Side blog for idea/word dumps, kept as tidy as possible. Older pieces were reblogged to here for better organization (so please don't be alarmed)!
All posts are SFW unless indicated otherwise, and will be tagged respectively (please be mindful of the tags! you are responsible for your own internet exp :))
follows, reblogs, likes and comments are always greatly appreciated .｡.:*☆
He tosses and turns, restless, and sits up, head in his hands. Why can’t he sleep?
He shuffles over to the table to pour himself a glass of water, and from here he can see out the window. His heart skips a beat; in the distance, the little square of light from the consultant’s residence is visible.
Childe pulls on a shirt and steps into his shoes, and he’s very soon lingering at the steps of Zhongli’s home. He knocks, rocking back on his heels, suddenly nervous, pacing the seconds as he waits for a response. Maybe he should have thought this through a bit better-
The door cracks open, and Zhongli is standing in the doorway, confused, but Childe is busy drinking in the sight of him with his hair draped over his shoulders, silk lounge robes cascading to his ankles, ink-stained fingers pushing at his sleeves. “Ajax…?”
Childe blinks, greeting him with a bashful smile. “I hope I’m not disturbing,” he tucks his fidgeting hands away into his pockets. “I was wondering if you’d like some company? I saw that your light was on…”
Zhongli blinks, then the corner of his lips lifts with the slightest of smiles. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I bought some new books today,” Zhongli says when they’re upstairs, returning to his desk as he lights another ring of incense. “Feel free to use the bed,” he gestures to the four-poster bed at the other end of the room. Zhongli apologises for the books taking up the window seat where Childe usually sits, and for every other chair in the room that was occupied by an artefact or another. “I…wasn’t expecting anyone,”
Childe reassures him, if only too eagerly. He’s been up here plenty of times before for meetings, friendly visits, that one night after the lantern rite festival where he kissed Zhongli by the window- but never this late, at such an intimate timing, where everyone in the world was asleep, except for the two of them. He’s never even been near his bed, until now.
Childe runs his hand over the sheer silk drapings tied to the bed post, the ornate teak frame and the white cotton sheets. The mattress is soft, nothing at all like the rock he sleeps on back at the inn. Childe leans back with his random book of choice, guided by some instinct to settle on the left side of the bed. He could see Zhongli working from where he was, delving back into his work with a determined focus. Childe chews his lip, opening his book nonetheless.
But Childe misses the glances straying his way, and more often than not, the quiet sighs from misspelling one too many words. It’s getting later in the night, and Zhongli can feel the fatigue begin to creep in on him. The brush grows heavy in his hand, and the allure of the bed is too great to resist (irregardless of his guest, he is certain…). Zhongli pushes through the last few pages, almost reaching the end when he can’t help another stolen glance, and his heart takes a little skip. The Snezhnayan delegate lies recumbent on his bed, eyes fluttering as the open book in his hand gradually comes to rest on his chest.
Childe is already dosing off, lulled by the warmth of the room and the drifting incense; the words from his antique catalog drift in his minds eye, slipping away from him as his eyelids grow heavy. His body seems to move of its own accord, his head finding the pillow as he sinks into it, unable to resist its softness. It smells of incense and violetgrass, just like Zhongli.
The space beside him begins to dip, and Childe isn’t thinking very much anymore except that he needs to be closer. He inches over until he can feel the warmth radiating off Zhongli. Childe sighs contentedly.
“Goodnight Ajax,” Zhongli’s voice sends pleasant vibrations across the bed, enticing Childe to snuggle ever closer. The consultant muses, then he wraps an arm around Childe, shifting nearer himself.
Childe smiles, and he presses his face into Zhongli’s chest. All at once, the noise in his head is swiftly silenced by the sudden serenity cascading through him. He wants very much to say something, but his tongue grows heavy and his limbs leaden. He’s finally delivered a repose so serene, it melts the world away around him, around them, all before he can say goodnight.
The thought occurs to him mid-descent when his gaze lands on the consultant, easily picking him out from the throng of people bustling about the streets.
Zhongli is divine in the lantern-light, warm hues haloing the gold of his hair and clothes.
Childe takes a moment to drink in the sight of the man standing before the lantern festival’s giant centrepiece. Grand as it may be, it seemed made to adorn wherever he stood, a mise en scène of Zhongli himself.
He’s leaning against the bannister, fan fluttering elegantly in hand as he gazes up at the sculpture. Zhongli appears deep in thought as he usually does, untouched by the chaos around him.
Poised, wise, dignified, yet a little scatterbrained and hiding a very dry sense of humour- Childe has thought these things about Zhongli ever since the day he had the pleasure of meeting him. The last bit was a surprise, but nonetheless made Zhongli all the more attractive to him. How could one man be so elegant yet so… silly? And something underneath that calm that he thought he’s seen glimpses of at times. The darker reflections in Zhongli’s eyes, glowing like hot magma, it makes Childe shiver with desire.
