♡

“how peculiar,” zhongli comments as he inspects the capsule’s chassis, the greenish glow making his eyes darken into a brownish shade, “you said this contained information about a prophecy of a future disaster that is foreseen to befall liyue?”

if there’s anything you can confidently say about your lover in certainty, it’s the love he holds for the nation he creates. and so, when you stumble upon the seller, as shady looking as she was, you couldn’t just walk away.

“that’s what the merchant said,” you say, fingers twisting in worry, “i did think it was a scam, but i mean - sumeru is the land of the god of wisdom, and these are lord kusanali's inventions. though there’s a chance that it’s not going to be useful, there’s also a chance that whatever is in that capsule would still be beneficial, at least?”

“hmm. well, it is right of you to worry. however, i do agree. gaining more knowledge is, more often than not, a good thing. besides, seeing as you’ve paid for the item, it would be a waste to not use it. i see no harm in perusing it as intended, but just in case, let me do it first.”

the akasha terminal glows as he connects with the capsule, amber eyes closing, his brows furrowing in concentration as the information transferred directly onto his mind. the whole process barely lasts for five seconds, but you wait anxiously and inches closer to your lover as his eyes open-

“….. zhongli?”

he blinks once, slowly, as if he has to clear his mind out from a daze before he turns towards you. the same gentle smile spreads on his lips, yet you can’t help but feel that something is… amiss.

and then you realize his gloved fingers are locked onto your wrists in a vicelike grip.

“dear, you were right.”

“huh?! wait, is a disaster really going to befall liyue?! that’s bad, we should inform the qixing-”

“there is no need for that.”

“huh? what do you-”

“as long as you’re safe, it doesn’t matter. now, let’s forget about the insignificant things. are we not on a vacation? you said you wanted to see sumeru’s local products, yes? i believe there is a marketplace called the grand bazaar-”

as he leads you toward the direction of the bustling street, you stare at him in confusion. he looks and acts just as loving as your beloved, and yet this can’t be the same man that you know - your zhongli would have put liyue as his first priority.

“wait. wait, please - what… what was in that capsule?! we have to go back to that merchant! something’s clearly wrong-”

“nothing’s wrong, dear.”

the hold he has around your wrist tightens, nails (talons?) digging into your skin, and your eyes water in both pain and panic at this point.

your zhongli would have never hurt you like this.

“no! you-you’re scaring me! let go of me!” you try to jerk your arm away to escape from his grasp, but the effort you put in merely makes him sigh in calm disappointment.

a gasp escapes your lips when the ex-archon suddenly pulls you closer with a harsh tug, your body colliding against his as his other arm circles around you to rest on your back.

“don’t flail about like that, my love. what if you hurt yourself?”

your zhongli would have never made you feel unsafe. and yet as you look into the same amber eyes, instead of the usual warmth spreading across your body, all you could feel in your chest is the coldness of fear.

perhaps this really would be the downfall of liyue, for since the first time after its creation, their god has finally abandoned them?

“[name], where’s that package from akademiya-”

tighnari’s question halts when his eyes swept across the darkened empty room. though your curtains are drawn and normal humans would only be able to barely make out silhouettes of the furniture, he can clearly see that you’re not inside.

with a confused hum, he snoops on your desk, knowing that you won't mind. one object, in particular, catches his eye.

that knowledge capsule must be the so-called ‘package’ from the akademiya.

tighnari clicks his tongue and approaches your desk, lifting the item, which casts a bright pulsing green light into his eyes.

well. best to get this over with as fast as possible.

he has to fiddle a bit with his akasha terminal, but the process comes naturally to him. knowledge rushed into his consciousness, but as the first stream hit he immediately knew something was wrong.

the world fades to black momentarily as the data transfer commences.

…

…

…

the capsule drops with a loud thud on your bedroom floor. ears flicking, tail swishing in agitation, the forest ranger stared in a daze as a sense of urgency suddenly built up inside of him.

his baser animal instinct hisses and snarls.

how could he be so nai̴ve?

wrong. you’re not here. it’s all wrong.

he has to get you.̶

he has to get you and bring you into his nest, where you belong.

nȯ̷͓ͅw.̷̡̢̧͈͈̌́̂

his legs move before he could finish the thought. in his hurry, he forgets to close the door completely. the eerie glow of the knowledge capsule casts an ominous luminescence onto a fallen piece of paper on the wooden floor.

“[name], we found this on yesterday’s patrol in one of the abandoned camps. there were loads of empty crates and a list of ‘client names’. we know what it is, but we’re not sure how to use it (and whether we should even try to) and we don’t know what its contents are; maybe you can ask tighnari to advise on what to do about it?”

the metal cuffs he used to detain the criminal clatter against the wooden desk, and cyno sighs tiredly as he slumps onto the chair. yet another criminal jailed and waiting for trial. the scholar just had to make it difficult for both of them, refusing to come with him and always trying to escape his watch.

now’s that’s all settled with, however, here comes the harder part.

vermillion eyes fall onto the papers and the bag of evidence, and he sighs once more, although this time it was more of an 'i really don't want to do this' sigh. but cyno is dedicated and diligent, and so, despite his dislike towards the activity, he proceeds to fill in the reports.

yet moments later, he stumbles upon a question he could not answer.

— what is the content of the stolen knowledge capsule?

….

well, only one way to find out.

the sensation of using a knowledge capsule washes over him. for a short duration, he was rigid, unable to focus on anything but the sudden onslaught of information poured into his head-

cyno’s fist hits the wooden table when the link disconnects.

his eyes squeezed shut. his head swirls. his heart rate steadily escalates.

his mind is full. so full. overflowingly full. overwhelmingly full.

of yoǘ̶ͅ.

“[name].”

his chest tightens.

“[name]. [name]. [name]. [name]. [name]. [name]-̴̙͎̠͆”

out of the corner of his eyes, he catches the glint of metal (strong, durable, steady). his hand reaches out to take the object, fingers carefully tracing the material (cold, unlike your warmth, which he misses so dearly). it’s dirtied and he’ll have to wash it first (for nothing shall sully your skin), but it would do.

no dirty blood should touch your skin. no eyes should fall onto your beautiful visage. no. you are pure and good and his. how had he not realized this before? this should have been the bare minimum for you! he is your protector. he is the very definition of just and he is the only individual who is suited to keep you saf̶e.

“wait for me, [name].”

he h̴̹̎as to keep you safe.

your lover is, for the most part, always rational and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings.

which is exactly why you love riling him up. pressing buttons and flicking switches to see which ones trip him up the most, which makes him flustered, which makes him tick. it’s a fun little game, and you know al haitham finds amusement in it too, despite his ‘complaints’. it’s a dynamic that works out wonderfully, you think.

but sometimes, you want more.

“-and what, pray tell, were you discussing? why would you waste your time talking to kaveh of all people?”

“oh come on, don’t be mean! kaveh’s great. it wasn’t a waste of time at all!”

“having insubstantial conversations are categorized as ‘wasting time’, i believe.”

mo̷re.

“oh, haitham... just admit that you’re jealous.”

“what a ridiculous accusation. why should i be afraid of some mindless fool flailing to sweep you off your feet? he is incapable of doing so.”

“oh i dunno, his latest design for his thesis was quite awe-inspiring. i think he really nailed the functionality and aesthetic down,” you tap the knowledge capsule with your fingers with a wink and a cheeky grin, “you should see it for yourself. i’m sure you’ll change your mind.”

your boyfriend regards you with an unimpressed frown, although he can’t fight the curiosity of his scholarly mind to draw his focus onto the said contraption within your grasp. with a knowing giggle, you toss it towards the scribe and shrug, announcing that you were going out to get some food after a quick wash-up.

𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒌

𝒕𝒐𝒄𝒌

m̸͎͗ore.

𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒌

𝒕𝒐𝒄𝒌

you barely made it two steps out of the bathroom when you’re cornered by your boyfriend. the red lines on his eyes seem to be shining as much as the reds of his terminal, and you tilt your head in question.

“so? how was kaveh’s-”

“don’t.”

the harsh grip on your shoulder and the hard wall your back smacked onto made you wince, but al haitham barely bats an eye from your distress.

“stop saying his name. st̵̲̾op saying other people’s name.”

a shiver runs up your spine, and you silently nod. there’s an exhale of breath before a soft pressure rests against your forehead. through your lashes, you see him melt against you, eyes closed. red. green. red. green-

“i’ll go get that food first, okay?”

-red.

“don’t. stay̵̠̘̙̩͛ here. i’ll go.”

red. red. red.

“here’s the rest of the payment, dori.”

“ohoho~ splendid! always so pleased to do business with you!”

“oh no, the pleasure is mine.”

“i presume the capsule is working as intended, then?”

“it was adorable, the way he comes running like a puppy to his master.”

“gosh~ out of all my customers, you sure are one of the strange ones….. [name].”

you chuckle and wave her goodbye, quite sure that your lover was going to turn port ormos upside down any time now, when he finally realizes that you’ve given him the slip.

oh, you’re so looking forward to this pleasant change in your life.

© zhongrin | 2022 ◆ no repost. reblogs much appreciated. feel free to reach out to submit suggestions, feedback, comments, or if you just want to talk!

Yaoyao was unable to take her eyes off it as a halo of soft yet lurid orange light enveloped it. The statue wore a brown hanfu that was encrusted with citrine jewels fashioned into dragons and the Geo element's symbol. Their clothes looked ruffled on areas near the waist and thighs as though it was frequently hugged and touched around those parts. But what Yaoyao couldn’t forget the most was their black earring with a white tassel that hung on their right ear. She can't recall who she saw wearing that earring when she first saw it, but she had certainly seen it before.

Admittedly, the statue was nearly perfect if it weren’t for the fracture the child had caused upon bumping into it. Yaoyao would have mistaken it for a real person and apologized if it weren't for the diaphanous and stony texture it possessed.

Still, the farrago between real and fake stirred around the lost child’s head as if it was a major dilemma. She swears she had seen that earring somewhere and that chipping its pointer finger off the statue was an inexcusable and grave mistake. Was this statue designed after someone in history or a character from those fictional tales Master loved to talk about? Yaoyao couldn’t decide which is a likelier story, but she certainly didn’t want it to be the former.

In addition, what made it eerier was the anticipation of calamity on their face. It’s a look not at all visible. The majority would undoubtedly dismiss Yaoyao's perspective and assert that the monument exuded a stoic aura. But if such were the case, why does she see the look of a rabbit about to flee in their eyes? The statue’s face exhibited a great firmness that declared that it wasn't as it appeared on the outside.

The statue looked like it was fearing for Yaoyao’s life after what she had done.

To avoid amplifying her trepidation, the young girl focused her attention elsewhere. Near the statue laid a red baize-covered table full of tapestries and books Yaoyao could only reach by tip-toeing and underneath it was stacked with clothes, herbs, vulneraries, and letters without indications of the sender or addressee’s name. If so many offerings were being made, then someone really cared about whoever this statue stood for. A commendable devotion considering how the last letter was only dated about two days ago.

Whoever this statue was and whoever maintained this shrine must’ve mortified a penchant for humorous literature and scientific breakthroughs. It would've been a strange combination if it weren’t for how everything was aesthetically arranged. It was obvious that the domain was kept immaculate out of love and adoration. Under the watchful gaze of this statue, philosophy and science had united into one entity, and Yaoyao was positively enthralled.

However, it was a seasonable night and due to the touch of Nyctophobia children inevitably have, Yaoyao couldn’t tell the murky difference between excitement and fear as she quickly stumbled out of the cave. 

When Yaoyao came back the following week after a busy lantern rite, the domain’s opening vanished. She brought Qiqi along and attempted to show her in quailing distress that asked for confirmation that should’ve been a hole in that wall— but Yaoyao was only met with the zombie’s catchphrase of: “I’m sorry. I forgot.” 

There was no reinvasion of the cave's darkness. Not a single hump was left to indicate that something was concealed behind it.

And that led to Yaoyao hunting a certain “illuminated bird” down.

——————

“Aunty! Aunty!”

“Must you grate my ears with your incessant shouting, child?”

The bird continued to coast on its two legs while Yaoyao halted in her tracks, gasping for air. Although Yaoyao found it excruciating to attempt to keep up with the adeptus' quick treks in the mountains, it was obvious to any outside viewers that the crane was being merciful with her slow and tiny steps.

“P-Please stop aunty! I-I just want to ask a few questions!”

Cloud Retainer sighed and did as commanded.

After letting her describe the location and what she had seen inside it, Cloud Retainer nodded in the affirmation that what Yaoyao experienced truly happened. Yaoyao felt triumphant when the adeptus did not dismiss her babbling as some silly delusion, but she was unable to completely express it when she noticed a glimpse of sadness in her eyes.

“Of course it was real. One knows that location quite well, but One was never permitted to enter. That statue you spoke of would be none other than Rex Lapis’ depiction of (Y/n), the Wayward Pharmacist.”

(Y/n)?

Softly, the adeptus continued, “oh, (Y/n)… One remembers them rather fondly.”

Cloud Retainer did not raise her chin or adopt her customary condescending tone. Instead, her message matched her voice. Yaoyao was not the least bit confused by this sudden shift in demeanor.

They both know that name.

After all, (Y/n) (L/n) was Streetward Rambler’s first human disciple.

Yaoyao never inquires about (Y/n) with her master. All of Madame Ping's disciples were aware that they shouldn't broach the matter. Grief swarmed against Streetward Rambler so frequently that she bathed herself with distractions to wash away the acuteness of such regrets. She had done the most of what she could to relieve certain difficulties she had over the years, including mastering inventions and raising mortal children. While the majority of these were in her favor, the final diversion was less successful. 

How can it not be painful when Streetward Rambler always sees (Y/n)’s old cheerful and ambivert nature in Xiangling and Yaoyao's eyes?

This was a rare chance to learn more about (Y/n) than just the faceless figure that her Master frequently likens her to. Madame Ping only ever briefly narrated (Y/n)’s deeds. Yaoyao relied heavily on individuals around her for her adepti history knowledge because she wasn't book-learned enough. Hence, inflicting a sense of confidence that she did not fully possess, the child continued to inquire.

“What were they like, Aunty?”

“You must understand how broad that question is.”

