.moondancer

What's going on? Who knows. 20+

[moondance-r]

Masterlist: Wen Yu's Multiverse Adventures

I have one (1) OC and he goes everywhere, all of the fics are standalone and only share a backstory (TLDR: cultivator in a xianxia setting, may post it one day if I ever get it cleaned up).

NOTICE: moved as of 04/11/2024, future updates will be posted to @moondance-r-writes

GENSHIN IMPACT

SAGAU-adjacent not-Creator Creator: #sagau-adjacent verse | taglist requests

[One] [Two] [Three]

You knew, viscerally down to your bones, that you did not create this world; Teyvat had no grand creator, no single hand designing its wonders. It did, however, have something of a catalytic agent, without which it would not exist. You.

Pedrolino the Acolyte: #pedrolino verse | taglist requests

[One] [Two]

Of the Fatui Harbingers, their Tenth was among the most secretive. Rumours of him regularly abounded throughout the ranks, labelling him anything from a pauper to hidden royalty to everything in between, and theories abounded about his person. Pedrolino enjoyed it that way and even encouraged it. Unfortunately, the Tsaritsa’s mission to collect gnoses kicked off in earnest, so Liyue was about to welcome its prodigal son home.

Fatui intelligence officer: #intel officer verse | taglist requests

[One]

When Aionios graduated from Izmoroz Institute, before which he had no contact with the outside world, he discovered that his little cousin had gone missing, returned, been shipped off to the Fatui, then made Harbinger. ...He knew that a lot of things could change in five years, but wasn't this a bit much?

OMNISCIENT READER'S VIEWPOINT

Sun That Overcame Death: #sun verse

[One]

After he died defending what remained of his family against the world, the last thing Wen Yu expected was to end up in a modern Korea that’s on the verge of an apocalypse. But then, the dokkaebi weren’t expecting a cultivator either.

WHO MADE ME A PRINCESS

The Jewel-eyed Lost Prince: #lost prince verse

[1: The Prince] [2: The Mage] [3: The Warrior]

Aionios is a prince of the Obelian Empire raised outside its borders. His eyes gave him a chance at his birthright - now it depended on his skills to take it. His jeweled eyes made it obvious to anyone with basic knowledge of Obelia and a working brain where the other half of his blood came from, so Aionios was doubly determined to learn how to manage a household. One day, his household would be more than the handful of families left in his care by his mother. One day, his household would number millions.

Divider is by @/strangergraphics

[essektheylyss]

fibercrafts are SO maddening cuz wdym I have to go to work tomorrow, I'm like a third of a way through making a whole ass fucking cape, don't you think I should be allowed to focus on what matters (my fucking cape)

[oh-wiw]

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 3 ✦ Part 5 ✦

A lost Composer

Somewhere within the quiet sanctum of the Sanctuary of Surasthana, a tiny god wandered the marbled halls in thought, her bare feet making no sound against the cool stone. Outside, the flora of Sumeru danced with life lush, vibrant, and unusually exuberant, as if the land itself were humming a joyful tune. 

The trees swayed not just with the breeze, but with purpose. The flowers bloomed early, wide and radiant. Even the ever-elusive Aranara flitted about more openly, giggling in their strange tongue and whispering secrets to the wind.

The Dendro Archon, watched it all unfold from the many windows of her sanctuary. She had spoken with the Aranara, listened to their riddles and gentle stories, and heard the way they spoke of a return. Of music and grace. Of something once lost now finding its way home.

It wasn’t uncommon for the Aranara to be cryptic, but this time… their joy was real. Unmistakable.

And it wasn’t because of her.

No, they had said it clearly, reverently: “Their Grace is back.”

Nahida rested a delicate hand against the frame of an open window as the wind drifted past, unusually fragrant and melodic, as if carrying the faintest trace of a tune.

Something or someone was stirring the very soul of Sumeru.

✧✧✧✧✧

 

After playing at the tavern you peruse the shops of Sumeru with careful eyes, weaving through stalls filled with spices, exotic fruits, silks, and instruments of every shape and tone. Today, your goal is simple: find a case for your lyre.

A gift far too precious to leave unguarded. 

As you run your fingers along a line of handcrafted cases, testing their stitching and fit, a more practical thought settles in: 

You can’t carry every instrument you long to play. Not with your feet still wandering and your pack already heavy. Your enthusiasm might be endless, but your arms are not.

It’s a bittersweet realization. You imagine one day sitting before a grand harp, fingers trembling as they pluck strings you’ve never touched before. Even if it isn’t yours, yet you still dream of hearing that sound under your hands.

You settle on a modest but sturdy case lined with soft green fabric, something that will keep the lyre safe through the roads ahead. As the shopkeeper wraps it, you glance over your shoulder at the other instruments with a wistful smile.

You may not carry them all, but you’ll chase their songs wherever your journey takes you.

One day, you thought.

Your plan had been simple, visit the Zubayr Theater, maybe peek in, maybe even sit in the far back to watch. But like every time before, the guards at the entrance held up a hand, firm but polite. “Full house,” they said. Again. 

And from the excited chatter of the crowd outside, you gathered it was for good reason. The final night of the festival, the grand closing performance.

Of course the theater would be packed. You weren’t the only one turned away, but it didn’t ease the sting.

So, you gave a quiet nod and turned around, making your familiar walk of shame back down the steps, You tried not to dwell on it. Tried not to let your curiosity take over for what made the citizen of Sumeru so excited this past few days.

When you arrived at the tavern, the familiar warmth wrapped around you like a cloak. You greeted the bartender with a smile, nodding to a few patrons who raised their mugs and gave you cheerful waves. 

But tonight, you didn’t unpack your flute. You didn’t pull out your lyre or warm up your voice. Instead, you found a quiet spot near the back and sat down, content to watch someone else step into the light for once. You let the music wash over you, gentle and unfamiliar, your hands cradling a warm drink rather than an instrument.

Tonight, you weren’t the performer. Just a listener.

The soft clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, and the steady rhythm of the musician’s tune all blended into a comforting backdrop as you quietly enjoyed your meal. The warmth of the tavern, familiar and lived-in, wrapped around you like a blanket. It was one of those rare moments of stillness, you greatly enjoy.

And that calm was gently interrupted by a tap on your shoulder.

You turned slightly, looking up to see a young woman standing beside you. Her clothing marked her as a local, flowing fabric in the soft greens and golds typical of Sumeru’s style, adorned with delicate embroidery that hinted at both artistry and practicality.

She smiled politely, tilting her head. “Would you mind if I sit here?”

You offered a soft smile in return, gesturing to the empty seat across from you. “Not at all.”

She sat down with an air of quiet confidence, placing her hands neatly on the table. Though she said nothing at first, her eyes lingered on you with faint curiosity, as if she knew something she wasn’t quite ready to speak aloud. Still, her presence didn’t feel intrusive… only curious, patient, and maybe just a little familiar.

Not wanting to be swallowed by the awkward quiet that had begun to settle, you parted your lips to speak but the young woman beat you to it.

“So,” she asked softly, her eyes studying you with a calm, inquisitive gaze, “how are you finding our nation so far?”

You blinked at the sudden question, then leaned back slightly, humming thoughtfully. Her tone was casual, but her attention was sharp, like someone quietly observing more than just your words. Still, the question was harmless enough.

You gave her a polite smile, one that came naturally. “It’s been great, actually. This is my first time traveling to a foreign land… and so far, I’m really enjoying myself.”

She nodded, almost as if she expected your answer. “I’m glad,” she said simply, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Sumeru can be a strange place for newcomers—especially during a celebration like this. There’s a lot of... noise. But maybe you’ve brought some of your own.”

The comment hung in the air, light but loaded. She said it with a smile, but something in her tone made you wonder just how much she knew.

But you brush past the weight of her words. It would be rude to assume.

You let out a light chuckle, trying to keep the mood pleasant. “Oh! Indeed I have,” you said, a touch of playfulness in your voice. “I’ve been enjoying myself quite a bit, singing and playing for the tavern patrons.” 

You leaned back in your chair, a relaxed smile spreading across your face. “They’ve been rather generous with their coin lately. I must admit, it feels nice... to be appreciated.”

The woman returned your smile with a gentle one of her own, nodding quietly as she listened. “I’m glad,” she replied, her tone sincere. Then, after a short pause, her voice lowered slightly still soft, but now tinged with something more curious. “Though… there have been a few whispers. Rumors, if you will.”

That caught your attention, your expression tightening just slightly before you masked it with a light laugh. “Rumors?” you echoed, feigning amusement while subtly tensing beneath your calm exterior. “Pray tell, what kind of rumor?”

Your tone was playful, but you couldn’t help the flicker of nervousness behind your smile. 

The woman’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes gleamed with a quiet knowing as she leaned in just a little.

“They say there’s a traveler, a traveler that wears a mask” she began, almost conspiratorially, “who sings so beautifully, so soulfully, that their voice could rival their Grace’s.”

Your heart skipped—just once—but you kept your expression smooth.

There was that word again…

Your lips still curled in a half-smile.

“Oh?” you said lightly, laughing under your breath. “That’s quite the compliment. I’m not sure who started that one, but I assure you, I’m just a humble street performer with a cheap flute and a borrowed drum.”

She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her expression. “Maybe so,” she said, “but the rumors persist. The way people describe your music… it’s not just skill. They say it feels divine.”

You looked away for a moment, focusing on the worn wood of the table, the clink of glasses in the background, the sound of the other performer still strumming softly behind you. Anything but her eyes.

You cleared your throat and offered a lopsided grin. “Well, I suppose if the stories bring in more coin, I can’t complain, but—” You grinned wider, cupping your face with both hands in mock flattery. “Oh, you make me blush.”

She chuckled, but didn’t press further. Still, you felt her watching you, not with suspicion, but curiosity. Like she was trying to figure out a puzzle you didn’t even realize you were a part of.

The moment stretched a little too long, so you let your hands fall and leaned forward, fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “You’ve got a sharp look about you,” you said, your tone light but pointed. “Do you make a habit of analyzing wandering musicians?”

Her smile remained, but now it looked a little knowing. “Only the interesting ones,” she replied. “Especially those who don’t seem to realize the ripple they leave behind.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her words. Before you could ask what she meant, she stood, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves.

“It was nice speaking with you,” she said with a polite nod. “I hope I hear your music again soon, maybe at the Zubayr Theater next time.”

You watched her rise with that same unreadable grace, but you weren’t about to let her go without a little flair.

With a dramatic sigh, you slumped back in your seat and clutched your chest. “Leaving already? And here I thought we were building something special,” you said, voice laced with mock heartbreak.

She paused mid-step and turned her head just slightly, a soft chuckle escaping her. “You performers really are full of theatrics,” she said, amused.

You gave her a grin. “It’s part of the charm.”

From her pocket, she pulled a small paper-wrapped bundle and gently placed it on the table in front of you. “For your voice,” she said, “and maybe… a bit of sweetness for the road.”

You blinked at the candied Ajilenakh Nuts, taken aback by the small kindness.

Before you could thank her properly, she simply smiled and slipped back into the crowd with a wave, vanishing between laughter and clinking glasses.

You stared after her for a moment, then looked down at the treat in your hand. A quiet gift, laced with mystery just like everything else tonight.

You popped one into your mouth, chewing slowly as the soft music resumed in the background. Sweet… and warm.

What an odd encounter that was…

✧✧✧✧✧

Nahida stood beneath the soft canopy of Sumeru’s ancient trees, the sunlight threading gold through the leaves like blessings. She had sensed the approach before he arrived—his presence familiar, sharp as ever, but no longer as volatile.

She didn’t look up right away. “I didn’t expect you to visit today.”

“I didn’t come to chat,” came the curt voice of the Wanderer, his arms crossed, expression unreadable as ever.

Nahida turned her gaze to him with her usual calm, curious smile. “Then what brings you here?”

Wordlessly, he produced a folded letter and handed it to her. The paper was of fine quality, sealed with the delicate emblem of a small Inazuman.

She broke the seal and read it.

It was written in careful strokes. They spoke of a mysterious musician—a masked traveler—who had once performed in Inazuma. Their melodies were described as otherworldly, soothing, divine. Birds would gather when they played, the cherry blossoms bloomed brighter, and even the sea breeze softened when the flute began to sing.

“Their presence,” the letter said, “breathed life into the air as if the gods themselves had whispered into the soil. We had not known peace like that in decades.”

Nahida’s brows gently lifted. Her fingers traced the final sentence, which lingered in her mind like an echo:

“We still don’t know their name, only that they left quietly... and the wind hasn’t sounded the same since.”

She looked up at the Wanderer, who stared somewhere off to the side, feigning disinterest.

“Do you believe this is the same traveler?” she asked gently.

“I don’t believe anything,” he snapped, though softer than usual. “But I’ve heard the same music in Sumeru now. Same pull. Same… feeling.”

Nahida’s gaze grew distant again, thoughtful. “Then the pieces are falling into place.”

She folded the letter with care and stood. “Thank you for bringing this.”

The Wanderer huffed and turned away, but paused.

