The predator never leaves empty–handed.
❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a dangerous game of wits and desire, you face a relentless predator who revels in breaking your icy facade—one kiss, one bruise, one twisted taunt at a time. But as his obsession deepens, the line between captor and captive begins to blur, leaving you to wonder who’s really in control.
♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I’d Burn the World.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Childe (Tartaglia) x Fem. Reader
♡ Novella. Blood and Salt – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 10,626
♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, general non-con, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, rough play, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, descriptions of gore, medical malpractice
♡ A/N. This is a request, but I have yet to complete the required full story (hence, why the proof of request isn’t present at the moment). This will most likely have 3-4 parts in total (of course, assuming people don’t ask for sequels, but that’s unlikely based on my experience…). This first part serves mostly as an intro, the following parts will have more NSFW yandere-centric content.
The Fatui base reeked of damp stone and iron, the stench of blood mingling with the sterile tang of antiseptic. Tartaglia—No. 11 of the Harbingers, Childe to the outside world—dragged himself through the winding corridors, his bloodied boots leaving a crimson trail on the cold floor. His breath came in ragged bursts, his body screaming in protest with every step. Yet his grin was maddening, all sharp edges and dangerous delight, a testament to the high of the battle still coursing through his veins.
When he reached the infirmary door, he kicked it open with a violent thud, collapsing onto a nearby cot with an exaggerated groan. The chaos he exuded seemed almost calculated, like a wolf throwing itself into a den of lambs just to watch them scatter. But here, there was no panic—only your unflinching, cold stare as you emerged from the shadows.
“Number Eleven,” you said, your voice devoid of warmth. It wasn’t a greeting, merely an acknowledgment of his presence. Your white coat rustled faintly as you approached, a scalpel glinting in your hand, more an extension of your being than a mere tool. “Still alive, I see. How tedious.”
Childe’s grin widened, teeth flashing like a predator who’d found something intriguing. “Don’t sound too excited to see me, Doc. I might think you care.”
You didn’t respond, instead peeling away the layers of his blood-soaked uniform with methodical precision. Beneath the fabric, his skin was marred by deep gashes and burns, the aftermath of his clash with the Traveler and the betrayal he’d been unwittingly ensnared in. Your gaze lingered on the wounds, but not out of sympathy. No, your interest was clinical, as if dissecting a particularly perplexing specimen.
“You’ve sustained second-degree burns on your left flank, a puncture wound dangerously close to your liver, and a laceration here that’s…impressively idiotic. Did you aim for the blade yourself?”
Childe chuckled, wincing as the motion tugged at his injuries. “You’re sharp as ever. Maybe that’s why they keep paying your absurd fees.”
“They pay because I’m competent,” you corrected, pressing a cloth soaked in antiseptic against his side. The hiss of the disinfectant biting into his flesh drew a sharp intake of breath from him, but you didn’t waver. “Hold still, unless you want me to accidentally sever an artery.”
“You say that like it’s not intentional,” Childe muttered, watching you work with an unsettling fascination. There was something almost hypnotic about your precision, the way your hands moved with unerring certainty. It was as if you operated on instinct alone, devoid of the emotional tremors that plagued lesser medics.
But it wasn’t your skill that intrigued him most. No, it was the way you refused to flinch under the weight of his presence. Even now, as he bled all over your pristine floor, his very existence a storm of chaos and carnage, you treated him like an inconvenience. Like he was nothing.
“You’re a curious one, Doc,” Childe said, his voice softening to a murmur. “No Vision, no extraordinary strength…and yet here you are, holding your own among the likes of us. Tell me, what keeps you going? What makes you tick?”
You didn’t answer immediately, your focus remaining on the sutures you were threading through his torn flesh. When you finally spoke, your tone was as icy as ever. “Gold and knowledge. Nothing more, nothing less.”
His laughter echoed through the infirmary, low and almost mocking. “That’s it? No grand ideals, no hidden motives? Just greed and curiosity? How dull.”
“And yet you’re still here,” you countered, your eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments. In that instant, something unspoken passed between you—a clash of wills, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm that separated you. “Perhaps you find dullness comforting. Predictable. Unlike your life, which seems to be a perpetual spiral of self-destruction.”
Childe’s grin faltered, his expression hardening. For a moment, the playful veneer slipped, revealing the abyss lurking beneath. The bloodlust, the hunger for chaos, the undeniable truth that he thrived on the brink of annihilation.
“Careful, Doc,” he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You’re starting to sound like you know me.”
“I know enough,” you replied, tying off the final suture with a practiced flick of your wrist. “Enough to understand that people like you only survive because of people like me. Now, if you’re done bleeding all over my floor, get out. I have more important things to do.”
Childe sat up slowly, testing the limits of his freshly mended body. He winced but didn’t complain, his gaze lingering on you as you cleaned your instruments with the same detached efficiency as before.
“You’re cold, Doc,” he said, his grin returning, though it was tempered now, quieter. “But I like that about you. Makes me wonder what’s hiding underneath all that ice.”
You didn’t dignify him with a response, turning your back on him as you prepared for your next patient. For all his bluster and bravado, Childe was just another Harbinger—a cog in the Fatui’s relentless machine. And you? You were the blade that kept the cogs turning, sharp and unyielding.
As he left the infirmary, his footsteps fading into the distance, you allowed yourself a single thought:
“Nothing hides beneath the ice. Because there is nothing left to hide.”
────────────
The Fatui base had always been your world. Its cold, labyrinthine halls seemed endless to outsiders, but to you, they were a map etched into your very being. You had grown up here—an anomaly of sharp intellect and colder disposition. From the moment you were brought into this machine of violence and control, you had known your place. Not a soldier, not a pawn, but something altogether more useful: a scalpel, precise and unyielding, in the hands of a master.