How long can Childe stand here before he’s noticed? How long can Childe keep up the facade until he’s found out? The accidental brush of their hands, the more-than-friendly teasing, and the little gifts under the guise of Snezhnayan goodwill…
Especially under the gaze of those lovely amber eyes— he can feel it begin to crumble. The little touches growing bolder, the distance between their bodies smaller-
-his heart skips. Zhongli’s gaze has found his, and with just as much ease it seems. The corner of his lips softly curl, and Childe can feel the radiance of that smile from even a mile away.
He returns it with a small bow of his head, and has half the mind to continue his way wherever he was going, to disappear into the crowd below before he’s ensnared once more.
He resumes his descent, but Childe makes the mistake of indulging in another second and glances up only to see his name shaped by Zhongli’s lips. The crowd has roared back to life, but he can hear it clear as day.
And just as all the other times Zhongli has called out to him, Childe yields.
I’m in love you,
He resumes his decent towards him, getting ever closer to saying those words aloud.
In the middle of a heated discussion with Viktor— at the sight of his lightly flushed cheeks and furrowed brows, and the way his accent curls a little stronger at the end of his sentences in exasperation—
— Jayce, overwhelmed by this sudden flutter in his stomach, inches up on his elbows and to brush his mouth against the bow of Viktor’s.
It’s over as quickly as it happens, and by the time he realizes what he’s done, he’s frozen in place, and he can feel Viktor’s breathing stutter just inches above him. He quickly sits back then, cautiously watching the other man.
Viktor stares, dumbfounded, but his cheeks are blooming a rosy pink. He’s trying to avoid Jayce’s gaze, and he’s shuffling the blueprints absentmindedly around the table but they just don’t seem to settle into their piles. He clears his throat, “As I was saying-”
Jayce nods eagerly, clasping a hand over his mouth to hide his grin, “Yes, you were saying?”
Zhongli can’t always tell what Childe is thinking- sometimes his gaze is far away, like he’s lost in a distant memory. His eyes seem to go listless for a moment; a dull blue, contemplative, ruminating. His face is a blank sheet, but his eyes give him away. A quiet cerulean blue, still as a windless ocean.
But when Zhongli calls out to him, reaching in to draw him from the depths of his mind, he is, more often than not, met with bright eyes and a curious smile. Shifting cobalt hues, a dazzling ray over the swelling tides.
And sometimes, it takes Zhongli a moment, like he’s adjusting to the radiance of the sun. He’s lived 600 years, but he’s never seen one quite like this. Its warmth envelops his bones, thawing an ancient cold every time that gaze falls upon him. And each time, he realises how much he needs it- hungers for it, more and more.
He can never guess what is brewing beneath its surface, but he’s come to know when Childe is a little too far away, sailing alone in that still, windless ocean.
And perhaps, on occasions, Zhongli is selfish; not wanting him to sail too far, or simply desiring that brilliant beam upon himself, he draws Childe out of it with a gentle touch of his arm, and a quiet, “Ajax?”.
“Yes?”
Zhongli smiles, heart settling, and he bends down to kiss his temple. “The rain has stopped, care to join me for a walk?”
Childe leans into his embrace, “Right behind you,”
Thinking of vampire!Neuvilette, now consumes vials of blood instead of spring water— he goes through great lengths to procure them from lands beyond Fontaine due to rarity, purity and quality as well as to avoid suspicion—and does it secretly, with only the Melusines involved, guarding his secret until one day Wriothesley finds out, when he happened to chance upon an illegal shipment into the region, threatening the middleman until he finds that it’s to be sent to the Palais-
He brings it to Nuvilette thinking it’s for a top secret case, but Wriothesley’s keen sense of smell picks up the suspicious iron tang that traces back to the Iudex. He says nothing and leaves, shaken- he questions the Melusines and his suspicions are confirmed when he withholds the shipment for weeks.
In this time he observes Neuvilette, and the man’s declining health is noticeable; he’s paler, slower, making more mistakes at work mixing up cases and misplacing files and in a few more days, it’s as though he’s slurring his words.
One day, Neuvilette makes his regular visit to the prison to see the head nurse but he barely makes it, fainting in the middle of the stairwell in which Weiothesley catches him before falls, personally delivering him to the sick bay.
Wriothesley’s torn- disgust clashing with guilt and eclipsed by worry. Neuvilette is barely conscious, lips twitching with inaudible words and his limbs leaden on the bed.
Without thinking straight, Wriothesley makes a cut in his palm, tightening his fist until scarlet ribbons run down his wrist. He feeds it to the judge.
Neuvilette laps hungrily at it, and at one point presses his lips to his wrist, eyes still shut with weak desperation, and when he’s had enough he collapses back onto the bed, dead to the world with sleep.
When he wakes, Wriothesley makes sure he is left none the wiser to the events transpired.