“If they really are what you think they are,” he said without facing her, “then what will you do to the being playing god?”

✧✧✧✧✧

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 3 ✦ Part 5 ✦

Taglist: @fantasyhopperhea @lilacoaks @angelasylum00 @khalhaimdad

[silverfox579]

that time i, a workaholic, became the divine creator of genshin impact

One uneventful day, you opened your eyes to find yourself lying on a white altar in the Grand Temple of Celestia, AKA Teyvat. You are a divine being, your supposed worshippers tell you, and the creator of all life on Teyvat. They then proceed to try and spoil you out of your goddamn mind, serving you, giving away national treasures, and even sending deities to your bed.

However, you, being a certified workaholic, take the managerial responsibilities of your new position seriously. Finally, after improving the Irminsul Tree's gardening conditions, installing new international travel regulations at the Abyss, and rewriting the Heavenly Principles Code of Conduct, you, Teyvat's beloved Divine Creator, finally remember to come back to your temple to take a nap---only to find a strange person lying on the sacred altar.

You: So it was actually a mishire… Got it.

After retiring as Teyvat's Divine Creator, you live a fairly simple life, working tirelessly to get the forgotten city of Khaenri'ah back on its feet. Unfortunately, due to some misunderstandings on your resume, you've become the pagan deity of the Abyss that even the royal family pays respects to. However, since your coworkers don't seem to care, you figure it's nothing all that serious.

One day, while diligently braising the Abyss's Dark Currents in your family's 100%-satisfaction-guaranteed homemade stain remover, you encounter your coworkers from your previous workplace. Seeing that there was no HR department in Celestia, you'd opted to see yourself out with a handwritten resignation letter upon discovering you'd been accidentally hired under the wrong identity. After all, it'd be awkward to try and explain the situation in person. That being said, since you've formally resigned, you figure you should at least make an attempt to maintain your old network.

Except when you actually see them:

The guy who you'd thought was the Creator's secretary gets on his knees to gently grasp your hands, "Esteemed wife, forgive me for not being able to accompany you sooner"--

The eccentric bodyguard you'd treated as a newly hired recent college graduate kisses you with crazed eyes and a bloodstained smile, "Don't worry, all of the bugs have been taken care of, darling"--

Even the playful "Uber driver" with plucky tastes in music came to circle his arms around your waist, voice humming in your ear, "You sure led us on a grand chase around the continent, wifey dear~ Now, are you ready to come home?"---

You: ??? Who are you talking to? It can't be me, right??

After some discussion, you manage to clear up the misunderstanding. It turns out the new employee was the real mishire, and someone outside the department had interfered to bring in fresh talent.

This was an unfortunate misunderstanding. However, given that your current work contact had yet to expire, you wanted to stay until the end of the year before submitting your two-week notice to your boss. The group of former coworkers, whose marriage paperwork you had apparently signed off on at the height of a four-day all-nighter and then forgotten about entirely the next day, reluctantly agreed to this, but seeing that there had been no marriage ceremony due to your hectic work schedule, insisted on consummating the marriage while you lived together in the Abyss.

Just when you start to fear that your long-repressed instincts will be reawakened, your current boss, and the man who'd hired you for the redevelopment project after examining your resume as Teyvat's former Creator, bursts into the room with a sword in hand---

"You're under arrest for identity theft, illegal immigration, and sexual harrassment of the Empress of Khaenri'ah---"

Turns out, it wasn't that they didn't care people thought you were a goddess, it was that your real identity had been elevated to the mortal equivalent a long time ago!

You: Forget it. Might as well get back to work.

Thus, begins the cold war between the divine and godless, as they battle for your time and affection...but mostly your time...

All of Teyvat, including the Abyss: Divine Creator, please stop working!

You: The 996 is a divine decree, it cannot be violated, stopped, or delayed. Please don't bother me before, during, or after work hours!

just a funny little jab at the imposter au. follows common themes of SAGAU that i've scene on tumblr, but i will clarify, for the nitpicks, that this IS technically SAGAU since i hc that the 'creator' is actually just a player randomly summoned by the archons to serve as a god.

this is not the archon's first time summoning a 'creator', though it IS the first time they've found a satisfactory one. the shmuck who got accidentally summoned after the protagonist is just the product of the automatic summoning ritual they forgot to turn off.

also just throwing this out there but one thing i always found super unrealistic about imposter AUs is that like...do you honestly believe freaking morax, god of war who sacrified however many friends and good, loyal followers to keep liyue afloat, would honestly tolerate serving a selfish and cruel 'creator'? or that barbatos, who witnessed mondsadt be built on the blood of his best friend, whose absence he literally has not stopped grieving to this day, would let anyone that dnagerous hover anywhere near his city?

so yes, they do regularly kill off 'creators' they aren't satisfied with. i imagine beginning chaps with switched-off POVs where there's murderous tension on the archon's side. and then comical relief bc there's nothing in our mc's head except the next task ahead, which then increases once the murder vibes r done bc now the 'servants' wanna bag her but she's completely hyperfocused on working LOL

[dishia]

nerium oleander

pairing: childe/reader

content: sub!childe, dom!reader, unhealthy dynamic!!!, childe is very obsessive and manipulative, mentions of stalking, threats of violence (not towards reader), reader is mean but childe is into it, begging, slapping, cockstepping, unprotected sex, hair pulling, degradation, possessiveness, slight angst, childe has a scent kink, marking/biting, praise kink, elements of petplay (reader calls childe “puppy” & treats him like a dog lol)

a/n: i do not condone the behavior in this fic! please don’t read it if any of the themes may be upsetting for you, and never let a cancer man manipulate you into fucking him 🙏

word count: 12.8k

The hush that fell over Morepesok late into the night was typically one of comfort, a gentle blanket enveloping the village and drifting its citizens off to sleep. Tonight, however, there was a distinct lack of that peaceful lull you’d grown used to on your walks home. No soft veil of darkness, no calming silence that was disturbed only by the familiar rhythm of the sea—rather, an oppressive sense of dread hanging in the air, like when ocean waves receded from the shore moments before bringing about a devastating tsunami.

A thick sheet of clouds covered the sky, blocking out any traces of moonlight and promising fresh snowfall. Nothing unusual for Snezhnaya, all it meant was a few more inches of white powder crunching beneath your boots if you didn’t make it home in time. You pulled your hood securely over your head and, sure enough, it wasn’t long before the first few snowflakes began floating down in a delicate dance, so fragile that it was easy to forget how unforgiving they could be.

As you approached the walkway to your cottage, the source of all your foreboding suddenly became abundantly clear to you in the form of a distant silhouette. The faint light emitting from the streetlamps revealed a figure standing motionless in front of your house’s entrance, one you recognized all too well.

A horrible chill gripped your body, completely unrelated to the frigid winter air swirling all around you. It turned your feet into cinderblocks and your blood to ice. Despite every instinct screaming for you to turn tail and run the opposite direction, your heavy footsteps trudged on, only because you knew that the slightest glimpse of fear you exhibited would immediately be snuffed out and used against you. So, you continued steadily forward, ignoring the way your heart rate picked up with every step you took until the pale light finally illuminated the form that had been waiting for you. That thick, fluffy coat—you could never decide if it made him look absolutely massive, or highlighted how lean he really was underneath—and that bright, ginger head of hair, standing out against his surroundings like blood splattered in the snow.

“Childe,” you muttered. “I told you to stop coming here.”

“I know,” he let out a breathy chuckle, puffs of air fanning out around him in a ghostly fog. His eyes lingered on you for a few seconds before they darted to the ground, feet shuffling from side to side. It was a sight that was probably meant to appear sheepish, but you knew better than that by now. 

If Childe had any shame, he wouldn’t have waited by your house again. He wouldn’t have come back to you time and time again in the countless months you’d been broken up. He wouldn’t have sent you so many gifts and letters that you’d come to dread the arrival of the mail. He wouldn’t have memorized your daily routine and used each day he was back in town to follow you everywhere you went. He wouldn’t have made the view of him on his knees for you so commonplace, breaking down crying with crocodile tears every time you sent him away again. At least, you liked to think of them as crocodile tears. The possibility that they may be real was too troubling to consider.

No, Childe didn’t feel any shame. He wanted you to make him feel it.

Another spell of that hollow silence passed between you two, interrupted only by the sound of your keys jingling as you crossed your arms, an indirect order for him to explain himself.

“I just really missed you,” he whispered at last. 

You should’ve come to expect it by now, but those words never failed to soften your heart just as much as they struck dread into it. Oddly enough, it wasn’t so much that you were afraid of him. You pitied him, and that was what frightened you the most. Knowing that you still had the capacity to care for this man no matter how many reasons he gave you not to.

You steeled yourself, hoping your expression hadn’t already betrayed you. “It hasn’t even been a week.”

“Two weeks and a day,” he frowned, visibly drooping over the implication that you didn’t count every waking second you were apart the same way he did.

“Yeah, well…” You eyed your front door longingly, praying you could wrap this up as quickly as possible and head inside the warm sanctuary of your house. “That’s nothing. We’ve been apart for far longer before.”

That was your first mistake of the night. Childe’s face brightened over the acknowledgement of a “we”—you and him, together again. A single unit, exactly how it should be in his mind. You realized your blunder a split-second after he did, panic rising in your chest when you caught the pure glee lighting up his features. Before you could backtrack, however, he used the opportunity to his full advantage.

“Exactly! Which is why we should make up for all that lost time, right?”

He tilted his head in a way that was so deceptively innocent, it only made you all the more determined to get away from him. Before you could fall for it again, before you could make a far greater mistake. Swallowing hard, you took a step towards the entrance of your house, and like clockwork, he matched you, taking a step backwards so that there was no path ahead for you but him.

“Who knows how long my next assignment will take,” he added wistfully. 

The snowflakes were falling faster now, forming a crown of crystalline flecks in his fiery hair. You resisted the reflex to reach up and brush them away, instead deciding to use the coming blizzard as leverage to get rid of him.

“Childe,” you gritted your teeth. “It’s cold. Go home.”

Whatever hint there was to be taken, he tossed it to the harsh, blowing wind without a second thought. Rather than moving out of your way like any normal human being would, he surged forward, engulfing your body with his. You stumbled backwards from the sheer force of his embrace, only managing to remain upright thanks to his arms wrapping around your torso like a protective belt. More like a cage, really.

“What are you—!”

“Warming you up,” he sang, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you could even think to react, he pushed past the shelter of your hood and buried his nose into the crook of your neck, brushing its reddening tip that you’d always found so painfully cute against your skin. He took in a deep, blissful breath, strong fingers clutching the back of your coat, eager to break past the barriers of fabric and get to you. 

Then, his muscles stiffened around your body, just noticeable enough to put you on edge.

“You smell different,” his voice grew eerily low. “Were you with someone else?”

You blamed the shiver that ran up your spine on the sensation of his breath tickling you.

“No, Childe.”

He nuzzled his nose further down your neck, completely shameless as he rubbed his face all over your scarf and burrowed underneath to reach more of your bare skin, taking in your scent over and over like a guard dog on a mission.

“Where were you?” He sounded more distressed now. “Why are you back so late?”

What, too busy to stalk me, today? You bit back what you really wanted to say. Somehow, refusing to address that incessant, ugly habit of his felt safer to you in that moment—because admitting to knowing about it would be the same as admitting to allowing it. Perhaps it was better to play dumb, let him think he was more subtle than he actually was.

Or maybe, subtlety had nothing to do with it. Maybe it made no difference to him whether you knew he was following you or not. He wouldn’t stop, either way.

“That doesn’t concern you,” you shut him down before he could start his usual spiel. Not wanting him to get used to the proximity, you rested your hand on the back of his head, grabbing a fistful of his sweet-scented ginger hair and giving it a harsh tug. He didn’t fight back, but a soft noise rumbled in his throat as you yanked him away. The effect it had on you was even worse than if he’d just resisted.

Childe’s eyes fluttered open as he came back into view. Even in the low light, you recognized the look starting to glaze them over, pupils dilating after just a small taste of physical contact with you that no doubt left him hungry for more. He took in another deep breath, making it no secret that he was lingering on the traces of your scent in his nostrils. 

“Why aren’t you wearing the perfume I got you?” He tilted his head again, and he was pouting. Reminiscent of a hurt child whose mother hadn’t hung his drawing up on the wall for everyone to admire. “The heart-shaped bottle from Ying’er’s shop in Liyue, I thought it was your favorite.”

You forced your eyes away from his puckered bottom lip. He must have caught the way you were staring, because the corner of his mouth twitched a bit, threatening to break into a smile.

“It is my favorite. That's why I save it for special occasions.” You saw no reason to deny that fact. “Anything else?”

He reached for your hand where it was fumbling with your keys in growing agitation, gloved fingers resting over yours. Despite the thick gear covering his hands, you could tell that he was still wearing the ring you’d gifted him over a year ago underneath—you knew the accessory by outline alone. A simple silver band with specks of ruby; his birthstone. The color of love and passion. The color of blood. Who knew where the gem ended and the bloodstains began.

