#psyche.writes

It’s not so much that he gets off on seeing you scream and cry when he fucks into you, though he won’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy the sight. No, what he lives for is the thrill of battle—sex included. So of course, he enjoys the protest. The struggle. The desperation.

Childe pins you down, brutally thrusts in you with his cock, and just as he likes it, your nails are clawing at his skin for all the life that you’ve got. The scratches you make add to the landscape of scars scattered on his body, and he wears it like a badge of honour. Proudly, as if it were a war trophy. To Childe, it’s the definitive proof of the battle between you. It’s an undeniable proof of your coupling. The slices of pain from your nails, the scent of blood—it excites him like you can’t imagine. Causes him to utter a curse in Snezhnayan, as his hands grip your shoulders so tight it borders pain.

Every movement he makes is designed to bring about your unwilling pleasure; Childe fucks like he fights—with finesse and precision. From his teeth worrying your nipples to his cock grinding into that vulnerable spot inside you, it’s all deliberate. It’s a bit of an exercise for him, to see how long before you stop pushing him away and your sobs to slide into moans. How long it takes for him to fuck the fight out of you.

In the end, you’re left dazed beneath him, . No more protesting, no more crying, just acceptance. Little hiccups of pleasure escapes your throat when he makes a particularly rough jerk of his hips, wanting to reach as deep inside you as he can. He’ll swallow your moans too, in kisses that are less loving and more consuming.

He’ll taunt you to get a rise from you again when he gets bored with your lifelessness. Croons about how you submitted so quickly. As if you were just putting on a show, an obligatory protest rather than your true wish.

And when the spark flares back into your eyes, even as you’re shuddering in an orgasm that he’s ripped out of you—when you whisper that you hate him—that’s when he comes. A groan, as his cock twitches and fills you with his essence.

Afterwards, Childe collapses on you and transforms into a tender and soft lover—as if he didn’t just violate all that you have. All that you are. Kisses away the tears at the corner of your eyes, but you shed even more silent tears. Presses his lips to your forehead in apologies instead, murmuring that he’ll be more careful next time. You know that he loves you, right?

But all the while, he’s thinking. Planning.

Maybe next time, he’ll give you a dagger. Just to make the fight that much more exciting.

.

.

.

Scaramouche.

A sadist, but different from Childe. You’d think Scaramouche would take particular joy in seeing you in tears when you have sex, but no. Only in specific circumstances. He doesn’t like you fighting him. He likes being wanted. (The need to be desired is from his leftover trauma of being abandoned for supposedly not being good enough, though he’d never reveal it. Probably isn’t even conscious of it, in fact.)

There’s the aphrodisiac route, but it’s not as if he’s desperate. He’s a divine being and you? You’re nobody. While he’s not above using underhanded means, in this case, it would be admitting that he desires you—which he does not.

Instead, Scaramouche uses threats. Little sparks of lightning that jolts your body should you behave in a way that’s unsuitable to his taste, until you begin to fear him more than hate him. Whispers about your loved ones, so innocent, so naïve, it’d be oh-so-unfortunate' if something were to happen to them. So you learn to give into his demands, however unreasonable they may be. It’s easier than living in a constant state of heightened anxiety, after all. It’s like training a dog, he’ll sneer.

Through this, Scaramouche molds you into what he wants. Deferent and pliable. Eventually, you’ll more than agree to his touch. You’ll begfor it. Scaramouche will agree, with the greatest reluctance. An owner needs to make sure the needs of their possessions are met, unfortunately. It’s not his fault you’re so needy.

And if (when) he does fuck you, it’ll be at his control. For his pleasure. He doesn’t care about you orgasming or anything quite so ridiculous. In fact, he’d be delighted to just leave you at the edge, in need of his cock. You’re just here to be used. His mouth is absolutely filthy too, all sorts of degrading terms, calling you his little whore, slut, toy. You’ll frantically nod your head. Sobs in agreement, half out of fear, half out of pleasure—but mostly fear, because he’s going too fast for you to properly enjoy it. (That’ll change, he promises. You’ll come to like the pain eventually.)

After a while, people around you start looking at you with this pitiful look, whispering about the absolute broken look in Scaramouche’s—what? What are you to him? A servant? A slave? A pet?

But whatever terms people use at the end of the day doesn’t matter. As long as one thing is clear—that you’re his.

—bonus—

Some shorter noncon scenarios.

Xiao: Somnophilia. The only way Xiao could even approach you is while you’re asleep, simply because he is a massive Virgin (TM). He’ll be too embarrassed to approach and ask you for sex, but he’s got urges that need to be filled. Also, the guilt over his karmic debt tainting you with his touch means that he’d prefer it if you never knew about his… misdemeanour. So, like all his battles through the millennia, Xiao stays in the shadows, readying himself to strike when you fall unconscious.

Venti.

If he's feeling particularly unforgiving, he’s quite sadistic. Likes seeing you cry, actually. Will hum a song, even, as he fucks you. And laughs. Also goes for the somnophilia route, but for a different reason than Xiao—it’s about the control. It’s knowing that your unconscious body is at his whims—courtesy of his melodies. He could do whatever he wants to you, and you wouldn’t even remember. So when you wake up sore, complaining about that crick in your back, he’ll just giggle in response.

The wind is a trickster, and Venti is no different.

—bonus bonus—

Characters that do not noncon/go for dubcon.

Zhongli.