From then on, the shipments go through him. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty if it means obtaining vials of a higher quality. But the image of Neuvilette latching onto his wrist, taking in his blood like a hummingbird to nectar— it leaves him shaken to his core and as though possessed, he replaces the crates with vials of his own blood.
Shame consumes him, but unable to wipe the image from his minds eye, he cannot stop himself. The guilt is lessened when he sees Neuvilette going about his tasks, not at all like that day on the stairwell where he seemed close to death’s doorstep.
If this is what it takes, then it is all worth it, Wriothesley thinks.
Ex lovers au Zhongli and Childe- it has been months since the separation, but-
-Zhongli still buys two of everything, until he’s reminded he only needs one new set of chopsticks; He should only order one serving of fried rice, not two with a side of seafood soup.
On most days, he has to make the extra effort of keeping the extra cutlery he’s set, chiding himself with quiet resignation. He learns to reclaim the centre of the bed but it feels odd somehow, and come morning, he wakes on the right side of the bed again.
The house is quiet, returned to a familiar stillness that Zhongli has to squeeze back into like a undersized garment. It’s stifling, suffocating, and he fights the urge to tear into the silence, to sink his claws into the walls and rip everything apart until there’s nothing to feel but the splinters embedded in his flesh.
But dragon skin is tough, and his heart has lost its stony layers.
He sits back and sips his tea, eyes occasionally straying to the empty chair on the other side of the table. Tomorrow he will need to remind himself again, but that is all right; What is another few lonely millennia, when departures have marked most of his lifetimes.
//
Childe catches himself walking down a winding street to a house whose lights flicker dimly in the waning night, knowing it’s door is unlocked, it’s owner dozing off in the chair by the window.
He takes sharp turns and quick steps to right himself, and he fills his mind with arbitrary tasks and passing conversations that do not allow a lapse in his thoughts. And so he does not falter, he does not idle.
He is in constant movement, his energy crackles and sparks. His enthusiasm is to the point of maniacal excitement; when he fights his fists fly without hesitation, his daggers tear through fabric and skin without the slightest resistance.
It is pure lightning surging through his veins, untamed and wild, searching for an explosive release in which dire consequences become mere inconveniences.
Childe burns all that he touches, and fails to feel the stinging upon his skin; he’s too busy rippling purple daggers from his fingertips as they tear through his nerves.
Childe is never idle. Frenetic schedules keep him from missteps towards that street, that house, that window, the one framing a lone silhouette sitting in the candlelight.
Childe is patched up by Zhongli after every battle.
Plaster on his cheek and bandages wrapped around his chest, Childe sits on the edge of the countertop, making no move to put his shirt back on. His pants ride low on his hips and he leans back, suppressing a wince. Pain is secondary; Zhongli’s utmost attention is priority, yet it still feels like he doesn’t have all of it. Childe looks up at him with puppy eyes, as Zhongli applies ointment to the cuts on his face and hands.
He is mostly engrossed in his task, effectively ignoring Childe's trailing hand along his thigh. "Zhongli xiansheng..." Childe croons.
Zhongli shakes his head disapprovingly. He pauses in between cleaning a nasty, deep gash on his shoulder just to sigh heavily, before he picks up the disinfecting balm. It's the most effective thing from Bubu pharmacy so far, and Zhongli has tried a multitude of others before to say that with confidence.
Childe lets out a breathy giggle, seemingly unaffected by the pain expect for the occasional sharp inhale. He hooks a finger into Zhongli's belt loop and pulls him closer, arching up so their faces are mere inches apart, but even then Zhongli does not react.
"Come away unscathed, and maybe, I'll humour you." The consultant growls, low and stern.
Childe feels a shiver ride up his spine, goosebumps breaking over his skin. "That's contradictory, no? You're supposed to care for the injured, not ignore them." he pouts, blinking his bright blue eyes for added effect. "You break my heart, sir,"
Zhongli throws the bloodied towels and bandage wrappings aside with an exasperated sigh. "You’re good as new. With the state you always show up in, I sincerely hope you’re the one winning,”
“Of course,” Childe smirks, planting a quick kiss to Zhongli’s cheek. “I’m your champion,”
Child takes a miscalculated step back and he tumbles down the stairs; this the end, he thinks, imagining his body folding against the steps, his head collapsing in when he hits the landing-
-but Zhongli catches him, solid arms secured around his body, his golden gaze bearing down upon Childe. They are bright with relief and a hint of amusement.
Childe takes a small gasp, the breath knocked out of his lungs. Fallen right into the hands of a god, he thinks, his face growing red.
Childe thinks he’s really gone to heaven now, when Zhongli curls his fingers into his hair, righting him by his waist as he pulls him closer for a slow, sweet kiss, his hand never stopping their soothing ministrations. Childe melts, letting go as he irresistibly sinks into the embrace. The thought of almost breaking his neck just moments ago is swiftly forgotten.
