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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

diluc

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

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

It does nothing to kill the urge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

kaeya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know it’s just you,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

al-haitham

Al-Haitham freezes each time you touch him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good," he says, his eyelashes fluttering.

neuvillette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, he finds, is his greatest fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he is. 

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

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

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

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