“I miss it,” he murmured. “I miss your scent.”

There it was again, the earnest declaration that snaked its way around your heart and seized it in an iron grip, no matter how badly you wished you could remain indifferent to it.

“If you miss it so bad, you know where to buy the perfume,” you dismissed. Another impatient step towards your door, another step matched seamlessly by him. “Go home, Ajax. I have to be up early tomorrow.”

You’d thought that using his real name might help sway his obsessive mind and make him listen to you, just like it always used to. It was your trump card; soothing all his worries with your doting tone and putting his head into a happy haze, ready to follow any command you may give him. This time, though, it seemed to backfire. Childe’s entire face lit up over the first sign of affection from you, the closest his dead blue eyes ever got to reflecting light.

“I'll stay with you tonight!” he chirped. “I can help you fall asleep, so you’ll be well-rested for tomorrow.”

Only he could make such a harmless offer sound so inexplicably sinister. The worst part was, you knew he meant it, too. There was no underlying meaning to his words if you didn’t want there to be—if his sole use to you was helping you sleep, then he would gladly fulfill it.

And if you wanted to use him for anything else, well, he’d gladly fulfill that, too.

“I don't need help falling asleep.”

Another step forward. The lock to your front door was almost within reach.

“I can tell you a story or sing you some tunes, just the way you like.”

Against your better judgement, you paused. Memories flooded your mind of that sweet, charming voice that had first won you over all those years ago, the same voice he would sing his younger siblings lullabies with. It was uncharacteristically gentle and pure, so entrancing that you never stopped to think of the poison laced within it. An oleander voice. 

Childe sensed your hesitation immediately. A fox on the hunt, scanning the undergrowth for the faintest rustles to lunge at and sink his fangs into. He leaned in closer, his hopeful gaze studying you so intensely that you worried it may actually burn holes into your skin.

“Please?”

“No,” you said at last, cursing the strain in your voice. “You can’t. You need to go, Childe.”

Back to Childe. It was like a knife to his chest. His face darkened again, eyes narrowing with a predatory accuracy.

“Someone’s coming over, right?” he muttered. A barely concealed rage bubbled beneath the surface of his question, like the final moments before a dormant volcano erupted in the most violent of ways. “You’re seeing someone else behind my back, right? That’s why you’re trying to get rid of me.”

“I'm trying to get rid of you because you act like this,” you spat, giving his chest a shove. For all the force you put into it, he barely even stumbled. “No one's coming. And even if they were, it’s none of your fucking business. How many times do I have to tell you that we’re done?”

You’d half-expected him to look hurt— angry, even. To lash out at you for being so heartless, to give you another practiced pout that always made you forget why you felt the need to treat him so cruelly in the first place. But what he said next caught you off guard, taking your words and throwing them right back in your face. 

“Until you mean it.”

Childe lifted his hand slowly, curling his fingers around the collar of his thick jacket to tug it down and reveal something that made your heart drop. A bruised patch on his neck, originally deep red and lined with indents where your teeth had dug into his skin, now faded into a purple-yellow color. Even among the countless battle scars riddling his skin, the mark stood out. It had been over two weeks since you’d given it to him—you couldn’t believe it still hadn’t gone away. But for such a fearsome warrior, Childe’s body had always been oddly delicate, quick to bruise. Especially around his neck, especially in your hands.

Or, the bastard might’ve taken measures to make sure it didn’t fade, to keep your brand on him for as long as physically possible. You wouldn’t put it past him.

The unwelcome reminder of that night made you wince. Of course. Maybe you were just as much to blame for this endless cycle as he was—after all, even the most loyal of dogs would eventually learn to stop returning to the same place over and over if it hadn’t grown accustomed to getting some kind of reward, right? But when Childe had finally returned from Fontaine a few weeks ago after being gone for much longer than either of you had anticipated, battered and bruised like you’d never seen him before, you’d had a moment of weakness. Or perhaps, several moments of weakness. 

Rumors about what had happened to him in the foreign nation had reached your village; the unjust trial, his unexplained disappearance, his long, grueling battle with something horrifying and otherworldly that had left him so weakened he couldn’t make the journey home for months. You’d been worried sick about him, it was foolish to pretend otherwise. So when you found him on your doorstep again two weeks ago, still not fully healed, but smiling that sunbeam of a smile when he saw you, you’d let him fall back into your arms without much resistance. Back where he belonged, as he would put it.

You gave your head a violent shake, physically forcing the memories away. It had been a mistake. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Go home,” you commanded. “Now.”

“My home is here, with you.”

You forced out a scoff. “Give me a fucking break.”

It was obvious Childe knew just as well as you did that he was chipping away at your resolve, little by little. You had to put an end to this before it went any further, spiraled into something out of your control. Disregarding the crestfallen look on his face, you found the willpower to push past him at last and shove your key into the lock of your front door. 

“Can’t you see how much you’re hurting me?” 

His voice was far closer than you’d expected it to be, warm breath fanning over your ears and making goosebumps creep up on your skin. Struggling to focus, you threw out the first response that came to mind.

“You like it when I hurt you.”

“I do.”

You could hear his lips curving into a grin as he spoke. It made your stomach churn with disgust and desire, all at once.

“Goodnight, Childe.”

There was no room for debate in your tone, distant and resolute. Turning the handle of your door, you at last cracked it open, a fleeting sense of relief finding you as the welcoming warmth from inside began to seep out, beckoning you to safety. 

“I guess I’ll stay out here, then,” he said quietly. “To make sure no one disturbs your sleep.”

If that was his last-ditch attempt at gaining some kind of sympathy, then you were confident that you’d won this battle. Stepping into your house with newfound certainty, you didn’t even spare him a glance as you replied.

“Don’t bother. You’ll freeze to death in this snow.”

“Are you worried about me?” he giggled. “That makes me happy. But you should really be more worried about anyone who happens to pass by your house tonight.”

You froze.

“I don’t like hurting innocent people,” he continued on with a sigh. It was far too casual, as if he were discussing something as mundane as swatting a few pesky flies. “But who knows what kind of creeps might be lingering around here? If someone gets too close, I just might mistake them for the bastard who’s trying to steal you away from me.”

There was a soft crunching in the snow as he inched closer and closer to your rigid form until he was pressed fully against your back again, eclipsing you with his shadow. The comfort of your home was taunting you like a sick joke now, a mere step away from the nightmare unfolding behind you. It all clicked in your head. Even if the person Childe had it out for didn’t truly exist, he would make them exist. He would hold the whole world hostage if he had to.

“I really hope you won’t let it get to that,” he finished with a whisper. Low, barely there, but full of promise. 

Your throat went dry, anything you’d planned to say shriveling up along with it. Given how uncomfortably close he was, you were certain he could feel the tension in your body. You wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear your heartbeat, pounding wildly against your ribcage like that of a cornered prey animal.

Whether it was an empty threat or not, you didn’t want to risk finding out. Every day, Childe challenged what you thought you knew about him, the limits you’d set in your mind for what he was capable of. He loved nothing more than to test himself, after all, and blurring the lines of his morality was no exception to that. The only predictable thing about him was his unpredictability.

He’d already given you glimpses of how far he was willing to go. His returns to Morepesok started becoming apparent to you not when Tonia would send you excited letters in the mail or when he showed up unannounced at your front door, but when the people you had grown close to in his absence inexplicably started to keep a distance from you. You didn’t know what he’d done to them—you weren’t sure if you wanted to know—but the very fact that they were still alive once he was finished with them sent a message in itself. 

“Look what I can get away with when they lived to tell the tale. Imagine how easily I could get away with killing them.”

“Ajax,” your voice cracked on a single syllable, as did the composure that you’d worked so tirelessly to maintain up until now. Any delusions you’d had about being free of him just moments before seemed so laughable, in retrospect. It had been a losing game from the start, it always was.

He rested his chin on your shoulder with a carefree hum. “It is really cold out, huh?” he noted, hand reaching out to rest over yours on the door handle. “Do you think I could come in with you, instead?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was an offer of mercy.

You nodded.

That was all it took for him to slip past you in a flash, swinging your door wide open and stepping aside to hold it for you. He watched eagerly as you brushed past him and entered the cottage, like a puppy awaiting some kind of approval for remembering his manners so well. You found yourself thinking that if he had a tail, it would surely be wagging by now.

The door shut with a heavy thud, at last freeing you from the unforgiving snowstorm that was swirling to life outside. But you were far more concerned with the storm brewing between you and the man you’d just allowed into your home. He mirrored your actions as you removed your heavy boots and shrugged off your thick winter gear. Rather than hanging his coat on a different hook, he draped it completely on top of yours, no doubt to make sure you smelled nothing but him the next time you wore it. It was so ridiculous, such an undeniably him thing to do, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. He met your annoyance with a self-satisfied grin, almost cheeky enough to remind you of simpler times. A time when you were blissfully unaware of what that smile was capable of. 

The coziness of your home eased your nerves a bit, at least, allowing you to feel more in control as you watched him wander down the hall, head turning curiously from side to side to take in every last detail of his surroundings. It earned a bitter laugh from you. As if he didn’t have every nook and cranny of your house memorized in that sick mind of his. As if he didn’t break in regularly when you were gone to see if anything had changed in his absence. If you’d purchased any new clothes or perfumes, developed a taste for any new dishes he should learn how to cook, or, most importantly, if any evidence of another person being there had been left behind.

The floorboards creaked under your feet as you followed Childe to your room, where you found him fiddling around with the items on your dresser. He inspected each one with a childlike fascination, toying with various trinkets and souvenirs and opening up the caps of your creams and lotions to smell them.

“You never change,” he remarked dreamily, placing a bottle of Inazuman, sakura-scented lotion back where he’d found it with a care he only reserved for you. For such a simple comment, it was full of overflowing adoration that you’d never been able to pinpoint the source of. You wanted to dispute it—to insist that you were no longer the same person you’d been when you and Childe were lovers—but you supposed the fact that he was back in your bedroom was proof enough that he was right.

He must’ve removed his gloves at some point, because his hands were now bare, your ring shining on display as he ran his fingers carefully along every bottle and piece of jewelry decorating your dresser, many of which were gifts from him that you hadn’t been able to discard. A detail that you were certain he took great pride in. The snow in his hair had begun to melt, dripping off his bangs and splattering onto the wooden floor in a rhythm that was partially soothing, and partially akin to a ticking time bomb.

Without thinking much of it, you opened one of your dresser drawers to pull out a hand towel, reaching up to press it against the droplets forming on his hair. His breath hitched as you dabbed at the wet locks, eyes darting to fixate on you, to make sure that you were actually touching him on your own accord and it wasn’t just his imagination.

You regretted the gesture the instant his widened gaze met yours. It was full of an intense, twisted sort of joy, an emotion you’d never once considered could be dangerous before him. What was far more troubling, however, was the very obvious craving that lurked beneath it. Itching for more, he always wanted more.

“You were getting my floor wet,” you tried to explain, yanking your hand away just as you would when veering too close to an open flame. But he grabbed your wrist before you could, not breaking his stare for even a second as he guided you back to his head, tossing the towel aside and nuzzling shamelessly against your palm.

It was frightening, how right it felt to have your fingers tangled in his hair again, brushing through the charmingly messy strands and watching his eyelashes flutter shut in contentment. You fell back into your roles with such ease every single time, a domestic facade beautiful enough to trick you into forgetting about what festered underneath.

Your gentle scratches to his scalp came to a sudden halt when he turned his cheek without warning to press his lips into your palm. The peck was soon followed by another, then another, until he was leaving hungry kisses all over your fingers and down your wrist. Each one sent a jolt through your senses, hauntingly familiar.

“Childe,” you warned.

“You’re so warm.” His thumb pressed against your wrist’s pulse as he mumbled between kisses. “Missed you so much.”

“You have no right to miss me anymore.”

His lips stopped for a moment, body tensing against yours. You tried not to let it get to you, even if the thought of who might suffer the consequences if you angered him made a wave of nausea rise within you.

“Don’t you get it?” he chuckled, but there was a hurt crack to it. “I’m yours. I'm always gonna be yours, no matter what you do.”

“I don’t want you to be mine,” you said coldly.

“You don’t have to want me.” He rested his head against your chest with a happy sigh, burrowing into your softness and tracing patterns into your back with restless fingers. “I still belong to you. Throw me out like a used toy and I'll still be yours to play with. Give me to someone else and I'll still have your name engraved on me.”

“Ajax.”

You cut him off before he could rile himself up with his own delusions any further—or perhaps, before he could pull you into them with him.

Hearing his name uttered so harshly on your tongue was enough to snap him out of it, at least momentarily. The look he gave you would put a kicked puppy to shame, and you could only hope that the unnatural gleam you spotted in his eyes wasn’t the beginnings of tears forming. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to handle it otherwise, not when he was such a convincing crier. A pretty one, too.

“They’ll be dispatching me to Nod-Krai soon.”