“Oh, r-right. Sorry!” Yaoyao sheepishly laughed. “I wanted to ask what was their personality like. Did they have friends? Or, well, what did they do?”

“(Y/n) was…” Cloud Retainer chuckled. Yaoyao couldn’t see a smile, but she heard it from her laughter. “—an obnoxious human.”

“E-Eh?!…” Yaoyao trembled. “S-Should I be worried that Master always compares me to (Y/n), aunty?”

“What nonsense— of course not. Take such compliment with high honor!” The bird towered her gaze above Yaoyao, clearly offended. Effectively, it seemed as if Yaoyao’s needless worries kindled afresh the snobbish Cloud Retainer everyone knew of. “There are only a few humans One regard as almost equals. Their obnoxiousness is what makes them wholly endearing and wholly human. If there was one true flaw One would nitpick out of all their traits, it would be their inherent obsession with longevity.”

Cloud Retainer shook her head. “Rex Lapis often debated with them over this, but (Y/n) was a stubborn mortal. Many occasions led to them being confined in a miniature domain that he keeps in his pockets. We did not agree with their dreams of becoming immortal. But other than that? (Y/n) was a humble loyalist.”

Yaoyao was inclined to believe that she was right because there were a few biological research sprinkled across the statue's domain. She had even read portions concerning Inazuman beliefs regarding stress and "ikegai" which might be related to a human's lifespan.

“Rex Lapis liked them despite arguing with him a lot?”

“Why, if you were there, you would see how adorable they were whenever they deluded themselves they could win a debate against an Archon,” the bird quipped humorously.

"Immortality had always been (Y/n)'s goal. One often told them to not be afraid of death or die worthlessly, but they never listened. They even tried to curse themselves to accomplish this, and astonishingly, they almost succeeded if it weren't for the Conquerer of Demons' unsleeping vigilance while acting on Rex Lapis' orders. The Archon always has an affectionate expression on his face when they pout over his interferences. One would have jokingly said that her friend is in love with a mortal if One didn't know any better."

“Wow…” Yaoyao covered her mouth with her tiny hands in awe. Neither of them seemed to realize that something was incredibly off about that ‘fun tidbit’. “(Y/n) must be smart if they constantly got Rex Lapis’ protection!”

“Indeed they were— were you doubting One’s abilities?! Had One not said they were close to One’s competency?”

“Ah, right.”

“They were an obnoxiously hard-working individual. Grinding their bones in hopes to grant impediments as a rival to Guizhong and I’s intellectual plays. (Y/n) lived a short life filled with effort and virtue, it is to no one’s surprise that Rex Lapis had conceived a great liking towards them,” she mused.

“Rex Lapis nearly caved and made them immortal at one point. However, he changed his mind after finding out (Y/n) had a human lover…” Cloud Retainer closed her eyes. “Perhaps that was an act of mercy. An Archon’s goodwill so that they wouldn’t have to suffer the fate of grieving for their beloved for all eternity.”

If only she knew the truth.

“They must be really important if they got a statue,” Yaoyao tilted her head, emanating a soft chime from her bell accessory. “Master only said that they were very kind and that they had a lover with green hair, and—”

“And?”

The adeptus was interested to learn what her old acquaintance talked about (Y/n). Did the grandmother compliment them on how cute they were? How, in essence, they were one of her greatest sources of delight and pride? Before Streetward Rambler took up the name “Madame Ping”, these were the typical musings she had over tea with both her and Guizhong. In a sense, Cloud Retainer merely pressed the question because she missed these times—

“And that they had a nice big family around Qingce Village! Two sons, one daughter!”

Cloud Retainer made a choking sound.

Impossible.

“Family?! Goodness gracious, it seemed Streetward Rambler has turned into quite a fabulist over time,” Cloud Retainer shook her head. “No, (Y/n) (L/n) unfortunately did not produce such a legacy.”

Legacy?

“I’m so sorry, I don’t get it, aunty. What do you mean?”

“They did not leave a child for me— for us to look after.”

Cloud Retainer cringed at her uncontrollably bitter tone. There was a point in her life where she cursed (Y/n) for this. Death was not something they can control— yes— but she used to be an ignorant fool who did not respect (Y/n)’s decision to never have children. Perhaps, in a way, this was because she wanted to see a new generation of like-minded people like them, but she will never forget the uneasy looks they gave her whenever she launched into one of her rants.

They may have been Streetward’s disciple but to Cloud? She was like their true mother. Much like most mothers of the old generation, she selfishly wished they left behind even a non-blood related grandchild for her to rear after (Y/n)’s name.

“They… have gone missing. They did not die with a family of their own— we did not even find their corpse. One does not know why Streetward Rambler would tell you that.”

“Oh… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know... It must’ve been a sad loss for the adepti and everyone else.”

Cloud Retainer only looked away.

“There was no pecuniary loss for us when it had happened, sure,” she said. “But yes, it was indeed a sad time for the adepti to lose both Guizhong and (Y/n) at the same time. There could’ve been a new province of knowledge and ventures— these virtues of arts were never grasped because death had stolen their privilege of penning down their strange yet wonderful conjectures.”

“Time and time again, they had failed to accentuate any alterations in their mortal structure,” she continued. “While others sought out their writings regarding their enlightened art pieces, few looked for their progress on human mortality. One only remembers a singular human who came to find (Y/n)’s transcendental medicines. One believes his name was Baizhu. If One’s explanations were inadequate, perhaps you must seek him instead.”

Yaoyao perked up. Well, that’s lucky. She was just about to head to Bubu Pharmacy to look for the pharmacist later.

“Ah, there you are, Yaoyao!!!”

Out of the blue, Ganyu and a face unfamiliar to the adeptus disrupted the scene. This human had indigo braids wrapped up in a tight bow for hair and amber eyes. Had it not been for Ganyu and a cute little bear clumsily climbing the stairs behind her, Cloud would’ve left immediately.

“Marchosius, it has been a long time...”

“♪~?”

“Woah… Is that Cloud Retainer, Ganyu?” The unfamiliar human gawked.

“That is that. One will no longer entertain questions. One shall take their leave at once.” The adeptus did not waste another moment upon noticing Xiangling’s curious gaze. However, Cloud did give Marchosius a look of respect before taking flight.

The little girl frowned.

“Yaoyao?”

“Oh, sorry,” Yaoyao smiled forcefully. “I just remembered I didn’t get to ask her the most important question.”

“Hmm? What question were you going to get an adeptus’ advice for?” Ganyu placed a hand on her chest. “Perhaps I could help? I may not know all the answers, but I do have some connections.”

“I’m just curious…”

Yuguei jumped off the basket as Yaoyao hastily removed it from behind her. The smaller adepti treasure leaped over her head and peered attentively over as if to assist her in locating the object she was seeking. When she did grasp it, she did not do so carefully. Instead, she held it out like a young child showing off a crayon during show & tell.

Ganyu and Xiangling’s blood ran cold as the child presented them with a dismembered finger.

still, you fix a fake smile and offer them the most believable out of your quite pathetic array of excuses—"he's a visitor from the harbour. yes, related to my work. no, nothing big. he needs help sorting out documents since the ministry is strict about papers, especially when it concerns foreign businessmen." you never mention a name or any other detail. they don't pry, either, curious minds sated for now.

the lie isn't that much of a lie, considering he was officially in liyue for business matters representing the northland bank, and the ministry was a little cautious, but less because of his business and more because...of his overall existence. you've heard the rumors and even experienced parts of it for yourself, so you can confidently say that he would unsettle anyone. however, despite all the time you've known him, you can't quite tell which one of his numerous whispered-about jobs is true; banker, businessman, or just a soldier. or maybe, the answer was all of the above, with an extra title—fatuus.

despite the general unease from the village, nobody dares question the blue-eyed stranger to his face. he walks straight to your door, never stopping to acknowledge the presence of others, stays for a few hours, and leaves like clockwork, leaving no evidence for the villagers to gossip about and question the nature of your relationship. still, the little details; the boxes he carries, the way he lingers outside your door for a few more moments, the increasing frequency of his visits, they serve some fuel to the ever-growing flames of curiosity.

today, ajax walks in with his usual disarming smile, eyes visibly brightening at the sight of you standing stiffly behind the door.

"i missed you," he croons—the same as always—though you know he means it very much. as is routine, he reaches out for your hand with his gloved one and places a kiss on the back of it, maintaining eye contact with you all the while. his smile turns into a menacing smirk at the slight downturn of your lips.

"come, darling," he gestures to your table, as though you were the guest and him the host, "look at what came in today."

as you cautiously walk past him and sit down, he unravels a thick, wrapped bundle he had been holding under his arm, revealing to you a lovely coat of rich, dark color and expensive-looking details. the buttons look like real gold, and you can already tell by looking, that it was made to fit you. everything he bought you was tailored to your measurements, though you never dared to ask how he got your measurements so accurately.

he watches, closely, as you, having known what he was expecting, stand up and let him slip on the coat for you. you pretend to look mesmerized by the feeling of the warm inner lining brushing your arms and run your fingers across the soft material to put on a show of awe for the harbinger. it's very likely that he knew you were doing this out of fear rather than gratitude, but he's appeased anyway, as he places his hands on your shoulders and squeezes, his grip firm but painless.

"it's perfect," he lets go of your shoulders to interlock his gloved fingers with yours, watching your face intently, "...is it not to your liking?"

you pretend to admire the buttons and hemming, the thought of him deliberately picking this out for you more unsettling than flattering, especially when you recalled previous encounters of the same nature, wondering how to explain without upsetting him, "i just...don't need something so expensive."

you didn't need it, especially in liyue, where it never got cold enough for you to be adorning such a thick coat without sweating profusely. at least the expensive hand-embroidered clothes and jadeite earrings he bought you before were thin enough to be worn on visits to the harbor and rare outings together, and the silk underclothes you could wear to bed if you weren't constantly worried about him wondering if you were wearing those and coming to see for himself. this coat, however, was impractical and lavish, and you wondered if this is how all the rich spent their money—foolishly.

"it's not meant to be worn here, my dear," he chuckles, "it's for when we visit snezhnaya. it's far too cold there to be in your usual outfits."

before you could stop yourself, you speak the words lingering in your mind, "i don't need it."

he pauses for a few minutes, the charming smile slipping for a terrifying moment, before returning, the realization striking him immediately, "very cute, darling. although i wouldn't mind you wearing my coats, i think one tailored to your size would fit better, no? besides, i only bought one, just so you can wear it for when we have important visits in snezhnaya. otherwise, my love, you can wear any of mine that you like; in fact, i would prefer that, since everyone would see you and know at once that you're with me."

you weren't going to tell him that that wasn't what you meant, shattering the pretty picture he had painted in his mind. you couldn't risk angering him by informing him that you weren't planning on going to snezhnaya anytime now or in the future, and you didn't need a coat. you didn't want to see that side of him again, not when there were so many others at risk. so you smile, and though it's painfully stiff, he smiles back at the sight, pleased at your compliance.

you foolishly thought that everything would blow over when he walked out that night, new, expensive coat buried deep in your closet with the other gifts. he had graced you with yet another kiss and saccharine sweet greeting before leaving, and you watched from your doorway as his figure became smaller and smaller in the distance. you noticed that he lingered by a house in the village for a few minutes too long, but just as you were about to go out and see what he was up to, he was gone.

it's only the next day, when one of your neighbors stopped you that you realized what sinister plot childe had been planning.

"congratulations!" she grins at you, face beaming with happiness, "oh, i'm so happy you're having a ceremony here, too! i would hate to miss such a beautiful occasion."

you must have done a terrible job at hiding your surprise, because she rushes to explain herself, "your fiancé told us yesterday evening, and told us the formal invitation for the wedding would be out soon. was he not supposed to tell?"

you manage an awkward, choked laugh, feeling your head spin, "i told him...that we should keep it a surprise. about the wedding, i mean, i hadn't told anyone we were engaged yet because—"

"oh, yes," she's still smiling, and it's almost irritating now, "you must have been worried because he was a foreigner, right? don't worry, everyone already loves him!"

"i'm very glad to hear that," you tell her, forcing yourself to sound as genuine as possible, "and i'm really grateful for your wishes. i have to go now, though, and get some things for tonight."

although you escape her, you soon realize word had spread to everyone in the village. you were being bombarded with congratulations and well wishes, and people gushing about how considerate your fiancé was for having a little ceremony here so your community can see the two of you before you leave for snezhnaya, how thoughtful he was, for asking them what traditional ceremonial foods he should have for the occasion, how generous he was, for sponsoring your wedding.

they gushed over his charming personality and his pleasant words, demanding to see the ring he got you, the one you never wore. they playfully berated you for hiding such a big change in your life, claiming it would have been no problem if you were engaged to him even if they had no idea who he was before this. it was stressful and exhausting to smile and thank them for their words, squeezing your way out of the crowd to the safety of your home, and even then the little peace did not last long.

ajax swings the door open only to see your figure slumped over on the table, tired by the fuss. immediately, he goes to you, sitting next to you and going to stroke your head in an attempt to coax you into unleashing your troubles. despite your mental insistence to never let him get to you, you can feel yourself relaxing under his soothing touch, being starved of such gentle affection for so long.

"you alright there, pretty girl?" he coos into your ear, hands still brushing your hair.

you sigh, not wanting to talk at the moment, but he keeps going.

"i'm sorry if the announcement was too sudden, but it's been more than a month, and you haven't let anything slip. not even wearing the ring i bought for you—i was almost hurt, but i understand. now that you know they're all happy for our engagement, though," as he pauses, a hand squeezes yours, "you should start wearing it, so that they don't get the wrong idea, hmm?"

you find yourself agreeing listlessly, disheartened by the terrible turn things had taken. still, how long could you have kept up the charade? how long could you have avoided the wedding and him? you've always known that ajax was ready to do anything to get what he wanted, regardless of how it may torment you or others. you should have expected such a move from him.

