your good boy.”

You hummed as if contemplating the idea, though you were well aware that you didn’t really have a choice in the matter. However many times you tried to discard Ajax, whatever depths of the world you banished him to, he would always be out there; belonging to you, mad for you, counting down the seconds until he could find his way back to you. That had never changed whether he was deep in the pits of the abyss or deep in the dizzying clench of your insides. 

“Right? Your one and only, yeah?” he urged, more distressed by the second. “You’d never—ah—never, never let anyone else do this with you, right? Only me.”

“Think I’m as easy as you?” It didn’t come out nearly as cold as you would’ve liked when the head of his cock was throbbing directly against your sweet spot, setting fire to your nerve endings to keep you warm for winters to come.

Childe let out a low, raspy whine, unsatisfied with your non-answer. Sure enough, his lips began to suction around your throat, the only way he could soothe himself. 

“Didn’t let him t-touch you, right?” He grazed his teeth across your skin, sharp and slick with saliva, craving a mouthful of you. “Fuck. Dunno what I’ll do to him if you did.”

His canines sank into you without giving you the chance to brace yourself, ripping a gasp from your throat. “No, Ajax. Archons—”

You spasmed around him as he rolled your flesh between his teeth, and somehow, the swell of him inside of you grew even thicker. The heat of his body, the fullness of his length, the cage of his arms, even the sweat coating your skin; it was all him, everywhere. 

“You’re always—hah. Perfect. You’re s-so—fuck. For me. For me me me me.”

Every meeting of your cunt with the base of his cock was accentuated by the word, like he was physically filling you up with the idea. The marks he was sucking into your skin were every bit as addictive to you as they were to him; hot, wet rings that his mouth sealed to you like the wax of his love letters. Your head was spinning now, clouded with just enough bliss to make all of this start to feel right, but in the back of your mind, mental notes were made with every new lovebite he embedded into your skin, already making plans for how you would cover them up. 

“If you’re so sure I'm yours—” You inhaled sharply, forcing back a moan that would only send him deeper into a frenzy. “—There’s no need to mark your territory.”

Childe keened into your throat, teeth vibrating against your vocal chords in a delicious thrum. His hands roamed the map of your body, every dip and curve he had memorized, to ensure that no one else had traveled it while you were apart. To have no doubt in his mind that you were truly there, that you were truly his.

“Say it. S-say it, please? Need to hear it.”

Unsure of how else to distract him, you grabbed a fistful of his hair as a last resort, yanking his head back so that his neck was exposed to you. Childe’s eyes snapped open, gleaming with pure elation when he realized exactly what your intent was.

You leaned forward, finding a patch of soft, inviting skin just below his clinking collar, the only part of his body that ever seemed to be unscarred, reserved only for you.

“Yes, yes, yes. Do it, please. Want everyone to know 'm yours.”

It was solely to shut him up—you could tell yourself that all you wanted, but the reality was your veins flooded with staggering levels of satisfaction the instant you sank your teeth into him, feeling his sweat tinge your tongue and his heartbeat going berserk under the clamp of your mouth. What started as a relieved groan stretched into a near-sob as you laid claim to his throat again after so, so long. The sound brought you to the edge, and the kiss of his cock against the deepest parts of you was the final push it took to tip you right over.

Childe made even more noise than you as you came in his lap, drunk on the sheer ecstasy of your teeth lodged in his skin, your nails raking down his shoulderblades, and your walls wringing him dry. When you pulled off of his neck with a heavy sigh, you were grateful that you’d at least been able to quiet yourself through your climax, even if the sight of that blossoming red mark made you flinch. More ammunition for him to use against you, next time.

“You’re, Archons, hah, squeezing so t-tight. Did y’cum? Felt good?” He surged back into your neck with newfound vigor, like it was a competition to see who was more carnal for the other. “M glad. I’ll keep making you feel good so—mmph. Don’t leave me. Miss you.”

“I’m here, baby,” you panted, softened by the euphoria of your high. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

“You smell so good. S-so fucking good.” He gave up on sniffing your neck and flattened his tongue against it, lapping up the moisture, tenderizing the flesh. A fresh wave of slick from your climax dribbled from your slit and down his length, coating your inner thighs with a sheen that you knew he wished he could swallow down, too. “God, wanna taste you again.”

“Yeah? Should I just stop this, then?” 

You halted the drag of your hips that had already gone mind-numbingly slow after your peak had passed, and his biceps stiffened around you so fiercely that you may as well have just threatened to take away his reason for living.

“No, no, no, no. Please. Close, ‘m so close. Inside, please. Gonna fill you up. Fuck, please.”

He dragged his tongue up your throat and along your jaw, leaving sharp nips and sloppy kisses that grew less coordinated the harder his hips rutted up into you. When his nose brushed against yours with a high-pitched whimper, you noticed them, the tears from earlier beading at the corners of his eyes again. Raw, unbridled happiness that unsettled you so much deeper than the cunning appeals to your emotions he’d use to get his way.

His lips slid uselessly against the corner of your mouth for a moment before he finally managed to catch you in a kiss. You could taste yourself in the clash of his teeth and his tongue delving inside to wrap around yours, drinking from your mouth after devouring your neck.

“Love you,” he slurred. “Love you s’much. Please, love me. Love me, love me, love me.”

The tears spilled over, two tiny droplets clinging to his lashes like icicles before melting down onto your cheeks. You squeezed your eyes shut, bearing with the overstimulation until he reached his breaking point with one last surge of his cock, all the way to the brim. 