Your heart dropped. This time, it was impossible to hide your reaction from him. Confusion, relief, dread—they all burst to life at once, a battle of emotions that you were certain Childe sensed in you with ease. You, on the other hand, couldn’t read his expression. It was good-natured as ever, completely detached from the situation at hand.

“Nod-Krai?” It came out incredulous. You wished you could just write it off as another one of his attempts to get in your head, but it was such a bizarre thing to lie about that you knew it had to be true. “Already? But you just…” you trailed off, mind racing a mile a minute with the implications of the news. Childe had just barely recovered from his extensive injuries in Fontaine, and Nod-Krai was far more unpredictable a place to roam, even for a Fatui Harbinger. Especially for Tartaglia, given his unquenchable thirst for throwing himself into harm’s way at any given opportunity. It was a lawless land, crawling with factions of varying loyalties, unbound by the same conventions as the rest of Sneznhya—or any nation in Teyvat, for that matter.

Childe hummed, and you knew just as well as he did that you’d taken the bait he’d set out for you. Even so, you didn’t care about keeping up the act anymore. His revelation should’ve come as a blessing to you, it should’ve lifted the weight of his suffocating love off of your shoulders and made you feel light again for the first time in months. But you didn’t. All you felt was guilt.

Guilt for treating him this way when all he wanted was your love. Guilt for rejecting every letter, every gift, every desperate attempt to gain just a crumb of your attention, when you knew that any one of them could be his last.

“I’ll be gone in a week, maybe less.” He moved closer to you as he continued, very deliberate in his phrasing, you noticed. Not “leaving”, but “gone”. There was an unspoken air of permanence to it, like he may never return. 

You weren’t sure when he’d managed to grab it without you realizing, but that coveted heart-shaped perfume bottle was now resting in his hand. “Dunno how long this project will take, either. It’s a really big deal, apparently.”

You said nothing.

“So, I just…really needed to see you, y’know? Really need to be with you, right now,” he admitted with a feather-light whisper. “Will you let me?”

His finger rested on the bottle’s nozzle without pressing down on it quite yet, silently asking you for permission to spray the perfume. You just nodded, squeezing your eyes shut as a faint mist wafted over your skin, fragrant and nostalgic. A scent you would never be able to detach from him. Maybe that was why you still called it your favorite.

Childe was back on you in an instant, wrapping his arms around you in a bone-crushing hug and burying his face right back in the crook of your neck like it belonged there, like he wanted to get lost in you and never find his way out. You indulged him, petting the back of his head in an all too familiar motion as he took in a deep, unstable breath, whimpering softly in the back of his throat as the perfume flooded his senses. When he exhaled, it came out shaky, his whole body shuddering along with it and making you realize for the first time that the firmness you felt pressing against your thighs wasn’t just his Vision casing.

It made your insides coil—with dismay, and with something far more shameful. Hot and uncontrollable lust, pooling in your abdomen at an alarming rate. But you were past the point of lying to yourself, of pretending that you hadn’t anticipated this exact outcome from the moment you saw Childe’s silhouette awaiting you in the darkness. As soon as he’d stepped inside your home, you’d made your choice.

This time, when his lips found your neck, you didn’t stop him. His panting was like that of a starved dog, frantically trying to absorb your scent and leave uncoordinated, open-mouthed kisses all over your skin at the same time. His fingers dug deeper into your clothes, pulling you closer to him in fear that you might disappear from his grasp if he didn’t. You shifted your leg so that it pressed directly against the growing ache in his pants, drawing out a whine from him that activated an old urge within you—to make him fall apart.

“You smell so good,” he managed to gasp out between fervent kisses. They grew sloppier and sloppier with every new patch of skin his lips devoured, leaving hot, wet rings of saliva all over your neck that were as dizzying as they were sobering. Kisses that were so distinctly Ajax. 

If all his nipping and licking wasn’t enough to thoroughly remind you that it was him, his nonstop chattering certainly was. “So good, so, s-so good. Need you. Need you so bad.”

You gave his hair a harsh tug as he wandered down the column of your throat to nip at your collarbones, already completely drunk on you. “Is this all it takes to get you worked up?” You dug your knee harshly into his bulge. “You’re pathetic, Ajax.”

As if to prove your point, he let out a sweet moan of relief, mouth falling open against your skin and spilling out a dribble of drool.

“Slobbering all over me like a fucking dog,” you muttered. Using your grip on his hair, you yanked his head back. Though being forced away from your neck earned a tiny mewl of protest from him, he still complied without much resistance, giving you a lopsided grin when you came face to face with him again. You studied him for a moment, running your hand down his burning face and resting it on his flushed cheek, already smeared with his own saliva. Just a few seconds of not having his lips on you, and he started to grow restless again. He leaned forward on impulse, expecting you to kiss him, only for him to yelp in surprise as you shoved his head down and sent him to his knees.

“Act like a mutt, and I’ll treat you like one.”

Childe eyes gleamed. The only time they ever had any life to them was when he was gazing up at you. He gave you an obedient nod, far too eager as he tucked his legs underneath himself, waiting for your next move.

“Gonna collar me?” he asked sweetly, cocking his head to bare his throat. You weren’t sure if it was his intention, but it served as yet another reminder of the fading lovebite you’d left on his skin. 

“Dogs don’t talk.”

He went quiet, a luxury you were certain would last no more than a minute or two.

You could see his hard-on clearly from this angle, the outline of his length was painfully obvious even through the thick material of his pants, visibly twitching with anticipation. Childe swiped tongue over his lips, already beginning to shift a bit in his spot. It was adorable, really, how hopeless he was when it came to staying still. There was nothing in this world that he wouldn’t do for you—he’d made that abundantly clear a long time ago—but his overzealous nature couldn’t be contained no matter how hard he tried.

His soft, impatient whine morphed into a gasp when you brought your foot down to his crotch without warning, pressing your sole against the bulging heat. Childe’s hips bucked up instantly, only to be forced back down with a warning shove from you.

“What’s got you this hard, baby?” you taunted, trailing along the shape of his length. “Thought I’d let you fuck me, just like that?”

The way he throbbed under your foot was answer enough. You could tell it was taking every ounce of his strength not to rut up into your touch again, just to prove to you that he could be disciplined, that even a trigger-happy mad dog who acted on his most depraved wants would still do his very best for you. 

“Please—mmph—I’ll be good,” he promised, voice trembling with effort. “I’ll be so good for you. Your good boy.”

“My good boy?” you echoed. They were the words Childe always yearned to hear the most from you, never failing to send him into a frenzy when they left your lips. But hearing them spat back at him with such disdain made his heart ache just as badly as his cock. “Does a good boy follow me around without permission?” You dug your heel mercilessly into his erection, making him double over with a pitiful choking sound. “Does a good boy break into my house? Take my things? Jerk off to my clothes and leave his filthy stains all over them?”

Childe’s expression didn’t disappoint. Eyes going wide in a rare display of shock, mouth hanging open uselessly—though, whether it was his surprise that had rendered him speechless, or a fresh wave of lust, you couldn’t decide.

“You’re not a good boy,” you sneered. “You’re just a whore.”

He keened, a low, primal sort of sound that made your core clench. His unsteady hands wrapped around your ankle, urging you to shift more of your weight onto his dick until you were fully stepping on it. You could hear how labored his breathing had become, see the rapid rise and fall of his broad chest as he struggled to speak.

“No, n-no,” he protested, nails digging into your leg, begging you to understand him. “I only do it to protect you. Need to keep you safe from all those rotten bastards who want you for themselves. Need to remind them that you’re mine.”

The irony of it all was almost enough to make you burst into a fit of laughter. As if there was anyone in this world you needed to be protected from other than the very man at your feet. You tilted his chin up with one finger, locking your eyes with his wild ones. Then, you drew your hand back and slapped him across the face. The sheer force of it must’ve caught him off guard, because it actually managed to swing his head to the side, sprawling his bangs over his eyes and giving you a clear view of the mark already reddening on his cheek.

“You think that justifies any of it?” you snapped. “You think you get to act like a mutt in heat in the name of protecting me?”

Recovering from the sting of your slap, Childe turned his head back to face you, jaw flexing under your fingers. As he came back into view, something twisted in your gut as you realized that he was smiling. Not only that, his length was practically ready to burst under your foot, pulsing with waves of heat that still managed to seep through despite all his layers of clothing.

“Sorry,” he breathed, thick with lust. “‘M really, really sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you, I swear.”

He rubbed his aching cheek into your palm with a dreamy sigh, as if you hadn’t just struck him with that very hand.

“I’m so sorry. Won’t happen again, I promise. S-so please, take it easy on me, yeah?”

His tone sounded anything but apologetic, in fact, it couldn’t be more obvious that he was delighted with the situation he’d landed himself in. Coupled with the wide, insufferable smirk that had yet to leave his face, you pieced together exactly what he was trying to goad you into doing.

You grabbed hold of his jaw, digging your fingers into his flesh with little care for the whimper that slipped out of him.

“Liar.”

Childe didn’t falter. He batted his eyelashes innocently up at you, then opened his mouth wide to sink his canine teeth into the flesh between your thumb and index finger. His bite lasted for no more than a second, not strong enough to truly hurt you, but enough to make a sharp hiss rise in your throat. You freed your hand from his mouth and swung it back again instantly, coming down on his other cheek twice as hard as before. A loud, smacking sound echoed off your bedroom walls, only rivaled in volume by his sinful groan that followed.

He’d anticipated the second impact, but what neither of you had expected was the way his whole body convulsed as the rush of pain shot through his nerves. At first, when you caught his shoulders shaking, you thought the brat might actually be laughing. Then, with a weak gasp of your name, his hands flew to your foot in a panic, trying to lessen the friction and angle his hips away from your touch.

“A-ah, no, wait,” he grunted suddenly. “Too much, ‘s too much! Gonna—!”

Childe threw his head back with a broken moan, nails sinking into your ankle fiercely enough to leave behind crescent-shaped indents. The tinge of worry you’d felt for going too far soon morphed into understanding when you felt a fresh surge of warmth spreading underneath your foot, thick and moist. Just to be certain, you pressed down on his spasming cock a little harder, pleased to see the overstimulation make him writhe helplessly on the ground.

He panted as his unexpected climax started to ebb, leaving his head ducked low and his face burning with shame—a deliciously unfamiliar emotion, one that only you could ignite in him. Fighting back a smile, you tilted his chin up once more, but he couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye. His cheeks weren’t just flushed from the force of your slaps, anymore. The Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers was on his knees for you, blushing like a flustered virgin after making a mess in his underwear.

“Poor thing,” you cooed, rolling your heel over his soiled, twitching crotch and eliciting a small mewl from him. “Couldn’t control yourself, hm?”

He nodded miserably, hands sliding up from your ankle to grasp on to your thighs. “I’m sorry,” he hiccuped, and you knew that this time, he truly meant it. “S-so sorry, I tried to hold it in. Just felt…felt so good. I was just so happy you were touching me again.”

“Shh. It’s okay, baby.” You ran your fingers through his hair in faux sympathy. As you brushed his tousled bangs out of his eyes, he finally found it in him to look up at you again. The tenderness of your touch was almost enough to fool him, until it was sharply contrasted by the scorn laced in your words that followed, “I don’t expect much from a dumb little puppy who can only think with his dick.”

He whined in protest. His hands pawed at your thighs in a frenzy, squeezing your flesh and clinging to you with very real distress that you may actually toss him out into the snow for being so pathetic. Childe hated finishing without your permission—or, rather, he hated missing out on the addictive praises you’d shower him with when he was able to hold himself back for you. But what he hated most of all was cumming anywhere that wasn’t inside of you.

“Please, please,” he begged, leaning in to bury his face in your thigh. You raised an eyebrow at him, grabbing a fistful of his hair to pull him away, only for the boy to latch on to you twice as hard. Anything you planned to say was promptly cut short when you suddenly felt his lips puckering against the inside of your thigh, pressing hot kisses to it as a meek apology. “Please,” he repeated, voice rising in pitch with each one. “Lemme make you feel good. I’m sorry, ‘m a good boy, y-your good boy.”

His kisses grew more erratic as he ventured higher and higher up until he came dangerously close to your heat. Your stomach flipped as it became clear what he wanted, fingers grasping at his scalp in a silent order for him to stop. Childe sucked in a deep breath through his nose, tongue darting out to swipe over his bottom lip as he took in your scent with absolutely zero qualms about letting you see how much he was enjoying it. You cursed the way it made fresh wetness seep into your underwear, praying that your arousal wasn’t obvious enough for him to smell.

“Why? Why won’t you let me?” He pressed his nose back into the spot where your thighs met, trying to calm himself with shaky inhales of your essence. “Don’t…don’t get rid of me. You know I can make you feel so good. Please, let me show you.”

It was true, his mouth was good for so much more than just pissing you off to no end. You shushed his rambling with a firm nudge to his torso, easing him backwards with your foot so that he was forced to let go of you and balance himself with his hands. It left him sprawled out on the floor below you, arms and legs spread wide with the embarrassing wet patch in his pants clear as day.