"i've planned for our trip to snezhnaya about two weeks from now, so you can meet everyone back home and we can plan for our wedding," he says, not waiting for you to agree, "i haven't told anyone about the journey yet, since i'm afraid teucer will try to sneak onto a ship to come see us again," he smiles at the memory.

you can still remember it, too. it was one of the few times with ajax that you were somewhat happy, since it was hard to dislike teucer, even if the boy idolized ajax to an extent that made you worried.

that day, the news came to the both of you when you were having lunch in the harbor, a frantic underling interrupting you with a panicked explanation about a teucer and sneaking onto the boat. at the time, you were clueless about the exchange, but ajax, unusually riled up, decided the two of you had to go to the bank at once. there, you met teucer, a boy far too adorable to be related to the harbinger. you knew that ajax wrote to his family about you and some parts of his work regularly, but you hadn't expected the enthusiastic greeting teucer showed you, gasping in awe and asking you if you were really going to marry his brother.

while you had been overwhelmed by the sudden questions, ajax quickly stepped in to calm the boy down and offer to show him around the harbor, only after chiding him on his foolish and reckless decision to come all the way to liyue on his own. the rest of the day was honestly pleasant; you witnessed a new side to ajax and were endeared by the boy, who was far too unsuspecting and excited about everything. when the time came to send him home, he told you earnestly that it had been one of the best days of his life and pleaded with you to come visit soon. how could you have said no to him in that moment?

even now, ajax holds your promise over your head, using it to remind you that you couldn't break teucer's heart. either way, you'd be coming with him, as he often said, but it would be nicer for you if you'd come willingly.

"i think teucer only excited everyone more with his stories about you," the harbinger continues, a tinge of excitement in his tone, "and i already know that they would absolutely adore you."

you nod, not at all as excited as he was to visit his family. ajax stands up and goes to your room, not explaining his sudden actions. you can hear the sound of your closet door opening and drawers being pulled, and you bolt towards the room, bewildered by his unreadable expression and fluid motions.

"what are you doing?" you gape at the speed at which he was picking things out, with no consideration to your privacy, "i thought we were leaving in two weeks!"

"did i say two weeks?" he nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders, "i meant one. we have to leave for the harbour a few days before our departure," he was obviously unbothered by how upset you were, "i'm only helping you pack."

he rummages around in your room before picking something up with his slender fingers, turning to you with a grin that sent chills down your spine, "come here."

He gives you a smile that’s all teeth. You curb the urge to flinch forward and knock a few of them out. 

You are hungry. Famished and parched, you can see a flask of water tucked into Tartaglia’s waistband. The thought of a proper, hot meal and a full mouthful of water feels too indulgent, despite the reality that’s laid before you on the dirt.

You adjust, trying to prop yourself up higher against the wall you rest on. Your hands and forearms are bound in leather and chain, held against your lower back. It forces you to keep your spine straight, and rag-covered chest bared but doesn’t restrict your blood flow and you still have ample room to squirm. You hate him for it, Tartaglia’s uncanny ability to keep you on the edge of discomfort and pure suffering. You know he revels in it.

You swallow your dry tongue, refusing to look at him, and instead fix your gaze on the thick soup. You can see chunks of carrot and fowl, topped with Snezhnayan snow pepper. You know it's his mother’s recipe and will warm you up from the inside out.

It’s horribly tempting, and you jerk against your binds without thinking.

“Careful there,” You can hear the smirk in his voice. Tartaglia snatches up the bowl and stirs. “I’m sure you don’t want to get any more bruised up, do you?”

You bite your lip, holding back a quip that you’re sure will end any chance at a peaceful mealtime. He’s not wrong— there are abrasions and deep, dark wounds on your wrists. They’ve been there since Tartaglia first took you, though the chill tends to help with the ache of it.

You’re aware of your circumstances— not even the cold can chase that away.

You know there are two options in your situation. Go hungry, or ask Tartaglia for help eating. He relishes the opportunity, and you hate giving it to him, but it’s been far too long since you’ve last eaten. At least a day or two. Despite that, the idea of debasing yourself further, even in your bound (and kept, and stolen) state makes your skin crawl.

You can feel Tartaglia’s stare. He plays with the soup idly, humming under his breath. 

“You know how this works, sweetheart,” He finally says.”There’s an easy way or a hard way.”

“I’m aware,” You reply through clenched teeth. “I’d prefer if you’d, I don’t know, untie me and allow me to feed myself.”

He laughs and shakes his head, and you want to punch him. Knock him to the ground and bust his skull on the pavement. 

“Maybe one day! That’s a privilege you gotta earn,” He laughs, scooting even closer; your knees touch. “And you’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant any favors, my dear.”

You mean to curse at him, but you don’t get a chance to. Tartaglia’s gloved hand grabs your jaw, rough and hard, and holds you steady. You jerk against your binds, and strain your neck. Anything to get away from his touch. 

“Tartaglia—”

He cuts you off, swiftly and easily, “You had your chance. Now eat, and enjoy, I made this, especially for you.”

His thumb hooks on your lower teeth, and pulls. You know better than to bite him, or snarl, or do anything other than shoot him the most venomous glare you can muster. 

There had been a learning curve when Tartaglia had first stolen you away. You’d only known him as a charming patron of the tea house you had been employed at. He’d always leave a generous tip and good words with you. In retrospect, far too much flattery, but you’d always justified it. ‘He was like that with all of the servers,’ you had told yourself. His easy smiles and lingering chats were just unfamiliar Snezhnayan niceties and nothing more. 

You were so fucking stupid. 

You have too much time to think about it, really. You’re rotting in some tiny cabin in the bitter tundra and your only company is your captor. You’ve had an obscene amount of stew. Lamenting with your regret. Guilt, even. 

Maybe, if you listened to your coworkers when they said Child was getting too friendly.

Maybe, if you declined his advances more firmly—.

Maybe, if you never got into the habit of letting him walk you home.

Maybe, if you never went out for those drinks. 

Maybe, if you knew that the sedatives he slipped into your drink had the slightest, salty taste, you would’ve been able to do something—

Tears begin to bead at your water line, and your squeeze them shut and try to force yourself to relax as Tartaglia heaps the spoon with soup.

A moment later, he presses it past your lips, hard against your tongue and brushing the back of your throat. You gag for just a moment, before he lets you close your mouth around the spoon and swallow down the soup. 

It’s delicious. It’s warm and spiced. Creamy and thick with small chunks of meat and veg, you can tell it’s been simmered for some time. It heats you from the inside out and it’ll keep you full for hours. 

You lick your lips as Tartaglia pulls away. He beams you a smitten smile, scooting closer and stirring the steaming contents of the bowl.

“See? That’s not too hard.” His tone curls against you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. It is hard to give in to him, it’s as uncomfortable as the binds on your arms do, but you find yourself crumbling. 

Cold and hunger will do things to anyone, you suppose.

He taps your chin with the spoon, and you open up with only brief hesitation. 

How many times have you shared this song and dance? How many meals have you had in this little cabin, cold and near-starving, fighting so hard, and breaking regardless? You feel haunted by the questions. 

You’re tired. Maybe. 

Tartaglia feeds you another mouthful, just as intrusive as the last. You only swallow once he’s pulled away, horribly aware of the tears beginning to spill over your waterline. Despite all of the times Tartaglia has fed you in such a way, your body refuses to become accustomed to his methods. The prodding at your throat always yields tears and a broken voice for a few hours. Sometimes, Tartaglia brings you ginger tea and honey to soothe it, but only if you’re good.

You hate smiling for him and pretending that what you’re going through is anything other than torture. But to act like what you’re experiencing is torture, you only suffer more. Tartaglia likes seeing you put on a show. You’re sure he knows you’re lying when you speak sweetly to him and show any softness to him. But, that doesn’t seem to matter. The sentiment is hollow, what he really enjoys is when you squirm in your own skin, rife with discomfort. 

Thinking about it, all of it, too lucidly makes your head spin. Wires crossing, eyes burning. 

So, you quiet your thoughts. You focus on the action of opening your mouth, swallowing, and fixating on the dusty, wooden floorboards of the cabin. Tartaglia speaks, now and then, as he finishes feeding you your meal. Perhaps it’s praise, with the saccharine smile he still wears. With such an expression, it’s just as likely he’s being cruel. He loves his thinly veiled insults, crafted specifically to get under your skin and make you writhe. 

Regardless, you don’t listen to him. Can’t, even. His words sound like static and aether. Everything other than the thick soup in your mouth feels fuzzy. 

You fixate on the food. It’s a meal. A communion. Something you used to enjoy sharing with others. It’s one of the reasons you enjoyed your work at the teahouse. You didn’t mind the service aspect of it; seeing patrons enjoy tea and cakes while indulging with loved ones, companions, and acquaintances alike had made you so happy. 

(It had been so nice to be invited to tea yourself, back then. ‘Childe’s invitation had been a welcomed surprise, and your first meeting over sweet breads and black tea on the docks of Liyue harbor had been nothing but pleasant.)

(It’s a bitter, poisonous memory.)

“All done!” Tartaglia exclaims as he shoves the last bite into your mouth. You feel warm and full, and you try to sit with the feeling as he fiddles with a clasp on his belt. The sound makes you freeze, going taut in your shoulders and drawing back against the wall. 

Tartaglia raises an eyebrow. 

“Sweetheart, settle down,” He pulls the flask from his belt and settles on his knees in front of you. Without any distractions, you feel forced to fully regard him, disgust swirling in your gut. He gives you a toothy, sly smile. “You don’t have to get anywhere near my cock if you can indulge me a bit.”

“... Indulge you how?” You ask, voice cracking, rough from its earlier treatment. Your cheeks heat. 

Tartaglia tilts his head, “Well, Dottore was going on about something he tried with one of his little lab rats and it sounded like fun. Nothing painful, nothing that will bruise your knees... well, any worse than they already are.”

Tartaglia uncaps the flask of water and swishes the liquid, side to side.

You glare at him, still back against the wall.

“You’re thirsty,” Tartaglia muses. “And I’ll be giving you some water. Don’t bite me or I’ll ‘forget’ to bring firewood for the next week, ‘kay?”

You want to question him, but don’t get a chance to. He grabs your jaw in a calloused palm and holds you steady. You bare your teeth, flinching, but there’s no room for you to back up farther. Your knees press against Tartaglia, who widens his own position to cage you with his thighs. You’re trapped. And you don’t know what the fuck is spinning around in this fucker’s head.

“Don’t look so scared,” Tartaglia pokes your ribs. You wince. “Maybe, you’ll even like this.”

Tartaglia takes a swig of water, going fat in the cheeks. You open your mouth to question him, but what his ‘fun idea’ is dawns on you at that moment. Your thrash against your binds fruitlessly.

Tartaglia slams his mouth into yours, rough and with enough force to pin your skull to the brick behind you. He tugs at your jaw, forcing your jaw to unlock and lips to part just barely. He takes the opportunity and hooks a few fingers over your bottom teeth, holding your mouth wide.

And he spits the mouthful of water into your own.

Oh, the fucker. 

Though Tartaglia’s forced you to eat every meal he’s brought you in the same way, he’s never tried this shit. Water was something he tipped into your mouth from his flagon or made you lap out of a bowl if he was in a particularly vile mood. Fucking demoralizing, sure, but this? This—

You gag, choke on the liquid and try to spit. 

Tartaglia doesn’t give you the chance, he’s fast and predicts your reaction perfectly. He shuts your mouth with a snap of your teeth that rattles in your skull. He slaps his hand over your mouth, wrapping his grip around the lower half of your face.

“Swallow, dearest.”

Archons, you hate him. 

Bile builds in the back of your throat. You don’t swallow. Rather, you meet Tartaglia’s gaze, level with him, and refuse to look away. It’s a stupid decision, you know, it’s fucking fruitless to go toe-to-toe with him. But you can’t swallow either. Your pride has been in shambles for as long as you’ve been in this cabin since Tartaglia dragged you from Liyue by your scruff, but all the same, you can’t let him have this—

(You have to try, don’t you? Just to say that you did. Even if you know how much easier it would be to give in.)

It’s uncomfortable to be this close to him and see him. More than uncomfortable, even. Revolting, maybe. Like this, you can’t avoid examining your captor. You hate sinking into the color of him. A blue so deep and vast that it feels almost void. 

(You noticed it back at the tea house too. The first time you really looked at him as he walked you back to your apartment. You stood on your stoop to thank him and your words died in your throat.)

(You saw something so hollow about him. Like he’d been carved out and replaced with something eerie and wrong. He hid such a condition with a charming smile, glowing personality, and more mora than you thought an individual person could conceivably have.)

(At the time, you dismissed the feeling. It was too uncanny to indulge. An error in your intuition, perhaps. You were just paranoid, right?)

Tartaglia pinches your nose shut and his smile goes dull and his words grow sharper, “You’re not breathing until you swallow.”

(Your move.)

When you’re unbound, you’re going to maim him. You’re going to shove Tartaglia into a snow bank and give his broken body to the Snezhnayan tundra. You’re going to ruin him, and then you’ll back to Liyue, see your family, friends—

(You feel light-headed, fuzzy around your edges. Your body aches from strain. A sob cracks from your throat and you choke on it.) 

And you fucking break. 

You swallow, gasping as Tartaglia removes his hands from your face. Tears bubble over your water line and you cough around lungfuls of air. Tartaglia croons something sweet to you — “deep breaths now, go slow”—

Every time this happens, that you yield to him, you feel something in you shatter. Over and over again you squirm and thrash under Tartaglia’s thumb but the outcome is always the same. It’s humiliating and inescapable. 

You wilt over Tartaglia’s lap. 

You fall into your captive and can’t bring yourself to fight the gentle hand that begins to stroke along the back of your neck and shoulders. You don’t resist your restraints. You fall into them, and let them hold you up despite the pain that tears up your arms and back. A cry rips from your throat and tears dribble down your cheeks to your jaw. Snot bubbles at your nose, but Tartaglia doesn’t seem to mind. 

Tartaglia is patient as you fight your own cracks and wounds, letting you cry and half-wretch in his lap. He remains silent, only petting you like a house cat. 

You have half a mind to bite his thigh and tear out a chunk.

(You don’t.)

(You’re so tired.)

Your chest aches with each sob. Your back is painfully arched so you can smother your face into Tartaglia’s pants. You’re uncomfortably close to his half-chub bulge and you swear it twitches when your breath hitches with sobs. You should move or at least try to, but you can’t make yourself. 

You wallow. 

Eventually, Tartaglia loosens one or two of your restraints to give you more slack. He pulls you to rest against his chest, tucked under his chin and with your cheek nestled against his collarbone. He runs his nails along your jaw, squeezing the nape of your neck between your hitched breaths. It’s comforting, it’s comforting— and recognizing that only makes you feel dirty. He radiates heat that sinks into you, and god, you despise how much you relish it. 