Usually, I’d say Zhongli is someone who waits for consent. Zhongli is patient; he knows that you’ll come around eventually. The difference between his patience and Albedo’s is that he needs you to consciously want him. Zhongli doesn’t care for the haziness that comes with an aphrodisiac—when he fucks you, he wants you lucid. He wants you to remember it. Every. Single. Detail.

(But he won’t deny you should you have an aphrodisiac problem; he’ll be more than happy to help, actually.)

Ningguang.

Manipulation, manipulation, manipulation. Whereas Zhongli waits until the time is right, Ningguang makes the time right. Think female Zhongli, but less patient. To Ningguang, mora is a trophy. While this particular investment doesn’t give out mora as its dividend, you are still a symbol of her victory. A deserved return on her investment, even more precious than mora.

Ningguang is similar to Scaramouche in that she will subtly force you into willingly going into her embrace, but through gaslighting instead. Ningguang isn’t Tianquan for nothing. She will isolate you until the only one you can seek out is her, the solution to all your problems.

You’re lonely? You feel touch-starved? No problem. You need only say one word: please.

And then… Well, a shrewd merchant knows how to press their advantage.

Diluc.

The amount of guilt will crush him, so no, he won’t do it. He can barely steal a kiss without feeling like he needs to kneel at your feet in repentance. Too much of a coward—but if you push him too much… Well, fire always did need a bit of kindling before it flickers into an inferno.

Shenhe.

Won’t force you, simply because she doesn’t even know what sex is. Living isolated in a mountain while training under an adeptus master doesn’t exactly entail biology lessons.

Once she finds out though… you’d best sleep with one eye open. Actually, best not to sleep at all, because she’ll probably whisk you away into some adeptal realm to learn just exactly what this mortal act entails.

Dainslief.

What did it matter if he knew your age, your favourite colour, your favourite food, your favourite genre of books? It’s not as if he’s going to use it for anything nefarious, other than to bring the occasional gifts, his voice proclaiming every time, Guess what I’ve brought for my favourite little tailor, some way too over-the-top luxurious chocolate or watch or phone. You try to reject his offers, trying to maintain your professional boundaries with this pushy client, but it would always be easier to just accept on account of how annoying he gets with the pestering. 

You don't take notice of how much closer the distance would become with each and every visit, how the gap between the two of you would shrink every time he dipped his head to speak into your ear, voice low and crooning. You’ve pushed back on his closeness many times, scolding him about personal space, sir, but he would always laugh. Hold up his hand and say, Okay, okay, I understand, even though he would do it again and again, to the point where you’ve gotten too used to it to even think about reprimanding him. 

Now, when he gets too close, you sigh and resign yourself to the occasional wandering hands that brush up against you—never quite in places that were inappropriate but close enough to send the back of your hair up in warning, like your hands, the small of your back, the exposed nape of your neck, followed by some excuse of you had something there, lint maybe? even though you were a tailor shop. When would you ever allow something as unbecoming as lint in your presence? Still, you tolerate it, because even though you had rich clientele, there were none that were as friendly or free with their money as Childe was, his funds always seeming limitless no matter what you quoted. 

You’ve also learned to disregard that sly gleam in his eyes every time you reveal let details that were a bit too personal slip from your tongue, such as where you were born, who was in your family, monotony loosening your tongue while you hum and take down his measurements, all the while trying to make casual conversation with him. 

Strangely enough, he begins showing up near you outside of work too, accidental meetings in your favourite coffee shop or in that cake shop you love to frequent on the weekends. You’d be checking your phone and he would tap you on the shoulder, making you jump from how silently he’d moved behind you. He’d chuckle in response. Always some kind of offhanded excuse, a common denominator of I didn’t know you shopped here too! What a coincidence, comrade. But since we’re already here, may I join you?

And after these instances, the questions would turn even stranger, even more intimate than they usually were, about whether you had any lovers, any enemies, any desires, any annoyances. You demur, trying even more to keep your personal divided from work, but with enough insistence, you eventually cave. Money didn’t rain from the sky, after all, and for some reason, business had been a little slow as of late. Even the long-time clients you usually had, when you’d phone them regarding their scheduled orders, would sound clipped and a little uneasy, as if you’d been stalking them or threatening them, which was just ridiculous. 

So when Childe asks you, Do you have any significant person in your life, little tailor? I’m just curious, you know. Can’t have other people poaching you from me now. You only sigh and say, No, sir. Can you tell me which patterned tie you’d prefer with this suit now?

And when he asks you if there was anyone you hated, any annoyances you’d like to be rid of, you would offhandedly mention some schoolyard bullies from your teenage years, or that one neighbour of yours who would always party too loudly at 4AM in the morning. That strange gleam would be back in Childe’s eyes as he nods and sympathizes with your little pet peeves, a stray murmur of It’d be a pity if something wasn’t done, wouldn’t it? If only there was someone who was trained in these matters… Hm? Why are you looking at me like that? I was only joking, comrade! Do I really look so dangerous to you?

Not to you, but you’ve seen the way he acts around others. Cold, haughty, and just the slightest bit too arrogant. But it’s not as if you can control what he says, so you just shrug it off. Strangely enough though, the names that you’d drop with your complaints would all vanish within the week that you bring it up. Always with a phone call before, of a hurried voice saying, I’m sorry for bothering you! I’ll never do it again, or talk to you again, or see you again! So please, don’t—!

You set down your phone afterward, stare at the ceiling, wondering why your life was falling apart and yet somehow going so well, after meeting this stranger of a client who wants more closeness than you knew how to give.