“Easy, baby. I’m not done with you just yet,” you assured him, ghosting your touch over his cock that, despite his orgasm, still hadn't gone fully soft. Childe swallowed audibly, but his panic at least seemed to ebb at the possibility of a second chance to satisfy you.

It was still impossible for you to wrap your head around. Someone of Tartaglia’s sheer physical strength and international influence, someone who not only had the ability to get whatever he wanted in this world, but the ambition to go after it. All that power bursting at his fingertips, and the only thing he wanted was to be under your control. 

You would never understand how the maze of his mind worked, but it would be a lie to say that it didn’t give you an adrenaline rush like no other.

“Undress,” you directed. With a final flick to the leather strap wrapped around his thigh, you turned and left him there, padding towards your bed and settling on the mattress. Childe didn’t take his eyes off of you the entire time he stripped, his movements uncoordinated and urgent as he fumbled with his belt. An enthusiastic puppy barely managing to follow his master’s orders when his favorite treat was dangling just within reach.

You beckoned him towards you with your finger, and he scrambled over in an instant, legs wobbly from kneeling in the same position on your wooden floor for so long. The mattress dipped as he sat next to you—almost completely on top of you. If he could have it his way, you were certain he would’ve meshed his body with yours and never let go. Your eyes scoured over his bare form, illuminated by the low light; it was impossible not to. Every time you saw him again, his shoulders seemed to have gotten a little broader, his muscles flexed with newfound strength, plenty of fresh scars and bruises decorating his skin like badges of honor. New additions to his wounds never escaped your notice, not when you were more intimately familiar with the map of his body than even Childe himself. 

Old habits taking over, you reached out your hand, tentatively brushing along the recently gained injuries littering his skin. A long, rippling one across his toned stomach, several punctures on his chest that almost resembled the sharp teeth of some animal, a thick bump of healing flesh on his shoulder from a particularly deep wound. You traced over all of them with the same care you did when he was still the man you loved. 

Maybe he was right, you never changed.

Childe’s eyes were half-lidded with contentment, never more at peace than when he was under your undivided attention like this. Tender fingers touching him like he was the most precious treasure in the world, keen eyes observing every last detail of his body to lock safely away in your brain. It was his own personal heaven. Your gaze gradually wandered further down, taking in his built chest, the lean muscles of his abdomen, the trail of soft, red hairs forming under his belly button, and finally, his length resting against his thigh. Just as you’d suspected, it was still half-hard, already beginning to twitch under your attentive stare as more and more blood rushed south, reddining its tip. Evidence of his earlier release was still splattered all over his dick and thighs, slick and glistening from his own mess.

With a start, you realized you’d been staring for far too long. You snapped your eyes back up in a flash before he could get the wrong idea, only for embarrassment to wash over you when you saw the sick elation written all over his face.

“You can stare all you want, y’know,” he giggled. “It’s yours.”

You hardened your expression again, leaning back against the headboard of your bed with what you hoped was an air of indifference. Even if his words set every one of your nerve endings ablaze, that was something best kept a secret. He was already manic enough as is.

“Let’s see if it’s worth calling mine.”

Spreading your legs, you took your sweet time removing your layers of clothing, acutely aware of his ravenous eyes fixated on your every move. As you unclasped your bra, his gaze dropped to your breasts with a speed that had your lips twitching in amusement. He was so transparent in moments like these, nothing cunning about him. His hands twitched at his sides, mouth watering with desire, but even so, he remained put, fighting the urge to lunge forward and bury himself in your chest with all his might.

Your fingers paused under the waistband of your underwear, an idea coming to mind.

“Wanna touch, puppy? Take them off for me.”

Childe’s breath hitched. The order had barely left your lips before erratic fingers were tugging at the garment, as careful as he could manage when in a state like this. You could feel the effort it took him to restrain himself, animalistic need bubbling under the surface of his skin as he slid your underwear off, eyeing the soaked fabric longingly for several heartbeats before swallowing hard and placing it to the side.

The look he gave you, earnestly awaiting your praise for not pressing his nose into the underwear like he’d so obviously wanted to, almost broke your facade. But you couldn’t give it to him yet. It was your private way of punishing him, however futile it might seem in comparison to the unstoppable tidal wave of his obsession. Withholding the approval that he depended on so heavily in the hopes that one day, you might be able to wean him off of it entirely. 

Instead, you simply motioned for him to settle in the space between your thighs, ignoring his disappointed sulking. His dick rested against your folds, heavy and sticky with his own seed.

“F-fuck.” His hips jolted forward involuntarily, drawn to your dripping heat with all the natural force of a magnet. “Please, can I put it in? Please?”

He sounded like he may actually break into tears if you denied him any longer. It sparked something within you that was always lying dormant, no matter how tirelessly you’d tried to force it down until it was buried away for good. The need to comfort him, to satiate him just enough so that he wouldn’t spin completely out of your control—or at least, the illusion of control. You reached up to brush his bangs back, relishing in the brief sense of normalcy it brought you when he rested his cheek in the cradle of your palm.

“Come on in, baby.”

Childe fumbled with his cock for a moment, a tiny, frustrated sound forming in his throat before he was able to line its tip up with your entrance. He pushed past the slippery folds bit by bit at first, then, instinct getting the best of him, sank into you all at once with a powerful snap of his hips. You tightened around him instantly, adjusting to that familiar stretch that your body would recognize as his every single time without fail. His length had always fit inside of you so well, like two pieces of a puzzle, as he so gleefully loved to remind you when he was gushing lovesick nonsense into your ear.

The moan that slipped out of him as he bottomed out was pure sin. Drawn-out and broken and turning up in pitch at the end, almost like he was in pain. For a moment, you thought he might have actually cum again, just from the sensation of your warmth enveloping him. But his cock was still rock hard as it twitched inside of you. In fact, you could feel it growing bigger the more your walls squeezed around him, taking on every inch of his shape, pressing against every ridge and vein.

“I’m s-still,” he gasped, body slumping forward. “Still sensitive.”

You cupped your palm against the blazing hot skin of his face, tender to the touch where you’d slapped him. You rubbed his cheek delicately for a moment before trailing down to his neck. His pulse raced with adrenaline under your fingers as you wrapped them around his throat, pressing down on its sides to grab his attention.

“You wanted to make me feel good, right?” you frowned. “Now’s your chance. Fuck me like a good boy.”

Childe’s eyes clouded over, the words fogging up his mind like he’d fallen into a trance. You could feel the vibrations of his moan rumbling against your palm as he gave you a shaky, obedient nod, sinking his teeth into his lower lip and forcing himself to pull out despite his hypersensitivity. You tried not to think too hard about how your walls ached at the loss, immediately longing to feel him filling you up again. And like a good boy, he did exactly that.

Slowly, he eased back into you, inch after inch until his cock was almost entirely sheathed in your pillowy heat. You both sighed in unison, an undeniable sense of relief overtaking you that you were sure to reprimand yourself for later. He took a few extra seconds to bask in your wet warmth before pulling back out again, his trembling breaths puffing out against your face as he began to properly rock his hips. Each burst of pleasure he felt was accompanied by a tinge of overstimulation that made his brain go haywire, and after just a few agonizing thrusts, he was reduced to a wreck above you.

“So—fuck!” he choked out, barely able to string a sentence together when your walls sucked his cock back in so seamlessly every time, taking any coherent thoughts along with it. “So good, f-feels so fucking good. I missed you. Missed being inside you s-so much.” His forehead fell against yours, the pace of his strokes gradually picking up until he found a steady flow. You dragged your nails down his throat, encouraging him to keep going in the language he understood best.

“You…ah…feel so perfect around me,” he whimpered, lips brushing against yours, so rife with desperation that you could taste it dripping off of them. “So warm and soft. So…so wet.” He interrupted his rhythm suddenly to pull all the way out of your pussy before slamming himself back inside in one fluid motion. It created an especially obscene smacking sound, emphasizing his words and making his stomach twist with gratification.

The swollen head of his dick dragged against your sweet spot as he did, earning a soft moan from you that you couldn’t suppress. Childe throbbed inside of you, visibly ecstatic over the smallest indication that he was pleasing you right. Eager to draw more sounds out of you, he repeated the action, taking on an uncharacteristically careful pace that had your composure slipping further and further each time he filled you to the brim. 

“O-only I can make you this wet, right?” To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like he was simply stroking his own ego, but you knew better than that. He was genuinely asking, he needed to hear it from you like the oxygen he needed to breathe. “Only I get to—hah—feel you around me like this, fill you up like this. Make you feel g-good. Only me, right?”

You could’ve blamed it on the pleasure muddling your mind and allowing your heart to take over, but that was far more damning an admission of how you truly felt about the mess of a man sinking himself so deep inside you that you’d think he wanted to meld his body to yours. Swallowing down another moan, your hands found the back of his head again and tangled in his damp, fluffy hair.

“You think anyone else is filthy enough to do what you do?” you answered with a breathless question of your own. It wasn’t exactly the doting response he’d hoped for, but it was more than enough to placate him for now. His lips crashed into yours, tiny huffs rising in his throat and spilling into your mouth as he returned to his breakneck speed from earlier. The sudden whiplash in pace might have caught you by surprise if you hadn’t known Childe so well. Slow and steady never lasted long with him. 

His kisses were a whirlwind of teeth nipping at your lips and drool coating your tongue, every bit as intense as his thrusts, like he was trying to suck all the air out of your lungs and selfishly keep that for himself, too. Just like every other part of you.

Even if you didn’t say it, he was right—no one else could make you feel the things you experienced with him. No one else could ever replicate his essence; animalistic, but not purely in a chase for mindless pleasure, he was far too passionate for that. It was a chase for you, a perfect balance of primal and emotional craving that only you could provide him.

Your head was spinning by the time you forced him to break the kiss, drunk on all the moans he’d emptied into your mouth that still managed to be so loud despite your lips muffling them. Childe didn’t miss a beat before diving back into you, pressing sloppy kisses to the corner of your mouth, licking a messy stripe down your jaw, and latching on to your neck. The sensation of his canines pricking your skin made your body jolt in a different kind of way—bringing you back to your senses.

“No,” you warned him. “No biting. Bad boy.”

His hips stuttered, a wrench thrown into his frantic pattern of thrusts as he was denied by you yet again. It was cruel, really, for you to expect him to anchor himself long enough to form a response. He was so far gone, already, only able to peer up at you with wide, pitiful eyes.

“H-huh? But…please,” he resorted to begging right away. “Please, please, please. ‘S not fair. Everything’s faded, there’s no—ngh—!” He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his hips to a stop long enough to gather his words. “All my marks are gone. P-please, need to make new ones. Need everyone to know you’re mine.”

His teeth dragged helplessly over your flesh, threatening to sink right back in at any moment. Your mind raced. Marks were far more tangible than an unwanted memory that you could banish to the depths of your conscience. Marks left evidence of your mistakes, taunting you with your own body each time you caught sight of your reflection. The marks you’d left on Childe were exactly what had landed you in this situation in the first place.

“No, puppy. Do I need to muzzle you?” 

He whined low in his throat, already beginning to grind into you again, pressing his cock against the ridges of your walls in a way that was so dizzying it made rational thought an impossible feat.

“If I don’t…” he panted. “Someone might t-try something with you and I’ll just have to kill them instead. You don’t want that, right? Right?” 

His words made you stiffen all over again, an ice-cold, brutal dose of reality crashing back over you like a crack had formed in your walls and allowed some of the raging blizzard outside to seep through. In your alarm, you squeezed around his dick even tighter than before, making him collapse into you with an angelic sigh that was so wildly detached from what he’d just said, it was almost comical.

“Or…do you?” he mused, drawing playful patterns against your skin with his lips. “Want me to—ah—prove myself to you, yeah? I’ll do it, y’know. I’ll do anything for you.”

You said nothing, simply tilting your jaw back and pushing his head into the crook of your neck to grant him permission. With a grateful hum, Childe parted his lips, latching on to the patch of skin right below your jaw and suckling like his life depended on it. There was no doubt in your mind that he’d deliberately chosen a spot high up so it’d be difficult for you to cover with your clothing. He gradually began rocking his hips into you once more, picking up the delicious buildup of pressure in your stomach exactly where it left off. 

It made you feel a tinge of disgust with yourself—wanting nothing more to be free of this man one second, then shamelessly using his battered body for your indulgence the next. But just like everything else surrounding Tartaglia, there was no single, clear answer to your feelings towards him, there was nothing black and white about it.

You didn’t have time to brood over it for long, as the slew of sensations overtaking your body quickly consumed your thoughts again. The combination of his teeth devouring your neck and his length pumping a delicious friction inside of you was nothing short of addictive. It drew all your focus back to him at once, like he’d sensed that your attention had slipped off of him for a minute and greedily tried to snatch it back.

Not satisfied with just one lovebite, he quickly moved on to the base of your throat to create another. More, more, more, he always wanted more. His canines sank into your skin deep enough to make your back arch, rolling his cockhead against the roof of your walls and dribbling a pool of saliva onto your neck as his mouth fell open in a groan. Every sharp prick of his teeth was accompanied by a soothing lick over the damaged area afterwards, as if to apologize for being unable to control himself. 