(Even more, you hate how you need it.)

The familiarity of your thoughts almost physically hurts, and you muffle another wail into his skin. If you could use your hands, you’d be clutching at his shirt and trying to drag him closer despite it all. 

(How many times must you shatter? When will he be satisfied? When will you give up?)

Tartaglia hushes you. He whispers another sweet nothing like the sentiment is real. 

He lets you rest against him until your breathing evens out. With enough petting and placating, you’re nothing but a tear-dampened lump against his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind. He coos and keeps you close, lets you settle and you know that if you dared to look at him, you’d see nothing but adoration in his eyes. 

(This is the moment he covets.)

He eventually disturbs your brief ‘peace’, as he always does. 

“Dear,” He says gently, like a lover. He kisses your forehead. “You have to drink the rest of the bottle just like that. Then you can sleep, and I’ll hold you. How does that sound?”

(Awful. Revolting. You don’t want any more of him near you, let alone in you. You can’t—)

You fight back something between a scream and another round of wailing. You give him a misty nod.

You suppose, the warmth of him and the soup in your belly will make the experience tolerable. Biting the hand that feeds you when there’s not another meal on the way seems like a poor decision. 

He moved slowly, let you hear his muffled footsteps and snap towards him, your shoulders squaring and your body going tense before you realized he wasn’t Pierro or Arlecchino, that he wasn’t there to drag you back inside just to mumble a few final words to a room of bickering politicians and deafened soldiers. You didn’t relax, but you didn’t scurry away, either, and he was able to take his place across from you, on the other side of your make-shift hearth, the distance between you no great length, but still existent. Signora liked to keep you pressed into her side, if not as far underneath her as she could manage. Childe wasn’t so merciless. Or, he wasn’t going to be so merciless tonight, at least.

“I’m glad to see you,” He started, holding his gloved hands up to the open flame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely felt cold, but it couldn’t hurt to pretend. “Holding up alright?”

You looked away, your gaze dropping back to the ground. You weren’t, obviously. He could see the redness in your eyes, the fresh bitemarks littered across your bottom lips, the stiffness in the way you kept your arms crossed over your chest, but it'd be better to let you admit to your own distress than try to pry it out of you, as he was sure the others already had. “The Tsaritsa has been kind to me,” You mumbled, by way of response. “Her Majesty and her Harbingers have been very generous in the wake of Rosalyne’s departure. I can't say I'm unprovided for.”

He could only wonder which of the other Harbingers had fed you that line. “That wasn’t the question. How you doing, (Y/n).”

“Badly.” Immediate, hasty, spoken with a sort of begrudging panic that brought a smile to his face before he could drag it down. Luckily, you were already preoccupied. “I mean, I'm fine. Or... I'm sad? I’m not— I don’t think that I’m—” You paused, taking a deep breath. “You knew how she treated me. You all saw how she was. How am I supposed to feel?”

You shifted and something caught the moonlight – a silver band stunted with a single, enlarged ruby. You’d worn it for as long as he’d known you, but he always assumed you’d been forced to, that Signora had made some hollow threat about letting Sandrone weld it to your finger, or asking Capitano to make you one that grows tighter and hotter every time you try to take it off, or something else she’d never actually go through with. Now, you fiddled with it like an old comfort item, running the pad of your thumb over the crimson gem as if you were trying to wear down its edges. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“It’s just…” You turned away, sharply, more out of paranoia than any reluctance to go on. Consider the measures Signora took to isolate to (and the willingness the other Harbingers showed to maintain that isolation in her absence), he might’ve been the first person you’d spoken to sincerely since her death. Or, since she took you in the first place, depending on the kind of relationship you’d had with Signora behind closed doors. “Rosalyne took so much away from me. I don’t know if I have anything left, now that she’s gone.”

He was quiet, for a moment. Just a moment. Childe already knew what he wanted to say, but you didn’t have to know that.

“The weather can be harsh this time of year. In Snezhnaya, I mean.” He nodded towards the cathedral’s courtyard, to the starless sky and the layer of fresh snow. “You should get away.”

That earned a breath of a laugh. “I don’t know where I’d go. I don’t have anywhere to be, without her.” And then, with a pointed look towards the cathedral. “Besides, it’s not as if they’d let me go very far.”

“Not on your own, sure.” He let himself smile, this time, truly smile, hoping the dim light and the harsh shadows would disguise the sharper edges. “But, if you were to travel with another Harbinger, perhaps one stationed indefinitely in the very scenic, very distracting Liyue Harbor…?”

You scoffed, but your expression was more apprehensive than dismissive. A pet, still unwilling to escape its own restraints, but open to the idea of letting yourself be pulled from one lap to another. “And what use would the fearsome Tartaglia have for a grieving spouse in Liyue?”

“Do you honestly think I’m that utilitarian?” You nodded immediately, and Childe chuckled, letting his head lull to the side. “I just think it'd be nice to see a familiar face so far from home. It can get lonely on the other side of the world, and I wouldn’t mind having someone who doesn’t think of me as the renowned, infamous, stunningly brilliant, devastatingly handsome—” He clicked his tongue, bared his teeth. “—and so incredibly fearsome Tartaglia.”

“And, if I was to agree to accompanying you,” Your expression softened, and you adjusted your coat, pulling it over your chest. “When would we leave?”

“First thing tomorrow morning, Don’t worry about packing, either – the Northern Back always treats its guests with unwavering hospitality, and you’ll be on the arm of their most dutiful host.” He stepped around the torch, placing himself that much closer to you. “I’ll let the others know, too. All you need to worry about is getting yourself to the harbor by dawn.”

Your shoulders slumped, your posture losing its rigidity for the first time since he’d first seen you tonight. Since he'd met you. “Thank you, Ajax. I…” He heard the doors to the cathedral open, the sound of footsteps just starting to flow into the courtyard, and you lowered your voice, tilted your head back to meet his eyes. “Honestly, I just want to think about something that isn’t her.”

He only grinned, only draped an arm over your shoulders and pulled you into his side. You brought up a hand, covering your mouth to stifle the small, bubbling laugh that might’ve escaped, otherwise. Your ring came back into view, and he found himself wondering if you would take it off tonight, or when you arrived in Liyue, when you were too distracted to realize it’d been slipped off of your finger. He wondered if you’d let him buy a replacement, or a dozen, or however many it took for you to forget that you’d ever worn anything else.

He was so close.

So close to holding himself back on touching himself until you return, to wait patiently for you and receive his reward for being a good boy. But he couldn't help it. Not when just by thinking about you turns him on so much.

Your voice, your eyes, the way your lips feel against his freckled skin, your big hands— gosh, he just loves the way you absolutely dwarfed him. It sends inexplicable chills up his spine and down to his cock. Everything about you makes him so excited, especially with how easily you manhandle him, be it in bed or on the battlefield.

And he should've gone by your rules when you were really adamant about him following them. Sure, you knew he was a brat, but you promised a big reward for him once you return. That should've enchanted him to follow your rules for once. Well, that's what you thought.

What you don't know won't hurt, right? But what Childe didn't expect was you walking in his room all of a sudden while he was fucking into his fist and fingers deep inside his hole. He was beautifully splayed out for you to see too. Teary eyes, red face, and trembling thighs, but by the way how frantically he was thrusting into his clenched fist and his leaking cock, you knew he was struggling to come on his own.

You were proud of it too since your little whore can't possibly reach the same high as he does with you and you only. But then again, he broke the only rule you gave him while you were away, so you merely sighed in disappointment and ignored Childe's pleas.

If he held himself back a little bit longer, he wouldn't be receiving your devastating punishments. And while Childe greatly enjoyed them, he's always left shaking and unable to walk for days on end with how you're extra rough on him when he breaks a rule. You'd fuck him until he's reduced to mush, and continue being absolutely mean to him while you pound your massive cock that he loves so much inside of him.

But this punishment was different than the others he's experienced. Usually, they deprived him of what he wanted, and sometimes, you'd give in because he's irresistible like that. Right now though? Childe can't tell if he likes being punished more than regular sex at this point.

Rope bounded his arms on his back, tied across his chest in a way he's never seen before. It was tight, and it dug into his skin deliciously, making his nipples harder than before. His chest never felt so sensitive, especially when you whipped with them a crop. Each strike earned a loud cry from Childe, his chest heaving and lightly covered in sweat, red and bruised.

Archons, you're driving him insane, and the blindfold you had around his eyes, blocking his vision and another rule you wished for him not to break made is not helping. "Not a word," You ordered, not having spoken ever since, and he obediently did so, only allowed him to let out his slutty moans and cries of immense pleasure.

You grabbed onto the ropes on his chest and tugged on them, making him drool at the sensations all over his body, but so desperate for more before he passes out. His tears dampened the blindfold whilst he clenched on you like a vice, a pool of his cum on his stomach. He can't take it, it was all too much.

Childe wanted to see you. To touch you, to wrap his arms around you, to hear you order him around, or call him a whore, your whore. Anything at this point! He whimpered, legs resting on your shoulders and reaching deeper inside of him. He could feel you bulging the bottom of his tummy and he needs to touch it.

You were merciless this time, hoping you would teach him a lesson about obedience. But with how much your slut is enjoying his punishment, you'd doubt that he'd ever follow the rules anymore. Upon hearing your dark chuckle, his breath quickened, whining for you.

"Go ahead," You purred in his ear, making him shudder in delight and cock twitch, "Speak up." In contrast to how you're fucking him right now, your voice was soft and unwavering, while he was choking on his own words.

"P-please!" He immediately begged, arching his back prettily and keening when the tip of your cock continuously assaulted his prostate. "L-let me touch- ahn! Let me s-see you- please please, please, k-kiss me! I'll b-be good- o-ohh! Fuck!" He pleaded in between moans, his voice a pitch higher as he came once more onto his stomach, reaching up to his chest.

Your thrusts never relented though and just kept fucking him, kissing his jaw down to his neck fervently. Your lips were so hot against his skin, he felt like he was burning. "T-too much!!" He shrieked when you land another strike of your crop onto his chest, then on his plump ass.

"Too much?" You scoffed, watching him pathetically cry and come undone once more, groaning softly in his ear when he tightened on your cock. Childe always felt so good, whether you're using his mouth or his hole, so warm and wet, only for you. "Should've thought about the consequences before you do something foolish, dear."

Childe could only whimper, body trembling uncontrollably as tears endlessly streamed down his cheeks, slowly losing himself to the pleasure only you could ever make him experience. Sinking your teeth and sucking on his freckled skin, you left multiple marks on him with a satisfied grin on your face.

"I'll fuck you until your inside is the shape of my cock, Ajax. Begging won't get you anywhere."

Childe could only moan again and again, slowly growing more addicted to you.

You offer no struggle either having already learned your lesson. Even still, the Regrator makes sure to tighten his possessive hold, a warning to bahave and the aching marks on your neck statue you to obedience. How you would've loved to slap that God-forsaken smile that tortures you even in your dreams.

Even as Arlecchino is more or less ripping Pantalone's gifts from your body and dressing you into newer, finer garbs (as she likes to say), garbs that were owned by her ; you don't feel the least bit of comfort. Even as the Knave delicately caresses you, showers you in feather light kisses—gestures that felt more possessive and meant to comfort her instead of you ; you feel no warmth. Your heart no longer skips a beat at her princely charms, not when her demands are on par with the Balladeer's.

Ah, Balladeer. An implacable bastard. You know a fraction of his eventful past from the once-in-a-blue-moon moments of quietude, vulnerability. When he would cling to your being like a drowning man to a wooden log, making you swear to not betray him, leave him—an ironic contrast to daylight, when he would toy with you like the sadist he was. A pitiful creature he might be but you can't bring yourself to offer him that remorse.

Sometimes, you place your palm utop your heart to check if it's still beating. Your brows crease to the unfortunate thumps and you wonder, if so, why do I feel nothing? Why is it so cold? The boreal winds froze everything in its wake. You muse if you should accept Dottore's offer, perhaps then, you could feel happiness again? You're no stranger to the Doctor's eccentric ‘ideas’ and ‘experiments’, not anymore when he offers you a front row seat to them. You're forced to sit through his passionate fits and although you don't understand half of what he says, you know the gist and, it's as horrifying as his exclamations of love.

Despite knowing Dottore's unhinged nature well, you still entertain such morbid thoughts with a blank face. Perhaps, Damselette's dark humor has rubbed off on you. But you know there's another one after your anatomy. When it's her turn to lock you in her laboratory, you silently take a deep breath to face the incoming madness—can it even be called such when The Marionette says those things with the most innocent face in all of Teyvat? You don't know anymore.

Even when the moon would replace the sun, snowstorms becoming deadlier outside and chalendiers would be lit, you had no rest. The sun's fall signalled respite for the others in Zapolyarny, but for you, it rang like the midnight bell signalling Lady Columbina's turn. Her songs that once lulled you to sweet dreams, now sound more like requiems. It's still much preferable to her mind games and playful threats, although. You'd only wish her embrace wasn't so suffocating.

Even the weakest of them spares you not. Seeking to be a silver-adorning knight in a sea of blood. You welcomed his sympathy at first, when you were still clinging to the last scraps of sanity. You didn't push him away from mock embraces of comfort when you still had the chance to. You thought you had a chance, an escape route ; oblivious to the fact that you had just nurtured a new impediment. You're a fool, an idiot. Because you forgot, weakest of them Tartaglia maybe but he was still stronger than you.

Their individual toxicity is still nothing compared to the theatrics that played in those damned dinner-parties. The environment of when the Harbingers gathered are so tense that you wonder if the knife would break if you tried to slice it through the air. All it takes is for one of them to make a comment on you and boom, it feels like a second Cataclysm has broken lose. If Lord Pierro or Pulcinella aren't there to stop them in time, you might as well start praying.

The Harbingers are cruel, so so cruel. Their cruelty extends further than just their treatment to you, their dear little doll. It implicates itself through their provocative whispers against each other, it hides itself betwixt the bloody remains of those who were foolish enough to interject and the only thing that's keeping them from lunging at each other is probably the Tsaritsa's sentence.