His gifts too, turn a little too intimate. Combs and earring and necklace adorned with jewels. Sometimes the same shade as his blue-grey eyes, sometimes the same shade as the red earring in his own ear, and when you put them away, say, They’re beautiful, but I can’t take it, he would then just leave it behind with his departure, you left staring at the glimmering translucent gems sitting at your countertop. 

And what could you do? 

You couldn’t displease him; he was quickly becoming your most valuable customer, one of the only ones left behind from the mass exodus that has happened to your customer base. Your shop was rarely ever visited now, left alone busy, and the only time words are ever spoken within its four walls is when his leather boots stride past your opened glass doors. It was as if your name, your shop, had been stamped onto some secret book, forever blacklisted by anyone who knew anything of the underground. But you didn’t know that, did you? You were just a simple tailor, trying to make due with a budget that increasingly depended on just one man.

So you sigh. Pick up the earring. Hold it up to your ear, comparing it to the simple gold studs you're wearing right now. They’re fancier, but they’re not you. But you still take out your simple earring, hook on the crimson earring in your right ear, because he wears his on the left, and resist the urge to flinch at how it looks, dangling next to your neck like a miniature ruby blade.

The next time Childe sees you, he breaks out into a smile and pats your head. "So you put it on after all," he says. "Should I take that as an acceptance then?"

And this time, his fingers strays down from your head to the curve of your back and then pivots to your hips. His head dips down, other gloved hand trailing against the curve of your jaw, lips about to meet yours, an invasion of new territory that leaves you stiff, even more helpless than usual. You don’t stop him as he nips at exposed flesh, don’t stop him as he breathes against your skin, don’t stop him as he holds you in his arms like a puppet. Even though it’s broad daylight, in the middle of your sunlit shop, you don’t say anything even as you feel something hard grinding against your clothed thigh, a soft grunt from his lips as he slips his hand up your shirt, a slow roll of his hips against you—

The bell at your door rings. Your gaze flies to the entrance, and Childe’s does too. 

There’s a man. Amber eyes, brown spiked hair that tapers off into a ponytail, gloved hands and an extremely well-designed suit—vicuna, your experienced eyes knew with just one glance—and he’s looking at you. Not Childe, but you. Curiosity in its orange-flecked depths, and a slightest hint of something you’ve also seen in Childe’s eyes.

“Zhongli-xiansheng,” Childe says, half a complaint and half a threat. “Did you have to come at such an inconvenient time?”

“I’ve let you run wild around these parts for so long, the least you could do is greet me properly,” the man named Zhongli says, smooth and baritone voice sending a shiver up your spine.

Childe notices the movement—when does he not notice anything about you—and pulls you even closer to him. Rests his chin on your head and says, “This person is important to me, xiansheng. Find your own.”

“I’ve not come to take your toy, Tartaglia,” Zhongli says easily. His gaze flickers to you, and you shrivel back. Childe clenches his hands around the span of your hips, almost hard enough to bruise. “I know how protective you are of what’s yours. But you haven’t been answering your phone. As your… business partner,” Zhongli decides on, after a moment of consideration, “I had become concerned. There had been a missive sent from our Inauzman operatives. We will need to address it promptly. You may have a new assignment.”

Childe makes a noise of disgust at the back of his throat that rumbles through you. “Do we have to do it right this moment, xiansheng? Can’t it wait…” He shoots you a glance of longing, blown pupils with a ring of blue, and you resist the urge to look away. Smile weakly in response. “...Just an hour later,” Childe purrs. And then adds on, “Or two. Best to give us three, just in case. Whatever unsavory things I’ll have to dirty my hands with can’t be that urgent, can it?”

Zhongli chuckles, a meaningful flicker of his eyes from Childe to you. “Not now,” he says finally as he turns around to leave. “You’ll have all the time in the world—but only after this meeting. So stop behaving like a dog in the midst of mating season. Come.”

"Hey! I resent that," Childe says, pouting as he drags himself off of you. Gives you a look of promise, intermingling of lust and possessiveness in his darkened eyes as he winks and presses a kiss to your cold cheeks. You blink, and he smooths out your hair before curling his thumb below your chin. “Wait for me, little tailor, hm? We wouldn’t want you to be running off, now,” he murmurs. 

“Yes,” you say, and even to your ears, your voice is weak, faltering. 

“Well, even if you run…” Childe laughs and follows after Zhongli, but not before tossing out, “I’d find you right away. You know that right? So, I'll be seeing you soon, little tailor. I promise.”

You remain in the sunlight until fading sunset, heart hammering at your ribs. Frozen in place, stuck waiting for a customer who'd return to you with bloodstained gloves and crimson-smeared jaw. But you didn't know that. You only knew that you were asked to wait. You had to wait.

How it begins is this: in the city of Tevyat, there are seven prominent groups in the underground. You've been sent on a mission to infiltrate the ones that call themselves Mondstadt, the so-called freedom fighters (though fighting for what freedom, you’re not sure). How you actually get in though, is far from the usual orthodox ways afforded to investigators of working their ways up to meeting the leaders. The higher-ups of the organization were exclusive and hidden, the boss of the family even moreso.

But of all the bosses in Teyvat—archons, the populace calls them, since they’re similar to magistrates in that they set down the unspoken laws of the underground—the Mondstadt archon is the most unknown one. In fact, there had been rumours he’d already been killed, or stuck in a coma, or some other tragic event. The head of the Mondstadt group is now Jean, who’s inherited it from the old guard composed of people like Varka, but she’s not the archon, which tells you that the Mondstadt archon hasn’t been killed at all. Not if the title was still used on some hidden piece no one knew. It seems that the archon’s just extremely laissez-faire in the governing of his group.