He gasped out into your mouth, a choked sob that was so unfairly sweet, just pathetic enough to activate a protective instinct in you. Even with your mind fuzzy, the irony of it wasn’t lost on you, but you still found yourself thinking that you would gladly spend the rest of your life listening to the sounds he made for you if not for everything else that came with them, all the madness that very same tongue spewed. 

A euphoric sensation spread in your core as Childe emptied into you; warm, warm, warm, coating your walls with even more of him and filling you with a heat that rivaled what had built up between your bodies. His fingers were lodged into your hips like grappling hooks, terrified of letting you slip from between his fingers for even an instant while his high racked his body. 

His movements were erratic, uncontainable jolts and shallow thrusts of his hips that you knew he hated. Stubbornly, he sheathed himself back inside you each time he pulled out so much as a single inch, ensuring that every drop of his release was swallowed up by your walls, trying to mold you to his hipbones permanently so that there was no chance a single drop could be wasted. 

He finally had no choice but to release your mouth from his mess of kisses to break for air, broad chest swelling against yours and shaky exhales tickling your skin. His pupils locked on the spot where pearly droplets were seeping out of you around his cock, and you could’ve sworn they dilated a little more.

“Mine.”

There was no use in pretending anymore, so you tangled a hand in his damp hair, brushing through those wild ginger locks as his head buried itself back into your neck. A position that you would always find yourself falling back into again and again, the only certainty in life other than death.

“Can we stay like this?” he murmured, feather-light and oh so docile, all that rage of a mad dog melting away in your embrace. “Please? Don’t want any of it to spill out.”

You shuddered, and in contrast to the softness of his voice, he hugged you a little tighter. 

“Wish I could be inside you even when we’re apart,” he continued, kissing up your neck, licking gently over the darkening indents of teeth he’d left behind. “Wanna fill you up again and again and again until you’re carrying a part of me everywhere you go. Until—”

“Okay, baby. We can stay,” you interrupted, quickly nipping that thought in the bud and praying to the heavens that he’d forget about it once the residual bliss of his high ebbed. “Don’t worry. I’m staying.”

Immediately, from one problem to the next, always keeping you on your toes. “You were gone. Last time I visited home, you weren’t there.” He nibbled lazily at the slope of your shoulder, but there was a tense edge to his words again, that faint ticking time-bomb that you could hear gradually picking up in pace. “Where were you? Waited for days y’know. ‘Til Pulcinella practically had to drag me back to Zapolyarny Palace by the hood of my coat.”

You weren’t sure what compelled you to give an honest answer—the pesky urge to comfort him that had been programmed into your conscience, or the rare opportunity to rub it in his face, to have the satisfaction of outwitting him, for once.

“Mondstadt.”

His lips paused, only for a second, before continuing their path down to your collarbones; more so feeling up their shape than actually kissing them, molding his plush skin around the ridges, always meeting your hardened shell with an irresistible tenderness. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he pouted. “You’ve been leaving home more often these days. It’s not like you at all. Hate it.”

He was right; it wasn’t like you. Transformation was his strong suit, not yours, even if he would go to his grave denying that he was any different from the boy you’d fallen for all those years ago. 

“You’re one to talk.”

“I always tell you where I am, though. Always tell you where I’m going next, even when I’m not supposed to. ‘S not fair.”

But never when you’re coming back, you added in your head. It would be fruitless to point that detail out when you knew his reason for it just as well as he did. No prior warning meant no time for you to prepare your defenses, no time for to brace yourself before his tidal wave of limerence came crashing down on you once more, inundating everything in its path so that only he remained.

“You don’t need to know where I am,” you said instead, some of that usual acidity creeping back into your tone. “And I don’t need to know where you are, either.”

He faltered, and with a start, you feared you may have shattered the happy haze you’d put him under, setting you up for another round of soothing him far too soon. Then, you felt him smile against your skin. 

“Yeah.” He nuzzled his nose into the junction of your neck and shoulder, just breathing you in and out for a moment. “Yeah. I guess it doesn’t matter, right? You know I’ll always find my way back to you, anyway.”

It couldn’t have been further from what you’d meant, but you made no effort to correct him. His words rang true, after all, whether you liked it or not.

“But…I don’t ever wanna see you relying on someone else like that again. I don't know if I’ll be able to hold myself back, next time.” His fingers danced up and down your spine while yours carded through his hair without a single misstep, playing the role of a couple basking in the afterglow and pretending like he wasn’t already daydreaming about the next time he could sully his hands for you. “So…just come to me, okay? You don’t need anyone else. I'll be everything for you.”

“I know, Ajax,” you whispered, resigned. “No one could ever replace you.”

At that, he buried his face into your chest with a pleased sigh, the cool silver of his nametag pressing into your skin, sobering you amidst all his hypnotizing warmth. He seemed content for a moment, but that wasn’t the end of it—it never was. You’d given him an inch, now he wanted more.

“You never say it back, anymore,” he pointed out quietly, finally lucid enough to remember the words he’d spilled into your mouth as pleasure had consumed what remained of his sanity. When he felt you stiffen in his arms, he tilted his head up at you, expression dropping into something painfully mellow. “That's alright. Just…don’t go, okay? Stay with me. That’s all I need.”

You steeled yourself, scratching at his scalp with the hopes of distracting him from your inner turmoil. 

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. Promise.”