But did you deserve to be caught between this crazy charade? This game of being thrown from one lion's den to the other, reduced to nothing but a stress toy for them? And they, the starved beasts they were, had made you understand very well that in this lifetime, freedom would not be a privilege you could have. Your soul, so deprived of warmth, of life. Your heart that continues beating pathetically, rendered incapable of true emotion—just like they wanted.

Even now, as the moonlight shines upon the Fair Lady's coffin surrounded by fake mourn ; you feel nothing. The Fair Lady, or Rosalyn, had a share to your misery, too. If you closed your eyes, you could still recall her vice grip and that strange mixture of warmth and cool ; something you used to be curious of until they threatened to consume you. She was as heartless as she was someone with one and like all of these souls under the Tsaritsa's decree, she too, was a pitiful soul. But you're no less selfish than them, maybe that's why Rosalyn's passing had no effect on you.

Lady Columbina's song truly does feel like a requiem now, you felt a chill run down your spine ; from the cold or from the eerie sound that travelled all around the hall you didn't know. You can hear the other Harbingers' voices in the background, an ensuing squabble over La Signora's passing or something. You don't really pay it any mind, seeking comfort in the fur coat that Arlecchino so graciously draped over you earlier.

“—But Dottore, what of Scaramouche and the Gnosis from Inazuma?”

“Conventional wisdom holds that Divine knowledge cannot be rationally comprehended. After conquering the Divine Gaze, he'll make his next move.”

The Doctor's masked eyes leave the blue vile to your laying figure by the coffin's side and a smirk creeps up next.

“Besides...he has a reason to return, after all.”

When you open your eyes next time, a scarlet fire moth descends upon her coffin, one so familiar. You watch unblinking as it slowly dissipates in the moonlight, becoming one with the icy winter. You can't help but wonder if Signora's doom had been a result of her karma, the thought surprisingly pleasing. If that were to be true, then surely the other Harbingers' would catch up sometime, no?

It's such a shame, the northern lights accompanied by the moonshine seemed so heavenly tonight but the person who'd promised to share this view with you one night, is already buried beneath layer upon layer of ice. Far, far away in a land where you were away from her reach and you couldn't wait for the day the others would join her, too.

You're thankful for the fur coat actually, not because it stave off the biting cold — but because it hid the first genuine smile that bloomed on your face in months.

It would've been a beautiful sight, had it not found amusement in such a circumstance.

With the amount of bloodshed from war on his arms and the heavy weight he carries being the leader of the harbingers, he thought he could never love. That was until he met you. You gave him a reason to return home. He always looked forward to seeing you and you made him happy. But without you? That’s a whole nother story that won’t happen.

The day you agreed to marry him was the day you agreed to become his until the end of time. Nothing could change that. Nothing could ever take you away from him. The diamond ring on your finger was already proof of his ownership on you. You had belonged to him and only him. If you seriously thought that anything else could change his mind, then you would be a complete idiot. You would be a fool trying to deny that.

Good luck trying to leave him though, because he'll make sure that you'll be trapped in his manor with the exits and windows locked shut.

PANTALONE

If you seriously thought that you could ever escape his clutches then you needed serious help. Something that needs to be drilled into your brain is that you could never get away from the Regrator and that you will always be his.

So when you wanted to break up with him, it didn't go as planned. He was supposed to listen to what you wanted to say and your feelings about your relationship. You were then gonna drop the bomb on him saying that you wanted to end things with him and move on with your life. Then the both of you would leave and head your seperate ways.

But oh no. Things didn't go as planned. All hell broke loose and you experienced it first hand.

When you were walking to your boyfriend's office you only had one thing in mind- that was to tell him that you wanted to break up. When you finally arrived, you sat down onto a chair as you mentally prepared yourself. You looked up at Pantalone and you started talking. Your

At first, Pantalone just chuckled at your serious expression as he thought it was quite adorable. You however just sat there confused, something about the way he laughed at you made you feel quite unsettled.

But when it finally registered in Pantalone's head that this wasn't some funny joke, that's when his smile dropped and his eyes stared through your soul.

He was furious. You wanted to leave him? You should have known that you would never get away from him. Not even in your dreams.

It shouldn't have been a surprise when the next thing happened. Pantalone grabbed the back of your head and slammed it down onto the desk.

You immediately blacked out.

When you woke up, you were laying in Pantalone's bed and there were chains on your arms.

Welp, you only got yourself into this situation. The only thing you could do next was pray.

DOTTORE

If your pretty little head thought that leaving him would make you forget all your memories with Dottore then you were certainly mistaken. You could never escape from him. He loved you too much to ever leave you, infact he would never let you go. He was deeply obsessed with you.

The Doctor was too madly in love with you. So when you agreed to be with him, you basically had sealed your own fate.

When you arrive to Dottore's lab, you find that he's busy performing an experiment. You see that he looks very immersed in his research and how he seems very focused while holding and examining some test tubes filled with liquid.

You're quite nervous. He seemed busy. Maybe now was a bad time? Actually no. You figured that since you were leaving him you might as well tell him now instead of delaying the inevitable.

When you finally said what you needed to say, it felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. What you didn't expect was for Dottore to throw the test tube in his hand at you.

It felt like time had stopped when the test tube hit you and the glass shards pricked at your skin. You dropped onto the ground screaming in pain asthe liquid inside it was burning your skin.

Dottore quickly rushed over to you and held you in his arms as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a needle. The needle was pricked inside your neck and you quickly fell asleep.

Dottore placed you onto his examination table and he quickly patched up your cuts.

Afterward, he placed you into your shared room without forgetting to place ropes around your arms and locking the door.

“My lamb, you are late.” Though his deep timbre is followed by a smile. “Morax will be displeased.”

A clear shudder runs across your shoulders. “I-I apologize, I was caught up on my way here.”

Golden eyes narrow, the temple seems to quake under your feet. But his voice is as calm as ever, never wavering, never flinching. “Who dared to stop a Geo maiden?”

Being a Geo maiden bound you to him - your revered Archon. Everything about you was his, and something about that made him possessive.

Your breath hitches, a low delicious sound that reaches Zhongli’s keen ears. None of his priestesses’ devotions have been as satisfying as yours, none of their offerings have ever been as sweet as yours. And Zhongli never saw a lost lamb, seeking guidance under the Lord of Geo. No, he’d always seen you as his woman, a woman in need. If possible, Zhongli would keep you under his thumb forever. Alas, he could only take on the form of a head priest. To make sure he could keep a watchful eye over his favorite maiden.

He rose to his feet, his golden robes rustling against the floor when Zhongli walked toward you. His large hand cups your cheek, the rough pads of his fingertips digging slightly into your soft cheek as Zhongli tilts your chin to meet his intense gaze.

“Tell me,” he says softly, “What happened?”

Your hands clasp together across your knees, a shaky breath escaping your parted lips as you gaze upon Zhongli. He can feel you tense underneath his fingers, but you don’t draw back, even with your current position, where he’s sure the cold stone tiles are digging into your knees as you kneel in front of him.

“Remember.” His thumb rubs an absentminded circle over your cheek. “The God of Contracts detests lies,” he said in a low voice.

Immediately, a brief look of panic flits across your eyes. Zhongli nearly chuckles, your devotion to your Archon is as endearing as ever.

“I had a mishap happen at home,” you murmur as your fluttering lashes sweep across your cheekbones. “I apologize. It took me slightly longer to get here because of my mistake.”

You blink a lot when you lie.

This time, the rough thumb that digs into your round cheeks is purposeful and cruel. So much so that you yelp in pain.

Zhongli’s elegant brows raised slightly. “Did my words fall on deaf ears?”

Looking at him with widened eyes, you blurted, “P-Please, I speak nothing but the truth.” You wring your hands in your robes, trying your best not to shy away from the head priest’s intimidating gold gaze. Something in his scorched amber eyes seems to glow when Zhongli hears your explanation.

You knew of Zhongli’s famed reputation. One that instilled respect and awe whenever he strolled through Liyue. You’ve seen sickly patients beg for his magic touch, seen even the fiercest soldiers bow for his prophecies or guidance. As one of the many Geo maidens serving Rex Lapis, Zhongli was the epitome you longed to be. A man whom you’ve grown to revere. So why? Why is he looking at you with such a dark gaze? Never had you seen such a look in his eyes. One that betrayed anger… and wrath.

“Zhongli Xiansheng,” you gasped, “Have I offended y-”

“The truth,” he warned darkly. “A mortal lie cannot deceive me.”

Your heart leaps to your throat.

Immediately, a string of apologies falls out of your trembling mouth. How could you be so impudent to think that you could fool Zhongli? The panic in your voice almost cracks a smile in Zhongli’s stony facade.

Finally, the truth slips from your lips. A foolish man who stopped you in the marketplace when you were purchasing fruits for the temple.

“And why did he stop you?”

“He wanted t-to court me,” you reply with a stuttered gasp when Zhongli traces his finger across your lips. You doubt he is even listening, there is an odd look gleaming in his eyes. He doesn’t speak, and the heavy silence hung upon your shoulders is so stifling that you find it hard to breathe. Nevertheless, Zhongli could read every tremble that skates across your delicate frame, every breath that escapes your mouth, every goosebump. And a darker side of him wants to push you even further. Until those bright eyes of yours are filled with tears. Until you are groveling at his feet.

“Didn’t you promise to devote your body, heart, and soul to Morax?” Zhongli says, his voice lower than a whisper. There was an unreadable expression on his face. “How could you go back on your vow? Did you tempt him with your body? Responded to him with a smile?”

“N-No, please-”

“I do not accept excuses.”

Zhongli’s harshness stung. You’ve witnessed the head priest’s wrath before. A Liyue merchant who swindled his customers with a modified brass scale, a Fatui underling who tried to harm a group of innocent children.

None of them escaped unscathed.

Each time you watched Zhongli deliver justice, you’d watch on in a mixture of fear and awe. Never in your life had you expected that you would be on the end of it.

Your heart flutters like a trapped hummingbird. “Zhongli Xiansheng,” you tried again. “I swear on my name, I have upheld my vow to Morax ever since I took on the role of the Geo maiden.” Your desperate voice cracks toward the end.

And finally, Zhongli’s stony mask seemed to soften the slightest bit. “I have never doubted your devotion, my dear lamb.” He tilts his head to the side, Zhongli’s dark locks follow the movement as he glances down at your kneeling figure imperiously.

“But, I cannot let your mortal mistake go unpunished.”

His large hands wrap around your waist as Zhongli lifts you up like you weigh nothing more than a paper doll.

“Turn around.” The heavy timbre of Zhongli’s voice was an order. In haste, you turned around and braced your trembling hands on the stone altar. The large marble stone where you used to place fruits and glaze lilies. The stone altar right underneath Rex Lapis’ domineering statue.

Zhongli hums behind you, his large calloused hand flattens in the space between your shoulder blades, pushing you down in a gentle yet firm grip until you are entirely bent over. The side of your face presses against the cool surface, yet, your skin is burning hotter than the sun.

He likes everything about you a little too much. The picture before him, with you on the tip of your toes and hitched breaths panting for air. It makes him want to devour you whole. Your modest robes hitch up your calves. When Zhongli pushes the long skirt up to your waist, exposing your entire lower half, he ignores your weak protests. Instead, the hand on your back merely presses down even harder, pinning your squirming body still.

His hand smoothes its way up to the back of your neck. “Did you lie to me?” Zhongli asks. Something in the deep timbre of his voice tells you that he already knows the answer.

Silence.

The fingers around your neck tightens and you nod.

“Even after I warned you?”

A pause. Then another shaky, timid nod.

The crack that resounded around the temple chambers made you yelp in pain. Without warning, Zhongli’s palm connects against your plump ass again.

After the second blow, you squeeze your eyes shut. Yet, the third never comes. Zhongli doesn’t spank you again, although the reddened handprint on your ass tempts his patience. Instead, he ran his hand from your shoulder to your hip, feeling the curve of your breasts where it was pressed against the stone, the dip of your waist, the firm swell of your ass. He takes his time, ignoring your choked whimpers as he drowns himself in your absolutely sinful body. No amount of modesty can hide you from him. Maybe that’s why men flock to you like bees to honey. While Zhongli cannot blame you, it doesn’t mean that he’s above not taking advantage of your reverence. And then, he repeated the action with both hands. This time, letting his hands drift down to the hem of your skirt. His touch is greedier, rougher.

Before you can react, Zhongli’s deft fingers yank your skirt down as he knelt down behind you and spreads your legs. Finally, your cunt was bared to him. The one he’d been fantasizing about ever since you showed up at his temple.

“My little lamb,” Zhongli whispered, his hot breath skating over your glistening slit as you whimper, “You are so wet right now.”

“W-wait, please!” You squeal. You should be pushing him away, but the thought of offending Zhongli causes a nauseous pit of dread to form in your stomach. Your pathetic whimpers echo around the high ceilings of the temple. The towering statue of Rex Lapis looms over the two of you, your Archon’s stony eyes seem to be burning holes into your skin. You can’t bear to even open your eyes. “W-we can’t do this! It’s wrong.”

Zhongli merely chuckles a deep hearty sound that makes your toes curl. “It is wrong,” he agrees, “But just one taste. I’m sure Morax will not punish me for just one taste.”

He leans forward and traces his tongue all the way from your throbbing clit to your cunt. Zhongli groans into your cunt, the taste of your slick stains his tongue, more intoxicating than any wine yet sweeter than the wildest fruits. This one taste was simply not enough to satiate this ruthless Archon.

Zhongli hums to himself, pressing a kiss against your inner thigh. “Please,” he whispers into your skin. “Just one more.” The touch of his tongue in you makes you cry out against the altar, your fingers scrabble against the stone surface as Zhongli laps at your cunt like a man possessed.

Gone is the dignified priest with his wise smiles and musings. Instead, the man with his face buried between your trembling legs is ravenous, like a starved wolf feasting on its first meal. The side of Zhongli has been hidden all this time.

All of a sudden, Zhongli’s mouth against your twitching cunt is gone. Instead, his large frame is pressed against your back, the elegant embroidery of his robes pressed against your sensitive skin. “Are you going to be honest, my little lamb?” He murmurs against the back of your neck.