"Careful, my love," Zhongli’s tone mirrors the glint in his eyes. "Watch where you step,"
Childe nods, unable to comprehend anything. The cliche, his clumsiness- it makes him blush once more. "Thanks," he mumbles, his legs still feeling a little too weak to support his weight, and he lets Zhongli help him to the nearest chair.
actually i'm reblogging this again with commentary, fuck it.
There's people in the notes talking about "not basing your worth off numbers", and like. that isn't what this post is about. It's not a threat, either, it's a comment on how this site works, at a mechanical level.
Likes are worthless. Let me say that again.
Likes. Are. Worthless.
They don't do anything. They're a bookmark. They were never part of how tumblr works - in the early days we didn't even have a like button, and the site still more or less acts as though we don't. They're personal bookmarks and the only people who "get" anything from them are you (you bookmark the post) and the OP (maybe a very slight serotonin boost), but they don't keep the post in circulation, they don't keep it alive.
Without reblogs, a post will be dead in the water within an hour. No matter how good it is, no matter how many hours of painstaking love and attention its creator put into it, it will be dead within an hour and never seen again. It gets pushed down the dashboard and nobody aside from the followers who were online when it was posted will see it.
And there's a huge difference in engagement on posts that get even one lucky reblog from someone with wider reach - that one reblog shows your post to five, ten, fifteen other people, and if one of those people also reblogs it, and so on and so forth, that's how posts stay alive and in circulation.
It's like a contagion, but we're sharing creativity instead of disease.
And that matters. That "lifespan" of the post matters, artists and writers give up on this site and go to sites where posts have longer lifespans because it sucks to spend hours of your life, maybe even days, to get two notes and some fucking pocket lint for your efforts.
We create for ourselves, but we share because we want people to see it, because that engagement offers positive feedback and encouragement to continue.
But more than that, if every post (whether art, fic, gifset, whatever) is dying within an hour or a day of being posted, that means it's not making it onto your dashboard. And if it's not on your dashboard, you won't see it. This kills the site, after a while. You stop seeing the posts, because nobody is putting them on your dashboard, because this site doesn't have an algorithm like twitter and insta's and it shouldn't, it's the last bastion of chronological timelines.
Forgive my giant fucking rant I am so tired right now and full of the plague but like stop acting like artists and writers are just being whiny little babies, or "threatening" to withhold our fucking work (you're not entitled to it! it's ours! if we get nothing out of sharing it we're well within our rights to keep it private!) when we say this site will dry up without reblogs. We're just stating facts.
also I’ve seen some people in the tags say ‘oh there have always been more likes on posts’ no there haven’t ????
these are posts from 2013, look at the ratio
not to sound like a nursing home resident but back then people know that the point of this site was to reblog things and share them, not to bury them away among your other 23k liked posts
Neuvilette in his dragon form, getting much needed rest in his abode when Wriothesley’s sudden appearance at his door him catches him off guard. To say Neuvilette is a bit embarrassed is an understatement- no one has seen him like this since the early centuries, let alone the Melusines.
He scoots closer to the wall of the cavern and away from his comfortable spot under the sun, attempting to put some distance between them.
Wriothesley splays his hands in the air, explaining he’s there at Sigewinne’s and Clorinde’s request to deliver a care package, and a welfare check, given his rare leave of absence after a particular stressful period of work.
“I’ll just leave it here and go,” he says, picking up on Neuvilette’s discomfort. The usually confident Index averts his gaze, head turned away and his tail coiled around himself.
Wriothesley tries to leave, but he can’t really; the sound of Neuvilette’s laboured breathing and the sight of his discoloured scales make him hesitate. He doesn’t know what dragon scales should look like, but surely it can’t be the dull grey sheen dusting over Neuvilette’s body.
Wriothesley ends up staying, much to the dragon’s dismay. He hasn’t moved from his spot near the wall, but his eyes betray his desire to move back to the sunny spot in the middle of the cavern.
“It’s just me, Neuvilette.” Wriothesley reassures with a hearty laugh. “Nothing to be embarrassed about.” He tosses his coat to a corner and folds his sleeves, getting to work at tidying the place, sweeping the stairs that lead out of the cavern and whistling absentmindedly as he does. It takes a while, but Neuvilette eventually grows comfortable enough and moves back to his original position, laying his head over his body like a dog blissfully soaking up the sun.
Wriothesley begins brewing medicinal teas and offers Neuvilette the nutritional snacks the head nurse has packed, as well as supplements Clorinde contributed. Neuvilette obediently takes them, bowing his head in gratitude. When Wriothesley runs a hand over his snout, the judge huffs, a puff of warm air rushing around him.
Wriothesley brushes his fur, smoothing through the tangles and later sets up a burner with essential oils to aid him in decompressing. He also, for reasons unknown even to himself, decides to toss a blanket over him. It’s comedically small compared to his giant body, but Wriothesley dusts his hands with a proud beam. Neuvilette has dozed off, his breathing more steadied and relaxed.