“Crazy, crazy, crazy,” he babbled against your shoulder. “You make me s-so fucking crazy.”

“I don’t make you anything.” It was hard to sound as stern as you wanted to when your voice was so full of lust. “You’re like this all by yourself. A dumb puppy that only knows how to fuck.”

A high-pitched whine met your ears at that, hands grasping your hips to pull you impossibly closer to him, plunging his length into the deepest parts of you. Your whole body jolted with pleasure, thighs wrapping around him and ankles locking behind his waist to trap him close to you. Childe finally pulled away from the crook of your neck, utterly lovestruck as he studied the array of marks he’d left all over your neck and shoulders.

“Did that feel good?” As expected, he’d caught on to your reaction immediately, even when you’d thought he was too busy making a meal of your throat to notice. “Am I—hah—making you feel good? Please, t-tell me ‘m doing well for you. Just wanna be a good boy.”

Endless praises for him danced on your tongue, yearning to be set free. The closer your orgasm drew, the harder it became to restrain them.

“Please.” He repeated the motion, and its effects hit you twice as strong this time, twisting the coil in your stomach so tight it was unbearable.

You relented. The ways he’d use himself for your pleasure were frighteningly easy to get hooked on, but that alone had never been the reason you let Childe back in, time and time again. It was the look of pure, unbridled need in his eyes, more irresistible than anything his body could make you feel and more honest than anything that could come out of his mouth. Raw, innocent love. You knew better than to believe most of the lies he fed you, but you would never be able to deny the fact that he loved you.

“It’s good, baby. You fill me up so well. Doing such a good job for me,” You appeased him at last, sickeningly sweet, reaching up to pet his head for good measure. “Keep it up, okay?”

His head fell into your chest, all the power of his arm muscles effectively rendered useless as they crumbled under his weight upon hearing a few simple words of approval from you. The sounds he let out eclipsed yours in volume as his hips pistoned inside of you, hellbent on bringing you to your climax. He breathed in your scent as he nestled his face between your breasts, pressing feverish kisses into the soft flesh and sucking fresh marks wherever he could. It came slurred and incoherent at first, but eventually, amidst the creaking of your bed and the smacks of skin, you realized he was saying something. Or rather, repeating something.

“M-mine—ngh. Mine, mine, mine, mine,” he chanted. The closer you listened, the less they sounded like possessive growls and more like desperate whimpers, pleading for it to be true. For you to agree, to let him know that you craved him just as carnally as he craved you.

His hands slid down from your breasts to grip your thighs where they were wrapped around his waist, pawing needily at them in a thinly-veiled desire to push your legs back and bury his cock as far into your heat as your bodies would allow. However deep he was inside of you, he needed to be deeper, he needed to reach parts of you that no one else but him could ever touch. The only thing stopping his insatiable greed was the remaining few shreds of his sanity, telling him to control himself, to be good for you, to show you that he deserved to be yours. 

You could practically hear the pleas on his tongue without him having to speak a word. 

Not enough. More, more, more. Need you more.

“You’re such a greedy puppy, y’know that?” you clicked your tongue. Using your legs’ hold around his waist, you raised your lower half off the mattress just enough to press fully against his pelvic bone, granting his wish and pushing his dick further inside you. Childe keened your name, his brain short circuiting for a few moments before he remembered to resume his thrusts, slipping his hands under your back to help support you.

“Th-thank you, thank you,” he stammered. “Fuck, can’t get enough. Wanna stay like this forever.”

Coming from him, you knew it wasn’t an exaggeration in the slightest. The new angle was dangerously electrifying with how it allowed him to roll his tip perfectly into your sweet spot every time he sank into you. It wasn’t long before that familiar feeling in your core reached its limit, coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped all at once. You sucked in a sharp breath, thighs squeezing around his hips so fiercely that it became difficult for him to move. Still, completely lost in you, Childe continued grinding diligently, making each wave of your climax all the more intense as his length didn’t falter its strokes once.

His eyes snapped open as he processed your walls clenched wildly around him, darting down to study the spot where he was thrusting into you. You could see the moment it clicked in his head as he noticed the fresh juices dripping from your slit and coating his cock, his entire face lighting up with a giddy grin.

“Did you—hah—cum?” he asked breathlessly. “You came, right? I made you feel good, right? Did I do a good job?” He lowered his head again, nuzzling his sweaty face against yours in ecstasy.

The aftereffects of your high were still in full swing, a light, floating sensation replacing the complicated web of emotions you’d been working fruitlessly to detangle up until now. Overcome with bliss, you finally stopped trying to fight back the affection banging at the confines of your heart, begging to be set free and reach him.

“Mm. Good boy, Ajax,” you murmured at last, pressing an encouraging kiss to his forehead. “You did so well for me, baby. My good boy.”

The final thread in Childe’s brain snapped. A violent shudder rippled through his whole body, hips bucking forward reflexively as the words he’d been driving himself mad to hear finally graced his ears. 

“O-oh, God,” he choked out, nails clawing pitifully at your back. “Again—ngh—please, say it again.”

All the added slickness from your climax allowed his cock to slide in and out of you even faster than before, and given how manic he was, the force of his thrusts quickly had your sensitive insides burning.

“You’re my good boy, Ajax.” It was a challenge to keep your voice from shaking when he was rutting into you with reckless abandon, no longer able to restrain himself. “My one and only. You make me feel so good.”

He suckled at your collarbone with a sweet, high-pitched whine that completely juxtaposed his intense movements, hands grabbing and squeezing at your flesh erratically, just trying to have as much of his skin in contact with yours as possible. 

“I l-love you. Love you, love you, love you, love you.”

For once, you were grateful for his mindless babbling, because it left no space for you to have to say anything in return. Maybe, in the very back of Childe’s fucked out mind, he was thinking the same thing. If he kept repeating the words over and over himself, he wouldn’t have to face the silence that followed when you didn’t return his declarations of love.

“Love you s’ much—ah! ‘M gonna lose it.” His dick pulsed inside of you, giving you a warning of its own. “Can I, please? Wanna c-cum inside, fill you up. Want you to always be full of me. Only me.”

Despite already reaching your own peak, his pleas made your toes curl all over again. It was so tempting to deny him, just to hear him grovel for you a bit more, but your walls were already overstimulated from the nonstop, merciless pace he’d taken on after you’d climaxed; you weren’t sure how much more you could take, either. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you clenched tightly around him, adding a mind-numbing pressure to his every stroke.

“You can let go, baby,” you encouraged. “Cum for me like a good boy.”

That was all it took for Childe to fall apart. Pushing his cock as deep inside of you as he could, his high crashed over him in an all-consuming tidal wave. You could feel his stomach flexing rapidly against your clit, broken cries and curses falling from his mouth as ripple after ripple of pleasure passed through him. Spurts of his release coated your walls with each one. Even after cumming once already, there was still so much of his seed spilling inside of you, hot and thick enough for you to feel as it filled you up. He never gave you anything less than his all, and this was no exception.

As the peak of his climax began to fade, so did his string of moans, quieting down into weak whimpers until he was left panting above you, shoulders rising and falling in exhaustion. He swallowed down the saliva that had pooled in his mouth, then parted his lips to say something. But all that came out was a giggle; boyish, cute, and utterly infectious. Coupled with how innocent his eyes looked, blown-out wide so that the black eclipsed the blue, you felt yourself melt a little.

Childe at last removed his hands from under your back, still trying to catch his breath as he slumped his body weight on top of you like a blanket. You huffed at the impact, but your arms slipped their way naturally around him nonetheless. He hadn’t pulled a single inch out of you, even after readjusting his position, and as he nestled his head into the pillow of your chest, you could guess why.

“Can we stay like this a bit?” he mumbled, as close to shy as he ever got around you. “Want you to remember my shape inside you. Wanna remember how you feel around me when I’m gone.”

Reminded once again of his upcoming departure, you couldn’t have rejected him even if you’d wanted to. With a murmur of agreement, you reached up to play with his hair, curling your index finger around the unruly blond streak that stuck out in his bangs. 

It was moments like these where the reality of what had just happened should’ve shattered your peace, extinguishing the afterglow with dread and regret—but that was never the case. Seeing him so docile in your arms, drowsy from pushing himself to the limit and clinging to you to stay grounded, only added to your bliss. If you could just contain him like this, keep him secure and satiated so that none of his poison could seep out and harm anyone else, then that was enough for you.

He blinked his eyes open to watch you as you played gently with locks of his dampened hair, a dreamy, lopsided smile plastered to his face. His gaze flickered lower down, admiring the utter chaos he’d unleashed on your body—neck, chest, and shoulders all littered with deep, blossoming lovebites and very clear indents of his teeth. A thought seemed to occur to him, because suddenly he didn’t look quite so pleased with himself.

“You didn’t leave any on me,” he realized with a pout. “Mine are fading too, y’know. I can barely see them anymore.”

He used some of his waning strength to tilt his head back as proof, and you tried not to grimace. It had been a very intentional decision on your part, even if the sight of his bared neck, ripe for the taking, had been tempting enough to make your mouth water as he’d rutted into you. You’d forced yourself to keep your mouth off of him, in the feeble hope that he wouldn’t be able to use it against you the next time you found him sitting at your doorstep.

“I hate it,” he added with a grumble. “I hate it when there’s no trace of you on my body. Doesn’t feel right. You're mine and I'm yours.”

“You have my ring, don’t you?” In an attempt to soothe him before he could get riled up again, you cradled his face with both hands, squeezing his cheeks together in a way that made him look so harmless it was almost cruel. He considered what you’d said for a moment, his thumb coming to rub subconsciously over the silver band with a fond expression. Still, you could tell you hadn’t entirely swayed him.

“Mmm, but I want more. I’m greedy, right?” he imitated your words with a childish lilt. “So, you can just give me new ones tomorrow when we wake up.”

You pressed your lips together. There it was—the beginnings of a crack forming in the illusion, exposing it in all its fragility. “Ajax,” you said lightly. “I have to be up early, remember?”

“Do you?”

He tilted his head, chin still perched on your chest. It was an unassuming gesture, cute even, but it made your skin crawl with unease. Of course. He’d seen through your bluff from the very beginning—he of all people would be acutely aware of what your schedule looked like the next day, after all. It was pointless to even consider lying to him about it. 

Though he’d more or less just announced that he knew you were deceiving him, he didn’t look upset in the slightest. Instead, he shifted his body so that he could lay on his side, pulling you along with him and letting out a soft grunt as his length rolled against your insides in the process.

“Let me sing you to sleep then, like I promised.”

He nestled back into you in a heartbeat, slotting his body against yours as he laid his head back against your chest and began to hum a gentle tune. It was one you recognized from the very first note, one you used to call your favorite. The sound of it made your entire being ache with nostalgia, mourning the past, mourning this current moment. Guided by the honey-sweet melody, you started running your hand up and down his back, eyes fluttering shut as you allowed that oleander voice to lull you to sleep.

[neesu]

Burning in the snow

Contains: dom!maleReader x sub!Tartaglia, jealousy, possessive behavior, heated rivalry, intense physical tension (non-explicit), enemies-to-lovers au

The halls of the stronghold glimmered with frost, torches hissing faintly in the draft. Tartaglia leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes locked on the far side of the chamber.

You were there, as always. Commanding attention without trying, speaking easily with another officer. The man laughed, head tipping back as his hand brushed your arm. You didn’t move away — in fact, you leaned in, lips quirking into a sly smile as if you were in on some private joke.

The sound grated on Childe’s ears. He looked away, jaw tight, but his eyes betrayed him, dragging back to the scene again and again until the other officer finally left.

Only then did you turn, as though you had felt the weight of his stare the entire time. Your smirk was instant, deliberate, as you crossed the hall with unhurried steps.

“Something bothering you, Childe?” your voice purred, low enough to be for him alone.

His lips curled into a humorless smile. “Not at all. Just wondering if you’re capable of keeping your hands to yourself.”

You chuckled, tilting your head. “Funny. He touched me, not the other way around. Unless…” You leaned slightly closer, eyes glittering. “Unless you’re saying you wanted to be the one doing it.”

The tips of his ears burned. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Mm. Denial,” you mused, circling him like a predator that had caught the scent of weakness. “You wear it well. Almost convincing, if not for the way you’re glaring holes through anyone who looks at me.”

He pushed off the wall, straightening to his full height. His smile was sharp, sarcastic. “Maybe I just hate your face. Ever think of that?”

You stepped closer until your chest nearly brushed his, your voice dropping. “Then stop staring at it like you’re starving.”

His breath hitched, barely audible, but you caught it. You always did.

⸻

The storm screamed outside the ruined outpost where you’d made camp. A fire snapped in the center, throwing shadows against the cracked stone walls.

Childe sat hunched forward, one hand braced on his knee, the other gripping the hilt of his blade. He was silent, too silent, his eyes fixed on the flames as though they’d done him personal wrong.

You lounged across from him, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on your hand. The firelight carved gold into your features, highlighting the smug curve of your mouth.