Unknown this archon may be, but somehow, through a stroke of luck, you end up saving someone with connections to him. Not that you were aware; you merely thought he was an eccentric singer. His name is Venti, and you save him from a cat, of all things, the little kitten circling the frightened man who keeps sneezing and shooing it away. My saviour, he positively sings it when he inspects you up and down after the offending kitten has been safely given back to its own (a little girl in red, who has quite an explosive imagination). There’s this gleam in his teal eyes when he calls your name, a sure sign of a mischievous trickster. That should have been the first sign. But you suspect nothing of his darker roots, taken in by his boyishly handsome looks. 

You still think he’s a normal civilian, so when Venti insists on rewarding you for your bravery (it shall be sung in ballads, he says with a smirk) by bringing you to a fancy dinner party as his guest, you accept reluctantly. Not because you want to go, but more so because this man sticks around you like sticky rice, refusing to let himself from your side even as you’re making your investigations. when you tell him you’re busy with matters. The excuse was that you’re interested in joining the Mondstadters, and that’s when his eyes twinkle. “Oh? Why would you want to associate with a bunch of thugs?”

“I think their philosophy is interesting,” you tell him half-truths, something about seeking power and admiring the Mondstadt archon and freedom in joining their group. If it could even be called freedom, how many rules and regulations the families set down in order to prevent territory wars.

“I see!” Venti claps his hands together. “Maybe you’ll find the party useful then! It has quite a number of notable attendants. Perhaps their connections will help you.”

“Notable? You mean like celebrities?”

“…you could say that!” Venti says while laughing.

Strangely enough, even though Venti’s broke—you’ve seen the poor state of his wallet, nary a penny to his name—he manages to send you this expensive suit set, complete with this little brooch at the lapel, emerald gem pinned, a pattern of the wind etched onto it. You don’t think much of it, much more aghast at the fact that Venti was able to afford this item—he could barely pay for his drinks whenever he dragged you to the bar with him, and even then, you paid for him half the time. The other half of the time consists of Venti putting the drinks on his tab and getting scolded for it by the red-haired bartender. So shocked were you, you don’t even ponder how it is that he knew where you lived. After moving to a new location because of this assignment, you’ve never told anybody your new home.

You attend the party. Grasping at straws, because the secrets of the boss were so highly protected, you sigh and make yourself decent enough to go. When you hand in the invitation, the guards at the front widening their eyes at the chicken-scratch of Venti’s writing, they let you in without a fuss, even bowing profusely at you as you step through the door. Rich people are weird, and it seems like the people they hire are even weirder, you think absentmindedly as you wander around the halls of this luxurious mansion. People give you a wide berth, occasionally glancing at the emerald gem you keep touching in some semblance of comfort at your lapel. 

It’s when you try to get to one of the break rooms to rest your feet that you finally understand what Venti meant when he said there may be “prominent figures”. Because the person you almost knock over is the acting boss of the family, Jean.

She’s there, apologizing so softly, so politely, as you try to keep yourself from showing any of your shock on your face, your heart about to leap out of your mouth, beating so violently against your ribcage you think you may be ill. That’s when Venti pops in, that disarming smile, as always, present on his face. He’s surely laughing on the inside at your thoughts right now, racing so fast you struggle to keep up.

“So that’s your person, sir,’ Jean says, as Venti wraps his arm around your neck in a friendly hold—friendly only to him though, because you were finally beginning to understand. “You should keep a better watch. In this place… you never know who could take advantage.”

His.. person? Sir? The horror of the situation finally dawns itself on you, puzzle pieces sliding into place, as Venti nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck—an intimate gesture you’d gotten used to, having known him for months now, but only now does it make your mouth dry. Not with anticipation, no, but a deep unsettling dread that lodges itself in your throat. 

“It’s okay,” Venti says to Jean, the smile never leaving his face. His eyes shift to the brooch at your lapel, and his arm lets your neck go, sliding around your waist instead, pulling you toward him. “Everyone we’ve invited should know better than to displease the archon of Mondstadt, don’t you think? Not if they don’t want to get a knife in their eyes, I’d think. I do enjoy the loudness of their screams though.”

Jean shrugs, nonplussed at his violent words. “Whatever you say, sir. I’ll be going now. The guests will need to be watched extensively, after all.”

You watch her leave, and finally you open your mouth.

“What just… No, who are you?” 

Venti grins. “You said you wanted to join us, didn’t you?” His grip around your waist gets tighter, and you’re acutely aware that despite his slight form, he’s strong. Too strong for you to do anything about his touch, how his fingers are tapping on your hip bone a rhythm to an unknown song. “As your new boss, I must say…”

He leans into your ear, warm breath caressing the shell of your ears, voice sing-song with a smug satisfaction, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

“You are Secunde of the Adepti,” the supposed-mortal Zhongli says, one gloved hand on his chin. As if thinking. Debating. The gesture reminds you of the old men playing chess at the docks, stroking their beards as they calculate their next move. His mortal form is young, but from his actions, his true age is not so secret.

You would laugh if the matter were not so serious, but it is. Instead of amusement, your heart quickens in anticipation. He is considering your proposal. Or so you hope.

“Which is precisely why I must retire. It is the era of the mortals now, Lord Rex Lapis,” you demur, one hand spread to gesture to the backdrop of the bustling harbour beneath the mountain you both stand on. “Have the rest of the Adepti not sworn themselves to abstain from the affairs of Liyue?”