The exhaustion is catching up to him too, and Wriothesley lays next to him, eventually falling asleep.
When he wakes, Neuvilette has returned to his human form, naked and curled under the blanket, huddled near him for warmth. Wriothesley pulls the blanket over Neuvilette’s bare shoulder and secures an arm around his waist to hold him closer. His body is warm from the sun, but the air is cool. He can’t have the Iudex falling sick, not after he’s spent a whole day nursing him back to health, can he?
He lazes a bit more on the mossy ground before helping Neuvilette to his chambers, laying him onto the soft mattress. Wriothesley contemplates staying a little longer, smoothing the creases of Neuvilette’s frown.
It won’t be long before he’s back at the Palais, back to his demanding schedule, to his little residence in the city. Wriothesley wonders if the apartment is too cramped for a dragon, if its kitchen is equipped with whatever health supplements he’s fed him today. He ought to make a trip there one day.
Oh- a tipsy Alhaitham running his fingers through the ends of Kaveh’s hair, his ministrations slow and thoughtful.
Kaveh has been rattling on about something, leaving his cup completely untouched. Maybe it’s about the newest Genius Invocation card deck- the topics are shuttling back and forth between him and his colleague and it’s too much of a hassle to keep up. Kaveh is animated, eyes glittering as he taps his card back repeatedly, as though completely unaware of Haitham’s actions.
Reclined in the booth’s divan with his arm propped along the seat back, Haitham curls a stray blonde lock and tucks it behind Kaveh’s ear, letting his fingers follow the length of hair as it’s laid over his shoulders. He continues weaving gold strands between his fingers, gaze tracing them to the tips that fade to brown.
“What do we have here…” the colleague sitting across him leans in with an ugly, teasing look. “Look at you, so docile…” he slurs, making the snark remark with a crooked grin. “Who knew the mighty scribe had such a side... Makes you wonder what he’s like in bed, huh?” He jokes to the others sitting around him, and this earns a smatter of howls and laughs in agreement.
Haitham has had a bit more to drink than he’d liked tonight, but despite feeling a little more than buzzed, he turns to him with a bored expression, “Where else am to look, if not at my lover?” Haitham replies in a flat tone. “You should worry less about my sex life, and more about how to keep yours out of everyone’s business. We don’t need your one-night stands showing up at lunch and screaming the roofs down now, do we?”
The table falls silent, and his colleague falters, blinking slowly before his face turns a bright red. Kaveh’s incessant chatter eventually trails off as he too grows aware of the sudden tension.
“How dare you,” his colleague snipes back with an acidic tone, lips pulled into an ugly scowl.
Haitham sighs like he’s bored, lifting his cup halfway to his lips when at this moment, his eyes suddenly light up. “How dare I?”
Without warning, his hand still in Kaveh’s hair snakes up the back of his head as he guides Kaveh to meet his lips in a slow, passionate kiss. Hot, open-mouthed and absolutely debauched, Haitham slides his tongue over Kaveh’s, gently tugging his head back to gain deeper access into his warm mouth. He’s well aware of the outright stares, but it doesn’t stop him from sucking Kaveh’s tongue and running his own along the insides of his cheeks, and Haitham can only think of how much Kaveh tastes like fruit tea. Had he not had a single drop of wine since sitting down?
Haitham can feel Kaveh’s balled fists twisting his clothes in a silent and vehement protest, but Haitham sinks his teeth into Kaveh's lower lip to prevent him from escaping.
There’s a loud clatter and Haitham spies from the corner of his eye his colleague kicking the chair as he storms out of the tavern. A couple others follow him, stumbling over themselves.
It is only then that Haitham finally releases Kaveh’s mouth with a soft peck brushed over his now slightly swollen lips. But despite this gentling, Kaveh is incandescent with rage and embarrassment. His cheeks are flushed a henna berry crimson to the tip of his ears (cute, thinks a dazed Haitham) and he can only stare daggers at Haitham while their colleagues look on with equal parts envy and incredulousness.
“Alhaitham-”
“Cards! Cards- did you see Cyno’s latest deck? It’s amazing- I heard he commissioned Calx himself!” Someone pipes up and the table breaks into an uproar once more, discordant conversations picking up and overlapping one another. There’s more chattering and clinking of glasses and bottles while Haitham returns to the quiet of his mind again. He sinks back the rest of his drink and into the plush cushions. Kaveh reluctantly tears his eyes away from Haitham, attempting to ease back into the conversation he was so abruptly snatched from.
Haitham returns to his previous ministrations, and he carts two fingers loosely through the hair just above Kaveh’s ear, brushing against it as he coils gold over his shoulder.
This time, Kaveh’s cheeks are stained scarlet and his eyes keep straying towards Haitham. Haitham continues his movements, silently pleased at having won his attention. Now it was only a matter of how long Kaveh could resist.
a/n: if anyone's interested in this becoming a miniseries, lmk! it’ll mean a lot <3 happy reading :)
reblogs are also very appreciated!