The warmth of Zhongli’s body is almost overwhelming, and you aren’t even sure if you can deny him if you want. Upon your silence, blunt teeth grazes against your shoulder, making your back arch in surprise. You tried to shift away, a pathetic attempt to put some distance between the two of your bodies. But Zhongli merely holds your hips down with a single hand.

“Hmm?”Zhongli mused, his voice dark and rich even in your hazy hearing. The stark difference in your composures made your skin flush as hot as the sun. “Have you not learnt your lesson?” He presses a kiss on the back of your neck, another one on your spin, another one on your hip.

“Y-Yes,” you finally croak.

“Good girl.” Despite the confusion and conflict swirling in your gut, hearing Zhongli’s tender praise has you yearning for more. Gentle hands guide you to turn around so you are facing him. “Don’t you see how good it feels to be honest?”

Dimly, you realized that Zhongli’s eyes were glowing. His striking eyes burning in rings of fire and molten gold. With those piercing eyes still fixated on your flushed faze, Zhongli kneels again. Zhongli has to suppress a laugh at the dazed look in your bright eyes. How long has it been since the God of War knelt? But for you, Zhongli will kneel for an eternity if you wished. “Obey me and you will be rewarded.” Once again, he spreads your thighs open. A delicate kiss on your clit makes you keen. “Serve me , and I will keep you as mine.”

Before you can correct Zhongli, doesn’t he mean Morax? His tongue meets your glistening slit again.

Despite the guilt coursing through your veins, the pleasure trumps it. You might not even be aware, but your hips are grinding upward to meet his mouth. Zhongli grants your wish without a second thought. He laves his tongue over your cunt again, harsh fingers digging into your plush thighs to keep you open. The Archon can’t seem to help himself too. In fact, how can he? You taste so sweet, so intoxicating. Your soft mortal body pressed against his is warm and inviting. Like you want your Archon to take more of you. Unconsciously, his grip on you is getting tighter with each second.

“Z-Zhongli Xiansheng,” you whimper. A pressure is building in your core. The type that made your head spin and your toes curl. You wanted- needed the release, and each stroke of Zhongli’s tongue was taking you higher on the current of pleasure. Everything seems so sharp and blurry at the same time, save for your stuttered whines and the absolutely lewd sound of Zhongli’s mouth against your cunt, you swear that the empty temple is amplifying everything.

As if answering your thoughts, his tongue laps across your clit again. A simple motion that has you arching off the stone and your thighs clamping around Zhongli’s face. Zhongli merely chuckles, you can feel his curved smile against your skin.

“Tell me your vow again,” Zhongli says out of nowhere. His normally husky voice is tinged with arousal. His other hand glides to rub a messy little circle around your sensitive clit. You cried out, bleary eyes meeting his sharp ones. Your slick has made a mess on the stone altar, one that Zhongli easily fixes by rubbing it away with a swipe of his fingers.

“I-” you began, only to be cut off with a breathy squeal when Zhongli slides his fingers into you. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry when another finger joins the first, spreading you open. Your hips writhe under his touch. Whether it was to get away or to urge them deeper, you weren’t even sure.

“Speak,” Zhongli demands, as if he isn’t knuckles deep buried in your pulsing cunt. “Have you forgotten your punishment?”

An unbecoming whine echoes in the air. Dimly, you realize that you were the one who made such a high-pitched sound. If it had been moments ago, you would have winced at how lewd you sounded. “I p-promise not to lie again,” you pant as another breathy moan leaves you. “I promise to serve Lord Morax with my everything!”

Zhongli nearly shudders to hear such a raw promise. Against his robes, his cock was painfully hard. Such submission, such devotion. It’s only fair if your reverence belongs to him. Your quivering thighs twitch around his head when Zhongli dips his head to taste your nectar again.

He doesn’t stop even when you cum, your cries seem to fall on deaf ears even as you tip past the edge of pleasure. The soft warmth and flutter of your pussy beckons to him, and Zhongli doesn’t stop licking, even when you are crying and sobbing. “Z-Zhongli Xiansheng, please, please.” The overstimulation was too much for you to bear, weakly, your fingers fist against his hair as you tried to push his head away with tears of pleasurable pain streaming down your cheeks.

And when Zhongli finally takes mercy on your wails, you are nothing but a puddle of mess against the stone altar. His lips and sharp jaw glistens under the flickering candlelight. And when his pink tongue darts out to lick your arousal, you feel your body tremble with a twisted sense of longing. Zhongli’s arm is still digging into your thighs. Now that your orgasm isn’t there to distract you from his iron-like grip, the pain is sore enough that you wince.

It takes you a long moment before your brain can think coherently again. And when you finally regain your senses, you feel something prod against your slicked-up entrance.

Zhongli’s cock was lengthy and thick, the head flushed pink and dripping with a milky drip of precum. The warmth of his throbbing length pressed against your still sensitive folds makes your eyes widen in shock.

“Zhongli Xiansheng…?”

“Yes, my little lamb?” Zhongli smiles at you. His tip still pressed against your swollen cunt. You came so easily, he’d forgotten how little control his mortals exert over themselves. When Zhongli recalls the way you came, your delicious breathy moans, the taste of you spreading across his tongue, he wonders how many times you’ll orgasm again before he does.

“I-It’s not going to fit,” you say in a voice that doesn’t sound like yours.

A flicker of amusement flits across his eyes. “Are you doubting me?”

“N-No!” you reply in panic. There were still tears clinging to your sweeping lashes. With a gentle motion, Zhongli reached forward and brushes them away. “Don’t worry.” He pushes the tip in, earning a sharp gasp from you and a low hiss from Zhongli’s clenched jaw. Your inner walls pulses over the tip of his shaft. So soft, so tight. Zhongli inhales deeply to regain his composure. “You take what you can.”

“Of course,” he coos as he rubs your clit. Another deliciously cruel inch sinks into your pulsing cunt, making you tear up again. “I’ll make sure to be gentle.”

I.

The youngest, Tartaglia has a habit to went straight to your room the second he came back from his trip. If you weren’t there, he’d wait and wait for hours until you arrived, often in a messy appearance. He doesn’t admit it but sharing wasn’t his strongest suit, Tartaglia preferred you to please him only, to have your attention solely on him. He wants to be the only one that fucks you stupid, he wants to be the only one that can use you. It doesn’t help how sweet you are complying with his wishes if he wants you to himself even with the concern on your look, worry that you might get scolded for not being punctual. But Tartaglia knows you’d stay, he knows you’d let him breed your pretty cunt all night long if he wants to. He just needs to charm you with his words, kissing your neck as he eases his cock inside of you and just like that, you’re whimpering under him, nodding your pretty head off to whatever he was saying without knowing the effect you have on him.

II.

With the way The Doctor has treated you all this time, you can’t say no to him if he asked you to be his subject. He enjoyed the way you hide your tears when he pulls out his digits out of your sopping cunt when you’re near, he loves seeing you bite back a scream each time he does it, rendering you into nothing but a crybaby. You’re such a pliant, obedient sweetheart, even at your limits, you still let him edge you over and over again even with hot tears gushing down your chin— such a pretty crier too. Dottore does eventually give in, sinking his cock inside of your cunt as he relishes the feeling of your gummy walls pulsating around him. The crying doesn’t end though, he’ll make sure you’re stuffed to the brim with his cum, creating a tiny bulge filled with his cum on your lower belly. Dottore would rub the sore on the plush of your ass every time he lands a smack to ease the pain, lips reaching to crashed yours as his mask rubbed against your face.

III.

Pantalone doesn’t have to leave a letter, he doesn’t have to say anything even to have you knocking on his door, late at night bearing a grateful look plastered on your face. You’ll come crawling in his lap, burying your warm face into the column of his neck as you thanked him for the gifts. But both he and you know that thanking him isn’t enough, that’s why you get off his lap and began kneeling between his legs without any order. Nimble fingers pulling down the zipper of his pants, tugging down his boxer, you let his cock spring out from the tight confinement. His pre-cum gathered on the tip of his cock, glistening under the light before you decided to pop the flushed tip into your mouth. A sharp breath leave thru his gritted teeth, Pantalone held the urge to not push your head down and just bury his cock deeper into your throat. He lightly opened his eyes to meet your doe, dewy eyes looking up to him with your lips prettily wrapped around his cock. The tip of your thumb and forefinger barely touched each other, he was too big for you to wrapped your hands around.

IV.

Pierro has always been the scariest out of the harbingers, unlike them, being in the same room with him felt like stepping on eggshells. His gaze itself sends a shiver down your spine let alone talking to him. So you tried your best not to anger him by speaking less, limiting your answer for him to nodding and “thank you,” only. You could see why he was so stern on you being punctual, being the first must be tedious since he is responsible to a lot of things. You redeem yourself by pleasuring him, letting him use your mouth as he pleased— it’s not like you didn’t know that he enjoy seeing you choke and cry taking his cock inside of your throat. Pierro often tugged the corner of your lips before he order you to swallow it, his eyes staring at his cum pooling inside of your mouth. His calloused palm rubbed your cheeks, telling you that you can swallow it. If he’s generous and not tied down to his work, he’d told you to cockwarm him and sit on his lap until he’s satisfied with you.

V.

Nights like this would often be spent with you in his bed, when everyone is asleep, you will remain awake with Scaramouche hovering over your body. Despite how heavy your eyelids felt right now, the night was far too young to be asleep. Not when Scaramouche is balls deep inside of you, his hands keeping your knees up to your chest as his eyes watched where you and him connected. The sight of your slick pussy taking every inch of him sends blood rushing to his cock, strings of your arousal clinging to him as a white ring of cum wrapping around the base of his cock. You muffled down your whines with your hands over your mouth when he rubbed your puffy clit, spreading your lips before letting a glob of spit drip down your cunt. Though that was months ago, he doesn’t doubt that he couldn’t get you, if he could steal a gnosis, he could certainly steal you.

Jokinggg ٩(*❛⊰❛)ʓਡ～❤

ೃ⁀➷ TW/CW: DARK CONTENT, Yandere, 18+ (MINORS/AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DON’T INTERACT), Cult?, Quite a bit of explicit stuff?, Toxic Relationship, Forced Marriage, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Gender Neutral Reader (no description or pronouns), Dubcon/Noncon, Dehumanization, Broken English, Killing (not on reader or someone important!!), Blood (a few mentions in the end), let me know if I need to add more TW/Tags ♡ My blog contains dark content, be careful when interacting/following! Minors, ageless, blank blogs, and silent readers will get blocked if interact with me.

People respect Morax as a god, as a protector, that it's more so of a cult. Whatever he asks is right away given, people try their best to show their deep gratitude towards him in any possible way: including giving away their own people to him.

And this time, he has chosen you.

No one really cares if you don't want it, or if you desperately try to run away, your fate has been chosen ever since Morax said that he wanted you. You are his now, his new beautiful spouse to spoil, doll up, and use whatever he pleased.

The ceremony is both beautiful and tragic. Tragic for you, who are helplessly in despair trying to accept your new destiny, beautiful to everyone else due to the amount of work that has been put in. Everyone looks so glad for Morax, so happy for him, completely ignoring your mood and even telling you how lucky you are to be Morax's spouse, how everyone else would love to be in your place.

You are alone. No one would understand how you feel, but Morax isn't so cruel towards you; your cry and sobs aren't ignored by him, and while he is the cause of all your pain, he'll try to console you in one way or another. With his dick or his arms is indifferent in the end, right?

He is still a dragon after all, and dragons love to have beautiful things around them to protect, right? A treasure. And you are now part of it. Even if you don't like it, Morax doesn't care. You will learn soon enough to love it. I also imagine that dragons are pretty monogynous, and have a whole imprinting thing that makes them decide their partner. So you got unlucky.

Especially since he spoils you rotten; warm and comfortable baths, beautiful dresses, makeup, multiple servants ready to serve you, jewelry of any kind, books, everything you wish for is rightfully given to you. Hell, he doesn't even mind if you want to look at his precious stuff as long as you are careful enough.

Your parents, friends, or family? Morax doesn't really like it when you talk about them, and will get extremely angry if you dare to even slightly suggest that you miss them, or that you wish to see them. Is he not enough for you? Has he not been kind and gentle with you? Perhaps he has spoiled you too much. How dare you think about everybody else when Morax is right there.

Since he is the unhinged Morax, and not the calm Zhongli, jealousy is not something you want to make him feel. You are his, part of his treasure, and will not take kindly to everyone getting close to you at all. Not at all. His spear would be dirtied with blood so easily trust me.

And you won't be saved by his jealousy either; you have bruises all over your body, hickeys, and bites that slightly bleed. Your legs hurt, you feel full of his seed, and whole body is sore. I do not know if it's possible, but I imagine that Morax will try to print a symbol that claims you as his into your body.

In the end, you are treating nothing more than a doll to be pretty and fucked by Morax when he wants to.

It quickly seems to change, though. As he begins to take his father's place in dealing with other significant figures in local politics, he talks about you in front of others in a way that makes you feel degraded, as if you were an animal incapable of understanding he's even talking about you. You voice concern over what seems to be a disadvantageous decision being made with a major political power, trying to interject in a way that is as appropriately as you can manage, seeing as you're not supposed to talk much, but you can't let it go unaddressed... but your son just waves his hand dismissively, smiling.

Ah, you'll have to forgive my mother. She has a tendency to upset herself over trivial matters. He finishes with a chuckle, rests his hand on the top of your head for a moment.

He also gives you subtle warnings and guidances regarding your own words. The custom in your culture is for you and your guests to sit on opposite sides of a table low to the floor, with the head of the household -- now your son -- and the matriarch of the household (that's you, and would be your daughter if you were to pass) sits right beside him. This is an opportune way for him to be sure you don't say anything he would prefer you not to. You'll just be talking as usual, when you get a sudden firm squeeze to your thigh. Telling you that, for whatever reason, whatever you were saying has been deemed not acceptable, or perhaps that you simply are talking too much when your role is more to sit there and smile.

You give your son the benefit of the doubt. You rationalize it. He's young and all of this is so new to him, he probably wants to prove himself and take initiative over the social atmosphere, and would feel embarrassed if you were to to guide the meetings... he wants to feel capable and in charge. You taking over would be belittling to him, he would feel like you're treating him like a child, and you can understand that. That's a good thing that he's being so responsible, isn't it?

Besides, it's not like his behaviors towards you outside of the meetings have changed... until they do, in fact, begin to.