“You’ve been sulking since we left the stronghold,” you remarked. “I can guess why.”

His eyes cut to you, sharp and defensive. “You think too highly of yourself. I don’t care who you flirt with.”

“Oh?” you asked, your voice a purr. “Because you looked ready to tear that officer’s throat out earlier.”

He barked a short laugh, all sharp edges. “Please. If I wanted him gone, I wouldn’t have wasted time glaring. I’d have buried him in the snow.”

You grinned, pushing off your seat. Slowly, deliberately, you walked around the fire, boots crunching against loose stones, until you stood in front of him. “Then why didn’t you?”

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked away instead, jaw clenching.

You crouched, resting one hand on his knee, leaning close enough that his breath stirred against your cheek. “Because the problem wasn’t him.”

He flinched, muscles taut beneath your touch. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you whispered, fingers trailing lightly up his thigh. “Don’t say what you’re already thinking? Don’t notice how your pulse jumps when I touch you?”

He grabbed your wrist, eyes blazing. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re trembling,” you countered, your grin widening.

“From rage,” he snapped, though the crack in his voice betrayed him.

“From wanting,” you corrected softly.

His grip faltered. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his sarcasm failing him for once. He turned his face away, but you tilted his chin back with two fingers, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Say it,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his lip. “Say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

⸻

The fire crackled, the storm howled, but all Tartaglia could hear was the pounding of his own heart. His fists clenched, his pride screamed for him to shove you away, to spit another sarcastic remark, to prove he wasn’t caught in your game.

Instead, he surged forward, crashing his mouth against yours.

The kiss was rough, heated, full of teeth and fury. His hand fisted in your coat, dragging you closer, as if daring you to laugh at him. You did — a low, dark chuckle against his lips — and then you kissed him back harder, your grip sliding to the back of his neck, holding him firmly in place.

His breath came ragged, his lips swollen as you claimed every ounce of fight he tried to muster. He broke away only long enough to rasp, “I hate you.”

You caught his jaw, tilting his head back into another kiss before he could say more. “You taste like lies,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but the words trembled, his voice betraying the hunger in his chest.

You pressed your forehead to his, your thumb stroking along the line of his jaw. “Make me.”

The words hung heavy between you, daring, taunting.

Childe’s breath stuttered. His fists clenched tighter into your coat, pulling you against him as if to prove he still had control. But the way his lips trembled, the heat radiating off him, betrayed the truth. He didn’t want you to stop — he wanted you closer.

So you obliged.

You pushed him back until his shoulders hit the cold stone wall, your body caging his in. He hissed at the impact, but the sound melted into a gasp when your mouth caught his again, deeper this time, slower — a deliberate claiming.

His sarcasm faltered. The proud mask he wore cracked under the weight of your touch, his body arching just slightly toward yours despite himself.

“Still hate me?” you murmured against his lips, your hand sliding up to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the heat blooming there.

“Yes,” he breathed, but the word shook, soft and unconvincing.

You smiled, pressing your forehead to his, your voice low and velvet. “Then kiss me like you mean it.”

And he did. This time without the veneer of anger, without the shield of sarcasm. The kiss that followed was raw, desperate — a silent confession of everything he refused to put into words. His hands clutched at you like he was drowning, as if letting go would mean surrendering more than just the fight.

When you finally pulled back, his lips were red, his breath uneven, his blue eyes burning with something he couldn’t disguise anymore.

You held him there, steadying him with your hand at his throat — not choking, just reminding him who had cornered who.

“Good boy,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the storm outside.

The words sent a shiver down his spine. He didn’t reply this time. He couldn’t. His pride was in ruins, his breath stolen, and for once, silence was all the proof you needed.

[cbltblxx]

Rex Incognito

[gayshitanddadjokes]

despite staff's recent changes, we're... winning??????

[saintcircus-deactivated20250127]

yo thats steven bradbury, winner of the short track 1000 metres at the 2002 winter olympics! yooo!! he’s the first man from THE ENTIRE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE to win a gold medal in the winter olympics!!!

hold on, lemme tell you about steven bradbury because the man’s olympic career is WILD. not to be an annoying australian but the whole “purely out of the luck of everyone else crashing, i unexpectedly won!” thing is like 50% myth. lemme explain

so the man actually won gold in the world championships as part of the australian relay team in 1991, but when the team went to the winter olympics the next year, they dropped from third to fourth in the semi-finals and failed to make the finals. get this: the reason is, his teammate lost his footing and crashed. (bradbury was a reserve at the time)

so in the 1994 winter olympics, the australian relay team (with bradbury as an active racer) decided to take a safe and conservative approach. they prioritised staying safe on their feet and hoping other teams would crash. sure enough, the canadian team had a crash, and while they got back up again it lost them significant time and allowed australia to eke out a bronze--this bronze was also the first medal australia EVER won at the winter. in fact, australia could have gone for the silver, but richard nizielski (the same teammate who crashed at 1992) decided to cede the silver to the american he was racing against in order to avoid risking another crash. safe, steady, conservative.

bradbury didn’t just compete in the relay team at the ‘94 winter, though. he was also in the 500m and 1000m short track, and he was INCREDIBLE, but also had insanely bad luck. for the 500m, he came second in his heat and then WON his qtrfinal. he ultimately came fourth in the semi, losing his shot at the finals, after he was suffered a crash from being knocked down by another competitor, and ended up limping over the finish line. for the 1000m, he was ILLEGALLY SHOVED OVER by another competitor, dropped his position, and was elimated.

but his worst luck came at the montreal world cup of the same year when, during a collision, another competitors blade sliced through his thigh. he was in the middle of competing, his heart rate was high because of the adrenaline, blood was pumping like crazy through his body--right out his wound as a result. he lost four litres of blood. all four quadriceps had been sliced through by the blade. he almost died. he later recounted that he was fighting to stay conscious because he thought if he lost consciousness  he would definitely die (he probably would have). he ended up with ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN STITCHES in his leg, which he could not move afterward for three months. he ended up needing 18 months to get his leg back to full strength.

not only did the man almost DIE short tracking, he almost got a death sentence on his career at the time. his leg was almost disabled, and even though it healed, he was out of training for over a year because of the injury.

but he didnt die, and his career didnt end. bradbury kept training, and remained on the australian team. the man almost died and he still went, yeah nah, i’ve got a few good years left in me.

so bradbury comes back in the ‘98 winter olympics, both on the relay team and in the 500m and 1000m. the relay team unfortunately fails to qualify. devo. for the solos, bradbury was actually considered a real contender, he was still top of his game, but in the end he didn’t qualify for the quarterfinals. the reason for this was that his time had dropped due to collissions with other competitors. so he went home with nothing but a relay bronze. but bradbury was determined to see a short track win.

too bad fate fucking hates him apparently.

now, if you think almost dying because a skate blade sliced through your thigh and you almost bled out was bad, bradbury’s career was really threatened in 2000. during an exercise one of the other skaters fell in front of him. bradbury tried to jump, instead not only did he clip the other skater, but it caused him to lose his balance and he stacked it straight into the barrier, fracturing his vertebrae.

not only did the man spend months in a halo brace, not only did the man need to get pins skull and plates and screws bolted to his back and chest, but he was told explicitly by doctors he would never, ever be able to get back onto the ice again. that was it. he survives almost dying in the 94 world cup only to have his world crash and burn in a training exercise six years later.

anyway, fuck that, bradbury got back onto the ice. clearly. because goddamnit, he wanted that winter gold on a solo win.

look, not only did the man have a near death experience and metal bolted to his bones, but he was also aging up past the prime of an olympic athlete. he was, what some may say, not in his prime. it was a longshot. he admitted this. but he also wanted that fucking medal, and i guess everyone really liked him or felt incredibly bad for all the bad luck he’d had, so come the 2002 winter olympics, he’s on the team.

bradbury won his 1000m heat.

too bad in the qtrfinals he was racing against the gold medal pick of the host nation (ohno), and also the defending world champion (gagnon). only top two finishers could proceed to the semis.

bradbury came third. that was it. he was out. his olympic career was ov-

BUT WAIT, WHAT’S THAT! ON THE HORIZON! IS IT... A DISQUALIFICATION??? YES FOLKS, GAGNON WAS DISQUALIFIED FOR OBSTRUCTING ANOTHER RACER!! BRADBURY WAS IN!

he was in, but he still had the semis and the finals to get through. bradbury had, it was fair to say, an indomitable will, but his body was not in the same shape as his competitors. it had been through some shit. he knew he was slower than his rivals. so he took the same strategy as the australian relay team did all the way back in ‘94: conservative, steady, safe.

so here’s the thing. bradbury had a whole career, and body, full of proof that falls happen in short track. may as well call it short stack. it was a question of when, not if. people fall down, people collide, people trip, and medal chances are missed due to lost time. isn’t that what happened to him over and over again? so this is where i say that the whole “oh golly gosh who’da thunk everyone would fall down and i would just win!” thing is 50% a myth.

because that was his whole strategy.

you can’t be 100% certain the favourites are gonna fall, so of course there’s an element of chance, which is why i say only 50%, but bradbury’s plan for the semis and the finals was always to cruise along behind the other competitors, concentrate on skating safe and staying on his feet, avoiding collissions and trips, and just hoping (expecting) the other competitors to eat ice. he just wasn’t faster than his competitors, he was older, he had injuries, and he had to do (if things went well) four races in one night. it was a good strategy.

during the semis, bradbury’s “cruise behind the other races” strategy put him firmly in last place for most of the race. but then the other competitors all crashed, including a defending champion. bradbury cruised right into first place and went on to the finals. which is not the events of the picture above.

yep, that’s right. come the finals, bradbury repeats the exact same strategy. crusing behind the four other competitors, he kept a firm hold of last place and just concentrated on safety and steadiness. and then it happened. it wasn’t just a crash. it was the crash. a four-skater pile up. li (china) took the fall on the last turn of the race, just short of the finish, and triggered a chain crash that took all three other favourites down. bradbury was trailing 15m behind, putting him well clear of the collission.

bradbury hoped to get a bronze. he skated away with the first gold ever taken by an australian, by any man in the southern hemisphere, at the winter olympics.

he had over a decade of crashes and bashes. he almost died, twice. he almost had his career permanently destroyed, twice. he almost grabbed medals countless times, only to lose them to trips and shoves. he was the second oldest competitor, and the oldest of the finals. he was slower than everyone else. he was past his best. but let’s allow bradbury to say it best himself:

"Obviously I wasn't the fastest skater. I don't think I'll take the medal as the minute-and-a-half of the race I actually won. I'll take it as the last decade of the hard slog I put in."

and what a goddamn slog. i want to say, firmly and proudly as an australian, the man didn’t win the gold at the 2002 winter olympics because he got lucky when seven competitors all tripped and fell. he won the gold at the 2002 winter olympics because he survived a ten year olympic career despite all the odds, never gave up despite the long shot, and used what he knew.

if there is a lesson in this as it relates to the original picture, it’s that while other social media platforms like twitter and reddit are jostling and shoving each other in competition to take first, tumblr has been slowly and steadily trailing behind, just focusing on keeping itself afloat, because it knows the simple truth that taking a fall is a matter of when, not if. and now everyone else is caught in a pile up and all it needs to do is keep cruising.

also, raise a glass to steven bradbury. man earned his medal.

[mumblesplash]

scurvy has got to have one of the biggest disease/treatment coolness gaps of all time. like yeah too much time at sea will afflict you with a curse where your body starts unraveling and old wounds come back to haunt you like vengeful ghosts. unless☝️you eat a lemon

[kata4a]

[digupreaganandkillhimagain]

im going crazy you have GOT to decouple romance/amatonormativity and marriage in your mind. you have GOT to understand that marriage is a legal document that protects you from exploitation especially if you are a woman or a stay-at-home anything. it is not some evil unique to heterosexual people. it is a legal document that says 'this is who i want in my hospital room when i die, this is who i want to have my stuff when i die, THIS PERSON OWES ME RECOMPENSE IF THEY KICK ME OUT OF THE HOUSE I LIVE IN"

You are not immune to being taken advantage of by your partner if you are queer. do not wind up homeless because your garbage live-ins name is on the lease and they decided to drop you like hot coals.

[absolxguardian]

You know what's worse than divorce? Having to divide property and custody without rules and a ref. And that's in addition to OPs point about things being treated as shared property or children only belonging to one person on paper.

[naamahdarling]

Marriage?

That thing I can't have because the US government will cut my disability benefits so severely I won't be able to stay housed?

That basic legal protection disabled people are barred from freely accessing?

There is a reason it is a right people try to prevent others from accessing. It's incredibly important.

[digupreaganandkillhimagain]

Yes this post was made specifically because I'm disabled and I'm tired of seeing abled queers who don't even understand the enormous safety net they are squandering as if it's some kind of gotcha against the system. They just sound like construction workers complaining about OSHA to me

[molabuddy]

the insane experience of missing a fictional character . like you can always go back and reread the book , replay the game , rewatch the show or movie , you can always go back & see them , but you can never experience them & their story for the first time again . its absurd to miss them because they'll always be there , but you'll miss when there were still new things for them to say .

for a small time they were real & growing and changing and you hung onto every new word, but now all they can do is repeat the same story forever&ever & they're not real anymore because you know everything they're going to do. & you miss them. its fucked man...