.｡.:*☆
“What do you want?”
He asks into the dark, his voice quiet and low. The air-conditioning hums imperceptibly in the background, barely heard above the creak of a chair as Zhongli takes his seat behind his desk.
It’s as good as a throne, Childe thinks, appreciating the way the florescent lights from the city below silhouette the looming frame of the chair. It shrouds Zhongli in shadow, and it only adds to the mystery of his actions, of why Childe was summoned here at such a late hour. Childe cannot recall anything he might have done wrong, and he decides instead to try and relax as he stands before him, like a guard awaiting instructions.
Neither have bothered with the lights since they stepped into the office. Childe watches a small orange flame come to life with the click of a lighter, and Zhongli lights his pipe to take a slow, thoughtful drag.
“You’ve risen the ranks faster than most,” he begins, “And you have contributed much to the business. Now, you are here," he gestures at the room, “by the strong recommendation of your supervisor for a promotion,” he takes another drag. “One cannot help but wonder what is it you are truly after."
Childe lets the words sink in, and he has to take a moment to think before he replies, “Nothing,”
Truthfully, his mind has been elsewhere this whole time, enraptured by Zhongli's every movement. Whatever he did, his eyes naturally seemed to follow.
He's seen Zhongli sink a knife into a man’s chest and twist it like a key in a lock, hold another’s head underwater without batting an eye. And all the while, Childe had found himself paralyzed by a feeling that made his lungs stall and heart pound. (No, it isn’t fear, because Childe could do twice as much and barely feel his pulse skip.)
Even now, though his eyes struggle to discern his broad frame from the shadows, he cannot look away when Zhongli takes another drag from his pipe to dispel a cloud from his lips…
“Oh?” Zhongli chuckles, and the cloud is scattered into the darkness. “Let me help you spell it out: if you want to kill me, now’s your best shot.”
Childe blinks, a little taken aback, yet amused at his forwardness. “Thank you,” he replies with a lighthearted chuckle, “but I’ve never had any intention of hurting you in the slightest, ever.” He feels the weight of Zhongli’s gaze on him; picking him apart, peeling back his skin, scrutinising every fibre of his thought, his intention, of his being. Childe has seen that look on him, and rarely ever do things bode well for those who have received it.
“And I should believe you?” he questions, gently expelling another puff of smoke, and his gaze eventually drifts to the window. “Don’t let a good opportunity go to waste.” He mutters, something distant about his voice.
“I assure you,” Childe hopes he sounds as earnest as he looks with his palms splayed against the air. “I don't want to do anything. I just… want to be good at this job. It's the only thing that has worked out for me.”
Zhongli puts away his pipe and pours himself a glass of whiskey, emptying it in one gulp. He pours another, but this time, as if his attention has shifted elsewhere, he sets the glass down on the table.
“Come,” he says to him after a moment’s thought.
Childe’s feet move on their own towards the desk, and Zhongli indicates for him to come around it. He holds out his gloved hand, palm turned downwards.
“Remove it,”
At this distance, Childe can make out the faint contour of his sharp features, his amber eyes taking on a dark garnet in his light, and he feels like he's being sucked into a vortex. His eyes drop to the ring on Zhongli's outstretched hand, the dull silver band that's wrapped around his thumb.
An accessory or gift, Childe lets himself wonder for a brief moment. He carefully removes it, placing it on the desk with a soft thud. He glances up, and Zhongli prompts him again with a lift of his finger.
With steady hands, he gently removes the glove, and he quietly gasps. In the silence of the room, it is deafening. He immediately regrets it, yet part of him cannot bring himself to pull away.
“The sleeve,” Zhongli prompts once more when Childe has stilled.
He does as he’s told, rolling the sleeve up to his elbow. It’s as if Zhongli's arm was dipped in black paint, smeared up to his bicep where it begins to fade into pale skin. Almost to check if it were real, Childe touches his arm, until he realises it is neither paint nor dust, nor injury. “Sir-”
In an unforeseen move Zhongli grabs his wrist in an iron-tight grip, and the back of his hand begins to glow a soft golden light in the shape of a diamond. The illuminated marks run a line along his forearm and disappear up his sleeve. Where they continue, Childe is only left to imagine.
His amber eyes return, pulsing like embers in a fire. “If you lie to me,” he growls, leaving his statement unfinished, but the subtlest curl of his lip suggests a challenge veiled behind that threat.
There is no possibility of leaving the organisation alive now, not after witnessing something like this. Yet, of all the emotions he should be experiencing, a newfound confidence begins to swell in him- along with something else, something that causes his heart to hammer in a way he knows that if he accepts all this before him, he’s done for. There’s no going back now.