Ever since the Traveller’s presence in Liyue, the harbour has weathered storm and vortex. And with it, there is change. The four millennia contract, all the surviving adepti have withdrawn from… All but one. The Prime of the Adepti has passed, and now it is time for the Secunde.

It is not that you find Liyue distasteful—far from it. You love its people with all you are. How can you not? Built with your blood and tears, you and the adepti had raised it from dust to glory. You feel a proud parent at its accomplishments, heart of Teyvat’s economy, but every child must pave their own path eventually. It is time to let Liyue flourish by itself.

Rex Lapis should understand. After all, had he not felt the same when he relinquished his gnosis?

Now, nothing is left to tie you to Liyue, and you are ready to let go. It has been a long four thousand years. Whether transformed to stone statue or withdrawn into a solitary abode, it matters not. Release is all you seek.

That is, if Rex Lapis, too dead to Liyue but too alive to you, agrees with the sentiment.

“And what will you seek,” Zhongli asks, eyes lidded in curiosity, “after our contract is dissolved? Will you stay in Liyue Harbour?”

The words are spoken in the pleasant rumble of a landslide. Will you stay beside me? he chooses to not say. Under your feet, you swear the earth vibrates, but it leaves as quick as it comes. You close your eyes to formulate your response, slow and steady. Geo can still be eroded with time, you tell yourself. One only need tread carefully to avoid the fallout of crumbling earth. To escape safely.

You love Liyue, but you do not love its dead ruler.

“I do not yet know, my lord.” Your words are threaded with caution, but none of it shows in your innocent expression. A wistful smile peeks through, a ploy to garner sympathy. “But I shall like to retire to my adeptus abode.”

A lie, meant to please him. Rex Lapis gifted it to you long ago, a domain hidden deep underground. Inside may be a realm of clouds and sky, but it is mere illusion. You are no less buried. You refuse to return there.

“Ah,” he says. “Spun clouds and floating islands. A piece of heaven in earth. Quite close to Liyue Harbour.” He hums, and with a dip of his head that sends his earring trembling, says “The foot of Mount Tianheng, its entrance a secret to all but us, if I remember correctly.”

“You have,” you reply, silently cursing his perfect recall. Still, if you just happen to not be within the abode when he comes knocking, that is only fate at work. You were not clairvoyant, after all. “Easy to visit, shall Rex Lapis—Zhongli—wishes it.”

“A fair point.” His expression shifts into fondness at your usage of his personal name, and you are eager to press the advantage.

“Your gift has all but gone unused in the past millennia. I would hate for it to continue in such state,” you plead. Sighs in sadness at the thought of it, even if you’ve never given his present much thought. Even if you hated it at first sight. “Left too long, the dust will need attending to—”

You startle, mind screaming at your lips to hold your words, but it’s too late.

“…Dust settles with alarming speed,” he says. A slight nod of agreement, but you notice his eyes are lost in a brief haze of memories. You bite your tongue, and yellow diamond sharpen to the edge of a jade sword once more. “One never knows where they fall. Or when they fall.”

You almost wince. For all your care, one misplaced word is enough to destroy any success. Stone does not forget loss, and one word has laid dust to all your strategies. Oh, Guizhong, you mourn. Dearly departed friend… If only you knew what Rex Lapis has become in your absence.

Careful, calculating, cold. So afraid of risk. Ever since the fall of the Guili Assembly, Morax clutches his heart ever closer to his chest, smothering claws and possessive hold—you especially. It is too much. You will die like this, suffocating for breath as you are entombed in uncaring earth.

“My lord,” you try again. If logic will not do, then honey may. With a light touch to his shoulder, voice sweetened with coaxing, you say, “I will not isolate myself as Cloud Retainer has chosen, if you fear loneliness. I will return.”

You do not specify when. Forever is too short in your mind.

“You misunderstand, my beloved subject,” he murmurs, eyes sliding from your face to Liyue Harbour. Beloved subject. The words of an emperor that is supposed to be dead. You are still crushed beneath a mountain of stone spears. For a brief second, you think you understand Osial’s anger upon reawakening.

“What have I misunderstood, my lord?”

“Loneliness. That is not my concern. I do not fear your absence.”

Morax possesses many skills, the art of the lie merely one of many. But you do not call him out on it. Let him have his pride. You wish for only your freedom in exchange.

“I did not mean to insinuate,” you quickly say, smiling wanly. “However, my lord… Did you know this? Even before the Rite of Parting for Rex Lapis, my services as Secunde of the Adepti were already called upon less and less. And now that the adeptis have formally withdrew from their role within Liyue…”

He hums. “I am well aware.”

There is the slightest displeasure in his words, and you latch onto it. “Just as Liyue cannot have Rex Lapis forever, my time here is also coming to an end.”

The silver of his thumb ring flashes in the sunlight as he spins it with furrowed eyebrows. “It is true what you say. Indeed, the adepti have been released from their oaths.”

Air catches in your lungs. Is this it? Will he finally—

“But your duties are not yet finished.”

Everything shatters. Your hopes, your dreams, your freedom. You want to weep, but you force yourself to still. “May I ask why? For what purpose does Secunde of the Adepti still remain in Liyue?” For what reason do I remain by your side, you wish to add, but that is too irreverent for a devoted subject to Rex Lapis—who still refuses to die in your world.

Zhongli meets you with a face of stone, eyes shimmering with subtle Geo. As a dragon-lin, he was grace and beauty. As a mortal, he is still that. But bedrock is bedrock, no matter what form it takes. Underneath the dragon scale and human flesh, you know him for what he truly is: a tyrant.