[molabuddy]

in this way fanworks are like necromancy

[lualuadraw]

evil grandpa takes obi-wan off melida/daan

[choccy-zefirka-deactivated20251]

AO3 writers! Why do you NOT respond to comments on your work?

Respinding doubles the number of comments, which can look like stat cheating

I don't want to foster a parasocial relationship with my readers

I feel bad: they offer great feedback and all I can come up with is "Thanks"

I don't have time

I never check my AO3 email

Some other reason

I always respond to comments actually!

I never get comments

I don't post fanfic on AO3

Bald etc etc

Voting ended onJun 25, 2025

Yes there's a typo in the first option but I am not redoing the whole thing

[shizuturnspages-deactivated2026]

So like how would our yandere fatui hubbys react to a reader who is also yandere fir them but like good at hiding it and then they find out

Two Can Play A Game

Synopsis: They’ve always believed you were the calm one. The delicate one. The reason they could justify their own obsession. But when the illusion cracks—when they uncover the depth of your own possessive devotion—they don’t recoil. They lean in. Because if you're just like them… then there’s no need to pretend at all anymore. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone, Pierro, Childe x Secret Yandere Reader

Capitano – Steel Attracts Steel

Capitano always treated you like something fragile. Loved you hard, yes—but carefully. Kept his brutality away from you, like shielding fire from a flame.

Until one night, during an assassination investigation, he finds one of your knives buried in the back of the corpse. Personalised hilt. Fatui-forged.

When confronted, you don’t even deny it. “They touched you,” you say flatly. “I told them not to.”

Capitano is silent for a long time. You brace for reprimand. But instead, he just steps closer. His gauntlet brushes your jaw.

“… You’ve been hiding this from me.”

“Would it have scared you?”

“No,” he says, voice gravel-deep. “It would’ve made me marry you faster.”

From then on, he no longer protects you from his world. You’re part of it now. Equal. Loved not in spite of your darkness—but because you match his.

Dottore – You Know Too Much

He finds your journal by accident—or maybe he planned to.

It’s clinical. Detailed. A list of people you’ve removed or ruined just for getting too close to him. Notes on which of his clones you think are too emotionally independent. A theory on how to extract loyalty through psychological dependence.

He laughs so hard he drops it.

“Darling,” he croons, spinning the journal in his hand like a prized artifact. “You manipulated one of my assistants into quitting?”

“They were getting too close. I don’t share.”

He stares at you like you’re a miracle.

Dottore thrives on brilliance, and the fact that you fooled him? That you were obsessing just as hard but under his radar?

You’ve never seen him more in love.

He lets you help with his experiments now. Not as an assistant. As an equal. As a fellow predator.

He calls you his “perfect mutation.”

Pantalone – The Lover Behind the Curtain

Pantalone always thought he was the one playing chess.

You were docile. Soft-spoken. All smiles and tea cups and passive agreement. Until he caught wind of a smear campaign against one of his economic rivals—one only you could’ve orchestrated, given the exact trade documents you had touched.

He lets you stew for three days before confronting you in his office.

You blink, feigning ignorance. But he only smiles and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Darling,” he says softly, “you’re better at this than half my board members. Why hide it?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was… unbalanced.”

He laughs. Long. Soft.

“My love, you balance me.”

From then on, he hands you targets with a smirk and says, “For us.” And when he sees you quietly ruin people behind silk gloves and honeyed smiles? He watches like a man seeing a masterpiece in motion.

Pierro – The First and the Last

Pierro is slow to trust. Even slower to hope.

But when he discovers the bloody trail you left in Snezhnaya’s underbelly—former suitors, rival diplomats, jealous subordinates—he doesn’t confront you immediately. No, he watches you for weeks. Watches how effortlessly you slip between docility and ruthlessness.

And then one night, he brings you to his private study and lays a file in front of you.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “just come to me directly.”

You eye the file. “You're… not angry?”

“You want me safe. Kept. Yours.” He steps closer. “What kind of man would I be to punish loyalty that mirrors my own?”

He elevates you. You’re no longer just his partner—you become the blade in his other hand. And if you ever thought he was obsessed before?

Now he lets himself be.

Childe – Match Made in Mayhem

Childe catches you in the act—literally. Mid-threat, dagger in your sleeve, eyes hard and mouth flat as you tell a diplomat, “Get away from my fiancé. Or I’ll decorate this floor with your guts.”

You don’t notice him at first. But when you turn and spot him? He’s grinning like a lunatic.

“You love me that much?” he says.

“I always have,” you mutter. “I’m just better at hiding it.”

Childe immediately sweeps you into a kiss. He’s absolutely unhinged from that point forward.

“New rule,” he says. “You’re coming on every mission now. Ride or die, baby.”

He brags about you constantly. Calls you his better half while holding your bloodied dagger in his belt.

When enemies beg to be taken by the Harbinger instead of his partner, that’s when you know he’s truly in love.

[enesfwee]

agent au (based on childe's recent hoyofair getup)

[memewhore]

[what-even-is-thiss]

Hello I am crawling out of the woodwork again to explain an American political thing in too much detail.

So. Basics. What is a tariff? In short it’s a tax that people pay when they import things.

In long, imagine you want a thing. Say, a really nice baseball bat. You want to buy it from a company that makes them in, let’s say, Japan. You’d likely buy them from a store in the US that bought that baseball bat from the Japanese manufacturer.

Let’s say for simplicity’s sake that the store bought it for $50 and they charge you $100 for it. This margin is enough for the baseball supply store to pay their employees, pay their rent, buy more stock, buy some advertising, etc.

Now imagine the government decides that Americans aren’t buying enough baseball bats locally. Or perhaps they have some sort of issue with Japanese baseball. I dunno. For whatever reason though they put a 20% import tax, known as a tariff, on Japanese baseball products.

Now that store in the US in addition to paying $50 to the manufacturer in Japan is also paying $10 in tax to the US government. That baseball bat now essentially costs them $60. And since they need more money to buy stock now and they needed that markup to run their business anyways your $100 Japanese baseball bat will now cost you $120.

In an ideal world (if you like tariffs) this would cause only the targeted product to cost more while locally manufactured goods cost the same. So maybe you’d be encouraged to buy an American made baseball bat because those still only cost $100 while imported ones now cost $20 more.

In the past and in our modern day Congress, and in some circumstances where Congress has allowed it, the president have put tariffs on specific products do discourage people from importing them or buying them. For example, during the Biden administration they determined that Chinese electric cars, with their incredibly cheap cost, could become a real threat to the American automotive industry so a 100% tariff was put on Chinese made electric vehicles which made them way more expensive. This tariff has worked. People don’t really import Chinese electric vehicles and generally buy American or European ones instead.

So in short again, it’s a tax that a business pays on imported goods to discourage people from buying those goods because the business will be forced to charge their customers more to buy it in order to cover their own costs.

So what’s going on with tariffs right now?

Well, most people don’t know what tariffs are exactly. A lot of people are also rightfully pissed that the US doesn’t have a lot of good jobs right now. I mean there’s jobs, but not very good ones. Not ones that’ll give you a nice quality of life and a comfortable retirement.

During the time when there were a lot of jobs like this in the 40s-60s, the US was a manufacturing hub. After the labor movement, working in a factory could give you a stable working class job with benefits. It might not have been a high paying job, but it was enough for a family to live on one income in a small house or apartment and to have healthcare and an okay retirement.

After the 1970s however, manufacturing started moving overseas to countries where the cost of living is lower and/or they have less workers rights like in China or Vietnam. Right after this was also the era of Reagan. Deregulation of banks and the media, cutting government services, anti-union activism. This set the stage for the 2008 recession and the current economy we have now in the US where more people are contractors, there’s less unions, more service jobs, and in many cases it’s nearly impossible to have a decent living and retirement on one income.

Many people in the US, especially in areas where manufacturing used to be huge, have a cultural memory of when life was better but instead of contributing this to government policy and corporate anti-union efforts, they contribute this to the loss of manufacturing jobs.

In fact, unemployment is fairly low right now. The problem is that jobs that are available don’t pay people enough or aren’t full time. I’m technically not unemployed for example because I occasionally get contracted by disabled relatives to do chores and errands for them through a state agency that provides those services but I still make less than $400 a month doing that. I don’t need to tell you that that’s not enough to pay rent and a lot of people in this country are in similar situations.

A lot of people don’t know all that though. They think that the problem is manufacturing leaving the US for foreign countries they don’t know much about and might not have a very good opinion of.

So, enter Donald Trump. Again.

What Donald Trump has been doing is blaming other countries for our economic problems. He points out that the US imports more than it exports. Which is true, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. We don’t have every natural resource in the world. Our climate means we can’t grow certain things. Our manufacturing capacity is lower than it used to be. We produce oil but not every part of the country is in a convenient spot to get that oil to so in some regions it makes more sense to import it by sea. Also, international trade isn’t supposed to be a 1:1 exchange. It’s business. It’s an ecosystem. Not some sort of debt based system.

However, again, most people don’t know all that. So some of them hear Donald Trump say that these countries owe us for having a trade deficit. They stole our manufacturing jobs. The kind of jobs we had when living was easier. If we could bring manufacturing back to the US we could be prosperous again.

He also calls tariffs “taxing the other countries” which is just… a lie. That’s not what tariffs are. Tariffs are a tax on local businesses importing things, not foreign businesses making those things. Again though, most people don’t know this.

So the general idea with his tariffs is to bring manufacturing back to the US. Which isn’t going to happen.

Here’s the thing. Let’s return to that baseball bat. Okay, your imported baseball bat from Japan is $120 now. Will that American made baseball bat actually be cheaper? No, actually. Because we live in a globalized economy. That baseball bat factory in the US buys its wood from Canada. It buys its beeswax wood polish from a manufacturer in the UK. It buys the stamps for its logo from a factory in Vietnam and the paint used on that stamp was made in Germany. The machines themselves that they use to shape their baseball bats have parts that were made in several countries from materials imported from other countries. The manufacturer has to pay a tariff on all of those things. So, your American baseball bat also ends up costing $120.

Not to mention that we simply don’t have the manufacturing capacity that we used to and it takes years to set up the supply chains and build the facilities necessary to build things at scale.

And even with tariffs in place, it’s still cheaper to manufacture a lot of things overseas because of the low cost of living in those countries. So those jobs just aren’t coming back. Also, a lot of those jobs that used to exist have been automated. A massive large scale brewery and canning facility for example no longer requires you to have people to manually stir the vats and count things and stamp labels. You might only need three guys monitoring data on screens and a manager to run an entire factory these days because of automation.

So, Trump has started putting tariffs in place hoping it’ll bring back manufacturing (it won’t) and it’s bringing up prices which he also said he’d bring down.

Here’s the other thing though. Some manufacturing and resource mining could potentially come back to the US. Not most, but some. If these tariffs were a sure thing it would still ruin us for no reason but people could adjust to the new terrible normal over time and some investors could bring back some manufacturing and resource processing and over time a few things would get a bit less expensive.

However, these tariffs have proved to be WILDLY unpopular once people actually realized what they were. Especially since he decided to tariff Canada and Mexico which… makes no goddamn sense. They’re our neighbors, a couple of our closest friends, the countries we trade with the most, where we get a lot of our food and natural resources, and there’s a trade deal that Trump himself negotiated in his last term that says there can’t be tariffs between our three countries.

So he keeps taking them away, putting them back, putting them on pause, putting them back. Saying they’ll be 10%, saying they’ll be 20%, putting a 125% tariff on China, lowering it, raising it again. Nobody knows what the fuck is going on so why would investors put all that time and money in to setting up factories and processing plants in the US if they don’t know what tariffs might or might not be in place tomorrow?

Also. The president legally can’t do that. Congress hasn’t officially given him the authority to do that. In fact, they’ve already blocked him from putting tariffs on Canada and various people are taking him to court over it.

Also also, most economists agree that tariffs are generally a bad thing and they usually don’t work anyways unless they’re specific and targeted like the Chinese electric car thing I mentioned earlier.

So tariffs don’t bring back manufacturing jobs, they bring prices up, the way they’re being implemented is really unstable in a way that makes them hard to recover from, and Trump legally can’t be doing that anyways.

So in short, your coffee and baseball bats and everything else is gonna be more expensive if they end up sticking around or maybe not if they don’t go into effect but either way this has done some mega damage to the economy.

[mynameiskleiosgirl]

As an historian and having had to study economics, this is a pretty great explanation.

[bentheechidna]

I'd like to add that supply chains can take up to a decade to implement and Trump's term is less than 4 years. Most companies will just wait out his term for the next president to undo his shit.

[pookaseraph]

Yup. People aren’t even sure these tariffs will remain in effect for 6 months. There is NO reason to make economic/production decisions based on the existence of these tariffs.

[firedirts]