Ignoring all warnings of his rational mind, Childe leans in to brush his lips against Zhongli’s inner wrist, and it earns an audible gasp from the latter. “What are you doing-”
The latter lags, and Childe takes advantage of this to turn his hand over and press his lips to the illuminated diamond etched into Zhongli's skin. He gaze darts up to meet with Zhongli, whose usually stoic expression is betrayed by a wrinkle between his brow, illuminated by the ambient glow of his tattoos.
Childe forces his voice steady. “I pledge my loyalty and life to the cause,” he breathes, his stomach fluttering and his blood singing, “to you,”
Zhongli immediately yanks his hand away, and the glowing embers of his eyes begin to simmer with rage. All other emotions are wiped clean from his face. He promptly pulls his sleeve down and grabs his glove.
Childe feels the burn of his brief gaze sweep over him, and he wills his knees not to give out right there and then. He can only watch as Zhongli storms out the room, slamming the doors shut behind him.
Childe is left in the dark, his mind whirling in the remains of Zhongli's smoke and cologne. He is frozen to the spot for a good minute, and when he finally comes to his senses, he feels like he might puke.
“Fuck…” he mutters, grabbing the crystal glass and downing its contents in one gulp. The whiskey burns his throat, moving like lava down his oesophagus, settling into his stomach like tamed fire.
It barely calms his nerves, but he’ll need more than that for what he’s just done. He’s really fucked up this time.
a/n: if anyone's interested in this becoming a miniseries, lmk! it’ll mean a lot <3 happy reading :)
reblogs are also very appreciated!
.｡.:*☆
“What do you want?”
He asks into the dark, his voice quiet and low. The air-conditioning hums imperceptibly in the background, barely heard above the creak of a chair as Zhongli takes his seat behind his desk.
It’s as good as a throne, Childe thinks, appreciating the way the florescent lights from the city below silhouette the looming frame of the chair. It shrouds Zhongli in shadow, and it only adds to the mystery of his actions, of why Childe was summoned here at such a late hour. Childe cannot recall anything he might have done wrong, and he decides instead to try and relax as he stands before him, like a guard awaiting instructions.
Neither have bothered with the lights since they stepped into the office. Childe watches a small orange flame come to life with the click of a lighter, and Zhongli lights his pipe to take a slow, thoughtful drag.
“You’ve risen the ranks faster than most,” he begins, “And you have contributed much to the business. Now, you are here," he gestures at the room, “by the strong recommendation of your supervisor for a promotion,” he takes another drag. “One cannot help but wonder what is it you are truly after."
Childe lets the words sink in, and he has to take a moment to think before he replies, “Nothing,”
Truthfully, his mind has been elsewhere this whole time, enraptured by Zhongli's every movement. Whatever he did, his eyes naturally seemed to follow.
He's seen Zhongli sink a knife into a man’s chest and twist it like a key in a lock, hold another’s head underwater without batting an eye. And all the while, Childe had found himself paralyzed by a feeling that made his lungs stall and heart pound. (No, it isn’t fear, because Childe could do twice as much and barely feel his pulse skip.)
Even now, though his eyes struggle to discern his broad frame from the shadows, he cannot look away when Zhongli takes another drag from his pipe to dispel a cloud from his lips…
“Oh?” Zhongli chuckles, and the cloud is scattered into the darkness. “Let me help you spell it out: if you want to kill me, now’s your best shot.”
Childe blinks, a little taken aback, yet amused at his forwardness. “Thank you,” he replies with a lighthearted chuckle, “but I’ve never had any intention of hurting you in the slightest, ever.” He feels the weight of Zhongli’s gaze on him; picking him apart, peeling back his skin, scrutinising every fibre of his thought, his intention, of his being. Childe has seen that look on him, and rarely ever do things bode well for those who have received it.
“And I should believe you?” he questions, gently expelling another puff of smoke, and his gaze eventually drifts to the window. “Don’t let a good opportunity go to waste.” He mutters, something distant about his voice.
“I assure you,” Childe hopes he sounds as earnest as he looks with his palms splayed against the air. “I don't want to do anything. I just… want to be good at this job. It's the only thing that has worked out for me.”
Zhongli puts away his pipe and pours himself a glass of whiskey, emptying it in one gulp. He pours another, but this time, as if his attention has shifted elsewhere, he sets the glass down on the table.
“Come,” he says to him after a moment’s thought.
Childe’s feet move on their own towards the desk, and Zhongli indicates for him to come around it. He holds out his gloved hand, palm turned downwards.
“Remove it,”
At this distance, Childe can make out the faint contour of his sharp features, his amber eyes taking on a dark garnet in his light, and he feels like he's being sucked into a vortex. His eyes drop to the ring on Zhongli's outstretched hand, the dull silver band that's wrapped around his thumb.
An accessory or gift, Childe lets himself wonder for a brief moment. He carefully removes it, placing it on the desk with a soft thud. He glances up, and Zhongli prompts him again with a lift of his finger.
With steady hands, he gently removes the glove, and he quietly gasps. In the silence of the room, it is deafening. He immediately regrets it, yet part of him cannot bring himself to pull away.