The wind rises as your thoughts rage. During your silent storm of malice, his gaze slides to your right sleeve, swaying in a sudden breeze.

Your powers were derived from the wind, but the display of them is yet another mistake.

Perhaps it is the light of the sun that ignites it. Perhaps it is your anger. Either way, you forget to hide the Anemo vision bound to your forearm. So caught up in your emotions, you do not even notice it pulse and flash, a blinding teal, until it is too late—

Rex Lapis, your eternal sovereign, frowns.

You remember yourself. Dragged back to earth, the breeze dies. Another miscalculation. He never did enjoy the fact that your vision was not gold. That it was not his. Geo is enduring rock, undying loyalty; Anemo is not.

Anemo is freedom instead.

You should not have reminded him of such. You hang your head, ashamed of your foolishness. “For what am I staying in Liyue for, my sovereign, when the rest of the adepti have scattered to the furthest boundaries of Liyue?” you repeat your question, clinging onto the smallest flicker of hope. Of hope that he has no answers. “Like you, I have fulfilled my duties to the fullest, have I not?”

If Rex Lapis notices the undercurrent of desperation in your question, he does not show it. He is serenity incarnate in his answer. “I have heard rumours,” he begins.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Yet another one of his usual non-sequiturs, but there is dread rising in your throat at its implication.

He continues. “It seems the ocean stirs once more.”

Hope dashes on the rocks. Your heart sinks. So he will bind you to him with your love of Liyue. “Osial?” you croak. “I had thought the Jade Chamber…”

Lovely, admirable Ningguang, who had once walked barefoot from Yaoguang Shoal to Liyue Harbour. You remember her small footprints in the sand, fragile yet powerful. Ningguang, who sacrificed her life’s work in devotion of Liyue—and still it was not enough? Does that mean your duty will never end?

Zhongli shakes his head. “No. It is too small of a current to be the Overlord of the Vortex himself. I have reason to believe it is Beisht.”

“His wife,” you murmur, mind racing. “She must have felt the waves move upon his release. To come to Liyue for her husband, only to see him sealed once more…”

“She seeks vengeance,” he finishes, and then sighs. “I would grant your request. Truly. But now that Liyue faces yet another tribulation, you are needed here. If Ningguang fails, then the adepti will be forced to move.”

Your fists clench. He speaks with remorse at the thought, but you are not fooled—his is a hollow sorrow.

“Unfortunately, without my gnosis…” he trails off, giving you a meaningful look. “I do not know if I can protect Liyue adequately without you. But of course, if you wish to leave Liyue to fend for itself, I understand. I only ask you as Zhongli: will you fight with me?”

He must be lying, you reason. There is a reason you have not breached the terms of your contract yet. He is still power, power, power. It runs in his veins. Even with the loss of his gnosis, he is still Primus. First of the Adepti. Your lord.

Still, with Rex Lapis, there is always a kernel of truth hidden. As much as you hate him, he is not a complete liar. You close your eyes. Liyue cannot be made to fall under your watch.

“I will stay,” you say quietly, choking out the words. It is an admission of defeat.

Zhongli settles back into his relaxed posture, but after millennia of practice, you know how to read unmoving stone. There are grains of self-satisfaction written everywhere you look. The slightest raise of his brows. The curl of his lips in a secret smile. The nonchalant command as he says, “I see. I look forward to our cooperation. Shall we speak strategy over dinner at Wanmin, then? I hear Xiangling has come up with a fascinating new dish.”

You wish to scream. It is not cooperation he seeks. It is possession.

But you cannot disobey. With a defeated glance at Liyue harbour, you force your lips to assent. “Yes, my lord.”

Pale purple irises follow your lips as your lips open. Your hands clench behind your sleeves as you resign yourself to his care. He pushes the fruit into your mouth, past your neat row of teeth, gentle yet insistent. And presses his thumb on your lips when he finishes. You feel a slight sticky dampness, remnant of the wetness from the fruit.

He brings his hand to his own lips. Tongue briefly swipes at his thumb. “Delicious,” he says, chuckling.

You hold the fruit in your mouth. Think of spitting it out on the floor. Think of spitting in his face. But do nothing.

Ayato shakes his head. “You should chew now, beloved,” he says, an amused undercurrent to his voice. A sigh, as if it couldn’t be helped. “What ever could you do without your lord?”

Celebrate, you think viciously.

Still. Teeth bite down. A burst of sweetness floods your tongue when you do as he commands. You swallow, and he watches the ripple of your throat with a quiet interest. You bite your tongue to stop yourself from shivering.

One piece of fruit.

Two pieces.

Three.

And then he finishes with his index finger tapping at your lips. You know what to do by now. So you lap at his finger too. A small kitten lick. “How docile you are,” he comments. A quirk of his eyebrow. “How lovely.”

Nails dig into palm. You resist the urge to bare your teeth. To lunge for his throat.

He smiles again. Brushes his fingers against your cheek, before descending toward your throat. Curls his hand under your chin. Lifts your face up, until all you see is his eyes. “I wonder how sweet you taste now.” And then slants his mouth over yours. Nips your lips until you resign yourself—and open.