It starts with you taking a deviation in your routine. Not that that in and of itself is a big deal; there's nothing dictating that you have to follow a certain routine or anything like that. You don't have many responsibilities, as your son takes care of business and management affairs, your job is primarily to be present when needed, and ensure the household is being kept in order.

Therefore, you get a great deal of lounging time. One day, you simply felt like reclining to read for leisure in a different spot than usual, opting to sit in the estate's study rather than the foyer. Something done without any consideration to the matter, not thinking it anything that could possibly cause an issue in any way.

You jolt when the door harshly opens, barging through with urgency. Your son sighs when he sees you, shoulders falling as tension leaves his body. You think something to be the matter, that he must have something upsetting him -- is something wrong, sweetheart?

But instead of answering you with some other matter, his eyes narrow.

I have been searching for you for nearly half an hour. You would do well to not worry me by disappearing so.

There's a frustration in his voice you're unaccustomed to, an authority in his tone he has never used towards you. It catches you off-guard, your eyes widen.

O-oh, I... I didn't mean to...

In the end, you reassure him you will not repeat this variation in your usual schedule, at least not without informing house staff so that they can inform him when needed. He didn't seek you out for any reason, though, as it turns out, only coming to check on you.

You suppose you should appreciate these checks, as they continue. The monitoring becomes more and more intense over time. He begins to check on you several times a day, or at least sending a member of the house staff to do so. He requests that you have a consistent schedule, so he doesn't need worry about you.

One day you decide to take some time to yourself, wanting to clear your mind. The family has long had a very peaceful, calming estate grounds pathway to walk on, a natural garden area behind the main building with flowers and greenery and the like, where you often go to walk around in when you have a lot on your mind.

You've done so for years, and it's never been an issue, but you've been so preoccupied that you haven't gotten the chance to do so since your husband's passing... and yet, this time, you're not even gone for twenty minutes before someone comes looking for you.

Oh... him. The housekeeper is such a sweet boy. Always bright-eyed and energetic. And he feels bad for you. You can tell, you can sense it even now as he comes briskly walking up to you, hand held up in a greeting gesture, smiling -- but in that apologetic, sheepish sort smile, furrowed eyebrows conveying a very different message than the upturned corners of his mouth.

Likewise, the choice of words is polite and sweet, and yet, you can hear the unspoken part without needing to hear it.

'Oh, I was just wondering where you were!'

(I was sent to come find you.)

'...has been really worried about you--'

(I'm going to be in trouble if you don't come back.)

'And I was just thinking--'

(He told me to say--)

He keeps this cheery, upbeat sort of tone, but you can feel it's forced. It's just short of audibly hearing what it says on its own: sorry.

And you know exactly why he's the one coming to find you. Sure, part of it is no doubt because he's so sweet and soft, but you know your son's real line of reasoning -- that you wouldn't want to get him in trouble, that you'll feel more empathetic to him than you would towards any regular servant, and thus you'll be more willing to comply from the start. You hate to admit that it works.

Thoma becomes a sort of guardian over you. He's there in the mornings - of course, you have a female servant to dress you for the day, but as soon as you exit your room, he's always there, smiling and bowing his head in greeting, cheerful as always. Polite and respectful, too, always keeping with the formal honorifics and ma'am's and the like, even if you've tried to tell him it's not necessary. He always makes you food and tea in the morning, always accompanies you if you wish to go out (a fairly new pleasure in your life, as your late husband often told you to refrain from doing so, but you figure it can't hurt to visit the city every now and then), often sits with you and your daughter at meals, particularly if your son is too busy with work to do so.

He hovers over you, a constant presence. Ayato even went to the extent of hiring another new servant to help around with the tasks that had usually been under Thoma's responsibility, to give him more time to watch over you. In truth, it's suffocating, but you know he's only following commands, and you tell yourself that you ought to be grateful you have a son who cares for you so deeply.

And thus, your son continues to utilize him to control your own every move.

That is, until a certain incident.

You do get along well with Thoma, really. Who wouldn't? He's a very pleasant boy, easy to hold a conversation with, bright and energetic while also amiable and easygoing. He's content with talking about pretty much anything, goes wherever you want to go, never complains.

And usually, he's very well-prepared, but of course, everyone will make mistakes every now and then. Thus is how the two of you get caught in the rain, returning from a leisure stroll along the road. The poor thing apologizes a hundred times on the way back for neglecting to consider the possibility of rain and failing to bring an umbrella, taking his jacket off to hold over your head the whole time, but the rain is particularly heavy, so much so you both end up soaked anyways.

He frantically runs to fetch towels, still nervously apologizing (even though you told him it's fine each and every time), getting you multiple towels to dry yourself off. He leaves so you can dry your body off and change your clothes, but even after you return to the living area, sitting by the fire at the back-center of the room, he helps you rub a towel over your scalp and shoulders, arms more or less wrapped around you, leaning in, bodies a few inches apart.

It's at that moment Ayato passes by. Not intending to stop, merely walking past seemingly in a hurry, but his eyes flicker over to you two as he passes, and he comes to an abrupt halt. He's quiet for a few moments. He's a composed young man, never the type to show negative emotions too outwardly, but you can make out a distinct look of displeasure on his face, mouth pulled taut and eyes narrowed. After a moment, he questions what happened, in a calm, but cold voice. You're the one to explain before Thoma can say anything, wanting to defend him, thinking your son is upset over you getting caught in the rain, perhaps.

I see.

It's all he says before turning and walking off.

...You don't see Thoma very much anymore after that. Well, you still see him, he's always around doing some task or another, but he doesn't come to visit you anymore, and even when you see him and speak to him, he sort of leans away from you, keeps an arm-length away from you at all times, smiles and speaks in a sheepish mannerism for a few minutes before coincidentally remembering something he's forgotten to do and leaves to go do that. It hurts you a little. You want to say something to Ayato perhaps, but in truth, you're uncertain how to approach him... was he truly that upset over you getting rained on? Or was it something else? You have trouble making sense of it. Regardless, surely he's overreacting.

He seems so uptight lately. You imagine he's under a great deal of stress. He used to be rather lax and easygoing, but these days he seems to be more easily upset. Ayato's "bad moods" are nothing compared to someone of a less pleasant disposition, he merely gets cold and quiet and a bit harsh with his voice and words, but nonetheless, as your child, you know him well enough to know these things indicate he's upset.

He gets into such a mood more and more often, often nitpicking about the things you wear and do, getting unnecessarily upset if you fail to inform him of your activities and location, insisting you stay in the same places at the same times each day for him to come by so he can briefly check on you.

It's unnecessary, and frankly rather obnoxious. But once more, you're unsure of how to bring the matter up. Perhaps he's merely undergoing a strenuous period of time, and will improve once it is over. You hope so.

He assigns more servants to you, first a different female one, then another, and soon you have three, who are constantly following you around, tending to your every need. It's not as if the estate hasn't always had personal servants, but in the past, you merely summoned them when needed, and in truth, you were never the conceited type to have servants do everything, you were more than capable of performing certain tasks for yourself and didn't feel the need to command someone else to do it. But it's never been like this, never so suffocating.

Eventually, it becomes too much.

You need some time to yourself. To appear in public by yourself would be unseemly for your position, but nonetheless, you have to find a way to get some room to breathe... you know he would be furious with you if you were to intentionally avoid contact, to go off into the expanse of nature beyond the estate grounds... but the "what he doesn't know won't hurt him" is a motto you imagine all mothers use at some point when dealing with their children. When the beloved pet was killed by a kick from a horse, so you told the children it ran away. When the country underwent such a financial crisis a decade or so back that even your family had to sell some of their heirlooms to pay for the expenses of the estate, so you told the children they were simply tacky and you no longer wanted them. That sort of thing.

Yes, this would be no different. To leave the estate at night and walk around beyond the grounds for a while, beyond the garden where servants might see you, just to get some time and space to yourself, to clear your mind. You have to wait until night, when your servants are no longer trailing you so closely, but you manage to find an unguarded door to the outside, and slip away undetected.

Almost.

You're just taking the last few steps out the gate when a spear is thrust in front of you, the pole section blocking your path. The exterior guards. They seem high-strung, almost panicked by seeing you out. As soon as they stop you, they tell you to (albeit very politely, prefaced with please, madam, it's not good for you to be out here at this hour) return in side immediately.

You try to reason, and yet, they continue to insist. You give a demand -- Please, this is an order, I am simply going for a walk -- and yet even still, even with such an authoritative statement, they merely shake their heads. They take steps forward, gradually pushing you back inside, until you finally relent, making an exasperated noise before turning on your heel and stomping back inside.

You know your son had to have said something to them. Even your husband never held so much power that the household staff would so immediately and sternly disregard your words.

More importantly, you know they'll tell him. You know he'll be upset.

But you were expecting him to simply address it the next day or so. You didn't think he'd be so angry that he'd come into your room so late. You're pretty sure it's past midnight when you hear heavy, quick footsteps come stomping down your hallway.

Nor does he knock. Your doorknob simply turns, opening the door in one swift motion.

Mother.

If his tone alone didn't convey exactly how unhappy he is, the force with which he shuts the door behind him certainly does.

It feels as if your roles are reversed -- you find yourself shrinking back, stammering, like a child caught doing something wrong. You shift uncomfortably on your bed, watching as he sighs, closes his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Don't you realize how foolish a stunt like that was? And bizarre, too, who tries to go outside at night like that? It has nothing to do with you wanting "time to yourself," as you quickly try to defend yourself with, no, he interrupts you before you can finish. You're merely being spiteful. You're bitter about the matter of him having authority over you and giving you instructions on behaving recently, it feels humiliating to you, and you're acting out in some desperate desire to prove your autonomy to yourself, to validate yourself, or perhaps to even intentionally upset him... how utterly childish.

You'll likely do something to escalate the situation just to make him more upset, like going off into the city on your own, putting yourself at risk. Truly, you are so naive, you have no regard for safety.

This is precisely why he will be moving in.

You blink. You take a moment to process his words.

What?

He exhales in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it's a very simple, obvious matter that you're dense for not immediately grasping.

As you know, this room belongs to the head of the estate. It's very obviously designed to be so, given it's center position among all the rooms, size of the bed and the room itself and all that. It's sort of inappropriate for him to still be sleeping in his old childhood room.

You still only blink in confusion.

So... you want me to move out?

He huffs in frustration again, but hearing how soft and meek your voice sounds with those words, his own tone softens, though his words are still stern.

Obviously not. As he just said, he's moving in here to keep better eye on you. That's part of the whole point. You will be staying in the same room and bed from this point forward. You shared a bed with his late father most of your life, yes? This should be no trouble, then. Please, have some maturity.

I'm not a child anymore, mother. I have the final say in how this household operates, and it will make things easier on us both if you cooperate.

You're not sure what part of the matter to protest -- the bizarreness of it all, the fact that sleeping with you is something reserved for a child, the invasion of your privacy.

You say you have no intention of doing something worse like he claims, that you were just going to walk around for a short while. And before he can respond, you interject the obvious question -- that's not... that's not normal, don't you realize that?

He just sighs. You're being needlessly difficult. You know I have the utmost affection for you, Mother, and I've tried to be patient with you, but please be reasonable.

Why would you think this odd? You are family, after all, so no amount of closeness should be strange, there should be nothing to be embarrassed about. His tone as he finishes speaking is firm, making it clear that no further opposition is to be voiced. You find yourself wide-eyed and silent, slack-jawed as he proceeds to not leave, but rather, make his way over to the bed, sitting on the side opposite of you. He reaches out, affectionately putting a hand to rest atop your head, trying to soften the mood after being so firm.

His voice is far more gentle as he speaks again. I do worry for you at night, as well. I know being alone now must be difficult for you... I want to be here for you.

You don't protest further. In truth, he's right to an extent, it's not like it's a stranger or someone unrelated, so it doesn't feel all that unnatural. Still, he's grown, it's been ages since you were last like this... but even then, that thought takes you back to the days he would come shuffling down the hall, tearful over a nightmare or frightening shadow, and would nuzzle up to you all night, and that memory makes you feel warm and happy inside.

It's still awkward, of course, and you have trouble falling asleep with him there. At first you try to close your eyes and pretend it's your husband, but... no, that's too painful to think about. You toss and turn for some time. You keep repeating to yourself that it's not a big deal, even if it feels bizarre. Maybe he's actually stressed, and wanted you for comfort, but didn't want to say so...? That is a possibility. Or, even if it's exactly as he said, that's concern for your wellbeing.

Yes... he's just concerned is all. It's odd, but the sentiment is wholesome, in fact, you feel guilty for being defiant considering it was out of concern for you. You even make a note to apologize to him, the following morning, when you wake up beside him. He just smiles, back to his usual gentle, good-humored self. It's alright... you were merely emotional from stress. I understand. The choice of wording feels a bit degrading, but you know he means well.

Thus begins a rather... odd setup. The next day, you find servants moving some of his belongings into your room. They say nothing, they don't look you in the eye, merely go about their task as presumably instructed. You no longer have the servants following you around either. Instead, Ayato insists you merely stay with him. It will be easier for me to keep an eye on you this way. Really, this would have been easier from the start, but I didn't want to upset you...

You're allowed to do as you normally do. Read, entertain yourself in various sedentary ways. In the afternoon, when your high-class lifestyle has you adjusted to taking a short nap, he returns to the room with you, sitting at the desk to continue his own work. Really, you prefer him to the servants, it feels less awkward, but... he's very nosey. Always wanting to know what you're doing, what you're reading. He sets a schedule for you, ensuring you accompany him everywhere as necessary.

But it begins to become more and more intrusive. You try to take a bath, get some time to yourself, but soon he's knocking on the door to tell you that you've had long enough, and need to get out so you can accompany him to yet another meeting. You try to ask if you can go lay down in your room due to headache, and while he allows it, he insists on accompanying you. If even a servant comes to speak to you, he turns his attention to them too, careful to listen to every word, and you are never granted a private conversation with anyone but him.

You notice other oddities, too. You haven't had any guests for you in ages, despite the fact that you used to have friends and distant family on your side of the family visit fairly often. But since your husband's funeral, you haven't gotten any letters, nor any visitors. You can't imagine he would turn guests away, or intercept the estate's mail for things addressed to you... at least, you hope not, yet you can't think of anything else that could explain it.