“The sleeve,” Zhongli prompts once more when Childe has stilled.
He does as he’s told, rolling the sleeve up to his elbow. It’s as if Zhongli's arm was dipped in black paint, smeared up to his bicep where it begins to fade into pale skin. Almost to check if it were real, Childe touches his arm, until he realises it is neither paint nor dust, nor injury. “Sir-”
In an unforeseen move Zhongli grabs his wrist in an iron-tight grip, and the back of his hand begins to glow a soft golden light in the shape of a diamond. The illuminated marks run a line along his forearm and disappear up his sleeve. Where they continue, Childe is only left to imagine.
His amber eyes return, pulsing like embers in a fire. “If you lie to me,” he growls, leaving his statement unfinished, but the subtlest curl of his lip suggests a challenge veiled behind that threat.
There is no possibility of leaving the organisation alive now, not after witnessing something like this. Yet, of all the emotions he should be experiencing, a newfound confidence begins to swell in him- along with something else, something that causes his heart to hammer in a way he knows that if he accepts all this before him, he’s done for. There’s no going back now.
Ignoring all warnings of his rational mind, Childe leans in to brush his lips against Zhongli’s inner wrist, and it earns an audible gasp from the latter. “What are you doing-”
The latter lags, and Childe takes advantage of this to turn his hand over and press his lips to the illuminated diamond etched into Zhongli's skin. He gaze darts up to meet with Zhongli, whose usually stoic expression is betrayed by a wrinkle between his brow, illuminated by the ambient glow of his tattoos.
Childe forces his voice steady. “I pledge my loyalty and life to the cause,” he breathes, his stomach fluttering and his blood singing, “to you,”
Zhongli immediately yanks his hand away, and the glowing embers of his eyes begin to simmer with rage. All other emotions are wiped clean from his face. He promptly pulls his sleeve down and grabs his glove.
Childe feels the burn of his brief gaze sweep over him, and he wills his knees not to give out right there and then. He can only watch as Zhongli storms out the room, slamming the doors shut behind him.
Childe is left in the dark, his mind whirling in the remains of Zhongli's smoke and cologne. He is frozen to the spot for a good minute, and when he finally comes to his senses, he feels like he might puke.
“Fuck…” he mutters, grabbing the crystal glass and downing its contents in one gulp. The whiskey burns his throat, moving like lava down his oesophagus, settling into his stomach like tamed fire.
It barely calms his nerves, but he’ll need more than that for what he’s just done. He’s really fucked up this time.
a/n: been sitting in the drafts for a while! wish we can have a ball-themed event or smth (new skins too maybe winky wink) but anyway enjoy this lil drabble!<3
Neuvilette and Wriothesley at a ball- it’s all stolen glances from across the room, busy tending to their companions and missing opportunities to talk to each other. A polite nod, an inclined wine glass and a hand over his mouth to hide a smile when Wriothesley does a little dancing jig.
When they do finally meet, it’s in the garden, but Neuvilette is busy entertaining guests. Wriothesley worms his way through the crowd, a hand reaching out to gently cup the judge’s elbow, and a flash of a charming smile when he successfully has his attention.
“Might I steal you away for a moment?”
Neuvilette is a little stunned at the sudden interruption. He falters, “I’m afraid you will have to wait, this gentleman and I were in the middle of an extremely intriguing conversation-”
“Sigewinne said it was urgent,” Wriothesley lies without flinching, even adding a subtle frown for good measure. “She sounded rather anxious.”
Neuvilette, looking rather alarmed at this point swiftly excuses himself, and he lets Wriothesley lead him out the garden. “Is everything all right? Is she feeling unwell?”
Of course, everything is fine. Sigewinne is having cider and engaged in conversation with Aether and Paimon. Neuvilette even overhears something about exchanging recipes. He turns to Wriothesley, who feigns confusion.
“Oh, I must've been mistaken,” he shrugs, shooting Neuvilette an innocent smile. “Since you’re here, how about a dance?”
Neuvilette sighs. “Wriothesley,” a leveled gaze and a slow turn of his head, he looked neither amused, nor displeased.
“Come now,” Wriothesley tries his luck, knowing Neuvilette well enough to see that there was still room for persuasion. He extends one hand while he takes Neuvilette’s glass with another, setting it down on the nearest marble counter. “Just one, for old times’ sake?”
The judge is hesitant, glancing between him and the other attendees. “I will have to politely decline. In this area, I am but a fish out of water-”
Wriothesley grabs his hand, deftly pulling him into position. In a blink of an eye, they are falling in rhythm with the music, floating over marble tiles and twirling through the dancing crowd. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
Neuvilette sighs once more, but this time it is accompanied by a small curl of his lips. “It was a very enlightening dialogue-”
“Tell me, I want to know,” Wriothesley grins. He steps closer, tightening his hold on him as he guides them across the floor, never once missing a step. “I’m all ears,”