Ayato kisses you like he’s drinking you in. A pleased, quiet hum; you shudder at the deep note. His other hand places itself on your knee, where clothing meets skin. Slides up the heavy fabrics, until he finds the naked skin of your thigh and squeezes.

ayato is a family man. he cherishes the idea of family, always protects and chases after the concept, on account of his father and mother passing away early. the entire household finds out the news, ayaka first, and she's so enamoured by the thought of having a niece/nephew, always asking after your needs or wants, glancing at your stomach.

you always demur when ayaka asks how you feel, never admitting how it itches at you sometimes, knowing that the child in you belly is of his seed. but it's also yours too. a proof of your survival, that despite ayato having stolen you away from you family (though stolen is perhaps not the right word—bargained, perhaps), you're still alive, if not thriving then at least surviving. you're capable of life, even in the most desolate of places, trapped in a gilded cage of silk and yumemiru.

you dream of the child sometimes, in your arms after birth, peaceful dreams when it resembles your father or mother or you, nightmares when you catch blue tufts of hair and pale violet eyes. you wake up in cold sweat, touching a hand to your stomach, where the bump has begun to portrude, and feel the urge to throw up. ayato is always around you immediately, asking the servant to fetch water, and then murmurs of how he'll protect you, that you won't go the way of his mother and father, because he has that power now.

you heart shrivels whenever he touches you, whenever he makes these vows, resentment beginning to splinter what's left of your ability to feel tenderness.

no. you refuse to let ayato influence your love for your child. if it looks like ayato, you will still love them. but you can't do that if you're forever in the embrace of this man who makes your gums ache, your joints creak, as if you'd already aged a hundred years. in the kamisato estate, love cannot flower at all, so you plan your escape.

it's not easy. you never have privacy to ask for anything, let alone something as risky as passage off of inazuma. but you grit your teeth and forcibly make the opportunity, stray touches here and there, sultry eyes to let him know you're receptive to his touches, and you change. you no longer flinch and act so hateful toward him in private. lowering his guard like this, bit by bit, until he gives you have slivers of freedom that you gulp down like a man dying of hunger, grabbing onto the tiny openings of your windowless castle and prying it open, asking for news here and there until you've cobbled enough savings to bribe a man to take you if not to mainland teyvat, then at least ritou where less people will know who you are.

the bright crack of dawn comes: you sneak out of the estate, surprisingly easy. ayato is asleep thanks to the sleeping draught you'd slipped him last night in his tea, and he doesn't even stir as you remove yourself from his side. you feel the shackles coming off as you tiptoe out of the compound, sandals lifting over the wooden threshold. but then—

"having fun, dear wife?"

you almost slip, catching yourself on the door frame. numbness spreading from your fingertips to your neck, you turn. ayato's standing there, leaning against the wall as he watches you with amused eyes. no trace of anger. just amusement, like a god watching his followers from up on high.

you open your mouth, intending to make your excuses, and almost sob instead. you were so close. so close you'd almost felt it, the sensation of ocean water kissing your fingertips as you sit on that boat, your lovely unborn child beneath your other hand as you'd murmur sweet nothings about how your lives would be nothing but joy.

and now, this. "i know pregnancy boredom is quite unbearable," ayato sighs as he reaches for your shoulders. "but you shouldn't be so mischievous, hm? the shuumatsuban have their hands full as it is, let alone keeping track of my own wife. first that medicine, and now this. you know better than to try to go off on your own. it's not safe."

you shudder as he picks you up, sweeping you up into his arms as he'd done before you'd entered the bridal chamber on your wedding night. left with no avenue but to play obedient, you rest your head against his shoulder and caress your belly while whispering, "i'm sorry. i won't... i won't do it again."

There was another. Blindfold in hand. The housekeeper—Thoma, if you recalled correctly—had a gentle smile face when you asked him what was going on, but no answer. Not that there had been much talking. There had been no words exchanged between the two men, as Ayato pulled you into his arms.

Thoma’s here because he wanted to help. Don’t worry, he’d said. Remember: your only duty is to obey. So you’d bit back the questions, even though you were so confused. A black strip of fabric then handed on your eyes, tied with Thoma’s clever fingers. And then, when those same clever fingers moved down your body, brief light touches before pausing at your waist to untie your sash, you’d finally protested. Wasn’t your lord husband supposed to be the only to undress you?

Ayato had laughed at that. You want me to join in too?

That’s not I meant, husband.

And then he slipped a hand into the collar of your wedding kimono. Slowly peels the layers from your shoulders, before reaching naked skin. There, wife. Does this appease you?

That’s not what I meant— His palm finds your breast and squeezes. An unbidden moan escapes your throat instead of a sentence.

It seems my lady is not entirely satisfied, my lord, Thoma had cooed.

So she is. We can’t have that now, can we?

The rustle of fabric as the two men stripped you down, and you begged for them to stop when you felt their hands wandering your naked skin. Their touch burned you, all heat and want in the darkness of being blindfolded. Ayato had laid you down on the bed then, laying your head into his lap.

Thoma trailed kisses along the curve of your throat—it must be him, because you hear his voice humming as he does so. Feels it too, reverberation of his voice sinking into your veins as you shuddered. A flash of tongue, of teeth when he reaches between your breasts.

You think you cried out. You think you tried to twist your body beneath body, to wiggle out of Ayato pressing you down. But no avail. Ayato held you down by the shoulders, firm and unyielding as you struggled beneath him, wondering what kind of hellish wedding night was this.

He chuckled, and you realize you voiced your question allowed. What kind of wedding night, beloved? Our wedding night. The curve of his nail then meets your hardened nipple. You jolt beneath him. Whimpering. Something hot flashes between your legs, sticky and wet. Responsive, he murmured. Thoma?

A silent command, because Thoma understands immediately. I’d be honoured, my lord. We can’t leave my lady wanting, after all.

And then he had dove into between your legs, and your thoughts scatter—my lady tastes divine, my lord; does she? I will have to take your word for it for now—you were lost to the overwhelming heat.