You do ask, after finally summoning the gall to do so, but as per usual these days, he just sighs and gives you a vague answer. I have the servants sort through everything addressed to us, Mother. Do you really believe they would withhold anything from you? Somehow, it isn't reassuring.

He begins to personally dictate your choices as well, in ways even your husband never did. You find robes already set out for you each morning, what you will wear thus subtly dictated to you ahead of time. You don't see any point in doing so, but... if it makes him happy... you suppose you can oblige. So you tell yourself, among everything else.

He begins to become more touchy as well. He sits closer to you during your meetings, often so your bodies brush against each other. He often rests his hand on your head now, often touches your shoulder to get your attention. At night, he leans forward to kiss your forehead. And when you sleep, you manage to always end up entangled with each other, you always wake up to his arms on you.

It's all so, so suffocating, it becomes unbearable. You just want a moment to yourself, to do anything without being questioned. You find yourself growing tearful as you lay down at night, lamenting your loss, wishing you could have back your life before, where your husband at least gave you room to breathe, and your son was still merely you son, with no authority over you. You know he's trying his best, and you want so badly for him to be confident and capable, but you can't take it.

And while he's still amiable, still pleasant and easygoing on so many things, you learn that he can snap into that firm, harsh tone at a moment's notice. It's intimidating, truthfully, and for that reason, you tend to stay quiet. You would feel guilty for upsetting him, when he already has so much responsibility. Thus, you let the frustration build. You make excuses for him in your mind. You tolerate it all. The emotions bottle up inside.

It's bound to reach a breaking point, and one day, that point finally comes.

Rather, one night. Not that you do anything wrong by any rational standards. You wake up thirsty, in the middle of the night, and naturally, as anyone would do -- as anyone would do, anyone at all, you tell yourself -- you quietly, slowly slip out of his grasp and out of bed, and make your way down the hall in the moonlight coming through the windows, fetch a glass of water, and turn back the way you came.

You run into your son halfway down the hall. Despite visible grogginess, the moment he sees you, his eyes narrow.

What are you doing?

You halt, begin to shrink back. Out of learned instinct, you feel guilt, despite having done nothing wrong, dread that builds in your gut. Over doing something so simple, so harmless. You stutter as you try to say exactly that, but he isn't having it. He speaks calmly, but his voice is deep and firm.

Come back to bed. I have explicitly told you so many times to not wander off on your own, and yet you continue to deliberately disobey... what am I to do with you...?

And with those words, something inside you snaps. The frustration all comes bursting out at once. Your grip on your glass tightens, you stomp the ground harshly, causing even him to raise his eyebrows in surprise at the sudden lack of dignity. There's venom in your voice as you talk back to him.

I've had enough!

The words come out without intending them. You don't even really process what you're saying, just that you're so, so tired, that you're sick of not having space to yourself, that you won't tolerate being disrespected so. That you think it was ridiculous that he would forbid you from taking walks, that he would remove that sweet housekeeper boy from your side, that he insists you accompany him everywhere. Your eyes well up with tears as you speak, you squeeze them shut.

You aren't in control of me! I am not a wife for you to command, I am your--

But he grabs your jaw. You go silent at the harshness of the grip, your heart skips a beat. The now nearly-empty glass goes falling to the ground, rolling as it hits the rug. His expression is cold and dark and furious.

What you are to me is irrelevant. You are under the authority of the head of this household. Do you understand?

Even in his most frustrated moments, you have never heard him speak in such a low, ominous tone, quiet yet piercing. It strikes fear into your core. You can do nothing but stare up at him. A few moments of quiet pass, your eyes wide with shock, staring into his own. Finally, after moments of crushing tension, he lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head.

...Come, Mother. We're going back to bed.

The grip he takes on your wrist makes it clear you have no choice in that matter. You stumble a bit as you're pulled back into your room, set down onto your bed, turning to light a candle for the slightest bit of light, signifying that he must think you have more to discuss before you sleep again. But before you can lay down, he sits you upright, hands on your shoulders, before sitting down in front of you, not taking his hands off you as he does. You stare in confusion and questioning. He repeats that affectionate gesture, moving a hand to the top of your head, before speaking again.

I understand what is the matter now. Why you're behaving this way.

Your eyes widen further. You can't find your voice. You find yourself leaning back. There's an unsettling feeling in your chest, something like dread, anticipation. You can just barely make out his eyes in the light.

In truth, I refrained for your sake, thinking it would be too soon... but I see now that was a poor judgement. Your needs are going unmet now... I've neglected my own as well, to control myself for you.

His voice is softer as he speaks, then. Still, something about it makes you feel uneasy. Nervous. Your heart pounds in your chest. What?

Slowly, he reaches out. Not to your head, not to your shoulders. His hands firmly come to rest on your waist. Your body stiffens. He leans forward, forehead against your own.

It's too blatant to not understand the atmosphere, the implicit, silent understanding that passes between you without words. It takes you with such shock, you recoil. You scramble backwards on the bed, away from him, looking up to him with terrified eyes. You can't summon your voice, but your expression says what your mouth can't. After a few more moments of quiet, he speaks in a low, soft voice.

...Mother, are you familiar with what was done in our situation, in the old days? At the passing of the head of the household, what would happen in your case?

The question seems completely out of the blue, takes you completely off-guard. Your eyebrows furrow.

Yes, there were traditions for these sorts of things, you knew that much. Traditions that are now no longer observed, that have been lost to time and the changing of social values. In the case of a patriarch's passing, in the Inazuman nobles of old, there was a process that was to be immediately followed thereafter. In those days, the families were huge, having a large number of children. The eldest son took over the estate and all of its affairs, and was to marry if he had not done so already, middle sons would largely proceed as normal. The most notable of old customs, one of a different time and different mindset, that so notoriously earned disgust from present-day individuals looking back, was for the youngest son, who, if the patriarch left behind a widow, was expected to be wed to his own mother.

You have one son. The eldest and the youngest, by definition.

You shake your head. Disbelief renders you stiff. That's... that's from a different time. That's not... you don't do such things now, it's not right... it's vile, it's...

Mother.

That firm tone again. You stiffen once more. You can't help a soft, quiet noise that comes out of your throat. Your body trembles. You jolt as his hands reach out to grab your waist again.

...The attitudes of society come and go, Mother. They change with the times. You needn't concern yourself with that.

His hands pull you back towards him. His hands then reach for your wrists, and pin them together in one hand. He leans forward, other hand on the back of your head to keep you from pulling away as his mouth meets yours. It's only for a few seconds, but in your shock, everything is slow, it seems to pass as an eternity. Eventually, he pulls back, leaning instead to your ear to murmur to you.

It's alright. This will help your frustrations... remind you your place. It is only natural. Try to understand that... forget about everything else but me.

He doesn't listen to you. Words of protest come out of your mouth, but it's as if he doesn't hear you at all. You struggle to speak as he progresses, but your words devolve into shameful, high-pitched sounds as his mouth latches onto your breast, as his fingers trail down your stomach, under your nighttime robes, slip inside of your body. You squeal when your clothes are pulled off. You cry out, you flail, your legs spasm and your breath hitches when you feel him push inside you. Obscene noises spill from your lips until it all goes quiet.

It doesn't feel real. You shiver in place with his arms around you. You stare at the faint light cast on the ceiling. He murmurs soft comforts to you, pulling you close, rubbing a hand up and down your back, but you can't seem to even make the words out.

You don't remember closing your eyes, you merely wake the next morning far later than usual, almost convinced it was a nightmare until the soreness all over your body sets in. Your limbs feel heavy and limp. You slowly turn your head as your son stirs beside you, sitting upright with a quiet groan, leaning forward to kiss your forehead.

Are you sore? I'll have today's schedule adjusted... come, I'll dress you...

As if it's nothing at all, no particularly big deal. You're silent and trembling as you stumble to your feet at his tugging on your arms. You feel hot with embarrassment as his eyes trail over your body, now in full daylight. You stand stiff, still overcome with shock, unable to move more than just the slightest on your own as he pulls your clothing onto your body. He mentions to a servant in passing to get you herbal tea for your aches, not specifying what said aches are from.

And from there, it all falls so perfectly into place. It repeats the next night, the next, and the next. Your protests are quickly silenced with a firm, commanding voice that makes you go quiet, makes your chest swell with fear at the sound. Told that you're being unreasonable, that you're thinking too much about the matter, that you just need to be more open-minded, and you'd realize this is what is best for you. And the next night, and the next night, and the next. Then, during the day, during the time reserved for your afternoon naps. Then, at his desk, pulling you over to sit on his lap, sheathed inside of you as he works, telling you it's beneficial to his progress.

The servants accept it. As time goes on, they seem to slowly figure it out, little by little. You see it in their expressions. For a while their eyebrows furrowed, they looked perplexed whenever he was so close to you, kept his arms around you, whenever they had to come knocking on the door to inform him of something and saw you in there through the crack when he opened it just enough to talk to them. And after some time, their expressions change. The corners of their mouth pull taut.

The trade partners and all the figures of local politics and business that visit your home seem to accept... whatever they believe it all is. It used to be frequent that you would hear them pull him aside, propose an arrangement to marry their wealthy daughters, but he would always politely tell them he plans to put that off for a few more years now. Some acquaintances visiting would likewise ask if he planned to marry soon, and he would give the same answer. They gradually stopped asking. You even overhear two guests once talking to themselves about the matter. He seems content with his mother filling the role of a wife, hah. You clench your jaw and think to yourself that they have no idea.

You're trapped and helpless. Everywhere you turn, there is no solution, no way out. The servants won't help you; even if personally revolted (based on the expressions that sometimes cross their faces, you know they are) they're loyal to their paychecks at the end of the day. They won't let you leave and seek help elsewhere. Everything is locked into place exactly as your son wants it, everything is set up to function as he would have it, with you left unable to do anything about it.

Except for one little problematic piece, one that cannot be fitted into the metaphorical puzzle, yet the image is not complete without its presence, it cannot be removed from the scene altogether, and thus, it creates an obstacle.

Your daughter is a perceptive, intelligent girl. You've always been proud of her, wanted a better and freer life for her than you had. You want to shield her.

It pains you to know that she knows something is wrong. When your son moved into the same room as you, he kept it quiet, but she has noticed, having passed the room several times. She doesn't speak to you much lately, and when she does, it's quiet, she looks at the wall or the ground. Her eyebrows furrow with an expression of confusion and unspoken questioning, but it's only ever so slight, so much so that you know it's only a mild confusion, that she hasn't begun to really understand anything. You want to say something, desperately want to address the silent but unbearable tension, and yet you can't find the words. The tension remains, crushing.

It's the worst-kept secret, anyway, as you know the servants all know something is going on. Even so, it didn't matter if they knew. That wasn't your concern. Above all, you were still hoping to shield it from her. Did everything in your power to appear normal and as if nothing was amiss, just for her. Wanted so desperately to preserve her innocence and happiness, dreading the thought of bringing such a depraved, distressing thing into her life and force her to live in awareness of it. You wanted to spare her that undoubtedly scarring experience. You prayed you could just maintain that alone, that you'd endure anything as long as she could live in ignorant bliss.

One night as you lie in bed on your back, legs slung over your son's shoulders... you hear a sound. Wood against wood, a soft friction, the door sliding. The movement of the bed and wet sounds of his body in yours drowned out any footsteps you might have otherwise heard approaching. Instead, it's just that soft wooden sound... and, as soon as it slid open just the slightest inch, within a split second, it slams shut again.

He stops, equally caught off-guard, head turning towards the door. In the absence of movement between the two of you, you hear hurried, clattering footsteps running back down the hall in the opposite direction. There's a silence that follows as the footsteps grow further and further until they can't be heard.

For once, even your usually composed and collected son seems to lose some composure, eyes wide and face visibly worried. He's never had anything he considered important enough to stop mid-session like this. Even before, when you had company or anything of the sort, he would tell the servants to tell the visitor to hold on just a moment, quickly finish up with you first.

But not now. He pulls out, stands up, throws all his clothes back on in a matter of seconds. I need to talk to her.

Part of you wants to intervene. You want to do something, you don't want him to be the one to say anything to her, are afraid of what he might say, and want to hear whatever he says... and yet, you just lie there. You can't bring yourself to face the crushing shameful feeling, can't bear to look her in the eye. As badly as you want to do something about it, you can't bring yourself to face it, and in avoidance, instead you curl up into yourself, shivering as you grip a pillow to your body, letting tears gather on your eyelids and soak into the fabric.

You never know what he says to her. It takes a long time, though, you know that much. Several hours pass before he finally comes back to bed. He says nothing about the matter himself, only quietly enters the now-dark room, crawls into bed with you (stirring you from having fallen half-asleep), and presses his mouth to yours, resuming your former activities before you can even question anything. You know whatever transpired frustrated him, his grip is intense and his movements are forceful and harsh... but you say nothing. You don't want to ask, you don't want to know.

In the end, though, however it went down, he must have had the final say. Nothing happens to indicate any sort of change. And as for your daughter... she, too, pretends nothing happened, goes about her day as usual. Only now, she speaks more quietly, she won't look you in the eye when she talks to you. It's painful, yet at the same time, you can't bring yourself to bring it up. You're not sure which would hurt more.

You once, accompanying your son, rounded a corner into another room, and caught her talking to Thoma, a hushed but pleading voice, but unable to make out the words. He was a bit louder than her, though, you could clearly make out the replies on his end with each back-and-forth exchange.

I know... I know, I wish I could-- I know. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do... I don't even know what to--

But both fell quiet as the two of you came into their line of sight. Both visibly stiffening. Coming up with quick excuses to walk off, flashing forced smiles and a greeting gesture as they passed you.

You remember how sick you felt for the rest of the day. You lay in bed for hours, and your son was kind enough to stay by your side... and to even breed you more gently than usual, something he seemed to feel was particularly benevolent of him.

It goes unaddressed. Not a soul in the household doesn't know. But it is never spoken, never brought up. No one reaches out to help you. You know your squeals and protests are loud enough to be heard. You see the way the servants refuse to look you in the eye. You feel the bitter humiliation when some even smirk or snicker as you pass. You can't speak to guests outside of your son's perpetual, hovering presence. It feels like drowning, struggling, all while those around you merely watch.