And in the present, after what must have been hours and hours of Thoma lapping at your slick, you come again. Mind gone hazy, as the hands around your thighs tighten. Another hot lick of your cunt has you keening, back arching up into air, but Ayato already knows when to keep you down now. “Do stay still, beloved,” comes his voice above you, rich with dark amusement. “Thoma’s not quite finished with you yet.”

At the sound of his name, Thoma hums, his mouth tracing unholy things into your flesh. Your clit twitches, and he notices that too, because he latches onto it, sliver of teeth scraping over sensitive bud.

“Please,” you whimper, and you don’t know if you’re asking him to stop or to keep going. You would twist, you would resist, you would struggle—

But it’s already been torn out of you, along with more orgasms you can count, with Thoma’s mouth on your wet, dripping folds.

“Please,” you whimper again, wishing this torture, this pleasure, was done already. You were left without reprieve, oversensitive to the point where it hurts to even have Thoma breathing on your clit.

“How insatiable my wife is, Thoma!” Ayato says, a small laugh at your plea. An intentional understanding of your slurred word. “To have received so much, and to still beg for more? And from someone other than her husband too. It was a good thing you asked to join in, Thoma. I’m not sure even I could fulfill her needs by myself.”

Thoma pauses his assault, a nip to the soft skin of your inner thigh. Two fingers shoved into you, and you gasp, unconscious clenching around him. The sound of drenched skin as he pulls out, and then plunge back in. Thoma replies nonchalantly, as if he doesn’t have you absolutely writhing, “My lord will have his work cut out for him when it comes to my lady.”

Ayato sighs, as if it couldn’t be helped. “Indeed. She so easily succumbed to someone other than her husband, too—as though she were a common whore.”

“I-I’m not—” you choke out, but Thoma doesn’t stop his movement, fingers rubbing at your walls, one thumb circling around your clit. It’s so slow that you can’t help but grind into him, and Thoma laughs at it.

“My lord’s bride preaches virtue, but acts without shame.”

“True. After all, who is it that came so many times, crying out in pleasure at someone else’s mouth on your pretty little folds? Oh look,” Ayato says mildly, as your body twitches at the onset of yet another orgasm, “there you go again, wife. Should I be angry that you behave so wantonly? I worry if you ever should meet another man; I’m not sure if you will remain loyal to me, were they to lust after your lovely face—and bewitching body.”

“My-My lord,” you gasp, tears springing forth at the corner of your eyes, seeping into the blindfold. Thoma’s fingers withdraw from your cunt, a rough motion that leaves you utterly exhausted from the sound of it—full of slick, dripping all over his hand. “I cannot, no more, please.”

“Very well. Anything my wife desires,” Ayato says simply. “Pity, but it seems your services are no longer required, Thoma.”

Thoma chuckles, pressing one last kiss to your wet folds. One last lick up your cunt, slow and careful to collect your wetness. “Then I wish my lord a joyful wedding night,” he says.

Dizzying relief sweeps through you when you feel his heavy presence off your body, when you hear the sliding of the screen as Thoma exits quietly. Ayato removes you from his lap, gently lowering you onto the bed. Finally, some peace—

But then you hear the rustle of clothes, Ayato takes off your blindfold, quick as lightning. Blinding candle fire comes into view, and you blink furiously at the spike of pain in your eyes from the unexpected light. Violet eyes inspect you, soft amusement, deep hunger.

“You know, I had not expected Thoma brave enough to ask for this favour. My wife is simply too lovely, unfortunately, if even loyal Thoma became embolded enough to openly desire you.”

And you remember this: Ayato has not yet had his turn.

He presses himself onto you, naked skin against naked skin. Coolness of the air banished by his hot blood, pulsing against you. Your hands clench in the silk sheets.

“With all these hungry eyes on you, I fear that you will stray from me, my beloved lady wife. The only solution then,” Ayato muses, as his hands find your breasts and pinches the tips, “is to fuck you so hard that you can’t stop to think.” You whine and arch your back up, accidentally grinding against his cock—erect and swollen, it throbs when it meets your wet cunt. “Let’s begin now, shall we?”

And then he pushes himself in. You moan at the unexpected How easily it went in—courtesy of Thoma’s care. You feel about to burst, from how full he feels. Ayato smiles against your skin. Gives slow thrusts in and out of you—and it hurts, how good it is to have his cock drag against your walls, after how empty you’ve been left by Thoma.

“If I—ah—leave you filled with my seed,” he says, one hand splayed over your stomach, all gentle possessiveness in how his fingers wrap around you, “if—no, when you bear my children, maybe then that’ll be enough of a deterrent. Enough of a warning, to let the others know that you are mine, beloved.” Lightning hot pleasure runs through you when he caresses your clit, slender fingers rubbing small circles that leave you panting and pulsing around him. His touch is light. Almost there. Almost close enough to send you mad. “What do you think? Will that do, wife, when you are heavy with our child?”

“I don’t,” you keen at his teasing touch. You had thought all the pleasure already wrung out of you, but Ayato has found more to rip out of you. “I can’t—please let me, Ayato—”

“You still want more? Ever insatiable you are, wife.” He lands a soft kiss to the corner of your eyes, to brush away the tears with his lips. “But have no worry,” he croons, a hitch of his breath as his cock twitches in you. He plunges deep inside you, until you swear you feel the tip of him at your womb. You come with an earth-shattering cry, trembling beneath him. Violet eyes flash. “No matter how much your wanting, I will provide more than enough to meet it, beloved.”