That master was Pantalone.
Even now, years later, you could recall the first time you met him. You had been a child, barely old enough to comprehend what survival truly meant. Yet, even then, your eyes had been sharper than most—quick to discern the falsehoods in promises, the flaws in logic, and the danger that dripped from every word spoken by the Fatui. But Pantalone? He had been different. Not warm, not kind, but steady. His gaze had swept over you with the same calculating precision you’d later adopt for yourself, as if weighing your worth in coin.
And you had passed his test.
He had taken you in, molded you into something far greater than the sum of your small frame and deadened eyes. He taught you not to fear the dark but to wield it, to recognize that knowledge was not only power but currency, and that currency could buy anything—even safety. You became his tool, his protégé, and, in time, his shadow.
People whispered about the two of you, calling your relationship “off,” as if they could fathom the intricate balance you shared. Pantalone was both protector and architect of your existence. You owed him everything, and you had never questioned it—not even when he had sent you to the medical sector, claiming your talents could serve the Fatui better there. You hadn’t argued, though the move had felt like being severed from the foundation of your being. If Pantalone willed it, you obeyed. Always.
———
The infirmary door swung shut behind Childe, but his presence lingered like a toxin in the air, a reminder that your life in the Fatui was never free from chaos. You cleaned the blood from your hands with practiced efficiency, the motion automatic, mechanical. The crimson stains washed away, but your thoughts did not. They lingered on the Harbinger’s grin, the predatory glint in his eyes, the way he spoke as if he were unraveling you with every word.
He wouldn’t be the first to try.
You were younger than most of your peers in the medical sector, but none of them questioned your authority. Your skill had silenced the skeptics long ago, and your unflinching demeanor had done the rest. You had no need for their approval, no use for their camaraderie. You worked for coin and knowledge—nothing more, nothing less.
And yet, as you dried your hands and prepared for the next patient, your mind wandered to Pantalone. He had always been your constant, the one unshakable pillar in a world of shifting alliances and blood-soaked deals. Even now, when you were technically independent, you found yourself drifting back to him. After every shift, you would seek him out, trailing in his shadow like a phantom. You never spoke unless spoken to, never imposed. You simply existed in his orbit, waiting.
Waiting for what, you didn’t know.
———
Pantalone was waiting for you when you returned that evening. His office was immaculate, as always, every surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. He didn’t look up as you entered, his attention fixed on the stack of ledgers spread before him. But he didn’t need to acknowledge you; he knew you were there. He always did.
“Busy day?” he asked without looking up, his voice as smooth and calculated as ever.
You didn’t answer. You never did unless the question required it. Instead, you stepped closer, your hands clasped behind your back like a student awaiting instruction.
“You’ve been spending more time in the infirmary than necessary,” he continued, finally raising his gaze to meet yours. His dark eyes were unreadable, his expression carefully neutral. “Is there something—or someone—keeping you there?”
It was an innocuous question, but you felt the weight of it like a blade against your throat. Pantalone’s words always carried an undercurrent of calculation, as if every syllable was part of a grander equation only he could see.
“No,” you replied, your voice steady. “I go where I’m needed.”
His lips quirked into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “Good. It would be… unfortunate if your priorities were to shift.”
The unspoken warning hung in the air, a reminder that your loyalty to him was not only expected but required. You nodded, accepting it without question. Whatever else you were—doctor, tool, scalpel—you would always belong to Pantalone.
———
Later that night, as you lay awake in the sterile confines of your quarters, you found your thoughts drifting once more.
To Childe, with his maddening grin and unrelenting chaos.
To Pantalone, with his icy precision and the unspoken bond that tethered you to him.
Two men, as different as fire and ice, yet both carving their marks into your carefully constructed world.
You closed your eyes, but sleep did not come.
Instead, the shadows pressed in around you, whispers of something darker, something inevitable.
You had always thrived in the cold, but now, for the first time, you wondered what it would feel like to burn.
────────────
The smell of blood and ozone clung to Childe like a second skin, a testament to the carnage he wore as naturally as his smile. When he entered the infirmary this time, the tension that followed him wasn’t just from the wounds he carried but the weight of his relentless curiosity. He wanted something from you—something more than stitches and silence—and you could feel it in the way his gaze burned into your back.
You didn’t look up as he stepped inside, your gloved hands deftly arranging a tray of sterilized instruments. His boots scuffed against the floor, leaving faint streaks of dirt and blood in their wake.
“Back again so soon?” you said, your voice devoid of emotion, a monotone laced with quiet disdain. “I’m starting to think you enjoy being carved apart.”
Childe’s laughter was low and almost melodic, but it carried the edge of something darker. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s accused me of that, Doc. But hey, if it means seeing your lovely face—”
“Sit down.” Your words cut through his like a scalpel, sharp and unyielding. You turned toward him, your expression unreadable beneath the cold veneer you wore like armor. “You’re wasting my time.”
His grin faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, sprawling onto the nearest cot with a theatrical groan. He tugged at his shirt, revealing the gash across his ribs that oozed crimson with every shallow breath. The wound was jagged, messy, and fresh, though your eyes flicked over the faint scars crisscrossing his skin with a precision that missed nothing. Some of them were old, but others—fainter, more deliberate—were far too recent.
Self-inflicted.
You said nothing, your hands moving with mechanical efficiency as you began cleaning the wound. The antiseptic hissed against his skin, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him, but you didn’t pause. Your focus was absolute, your hands steady as you worked.
“You know,” Childe said, his voice lilting as he tried to draw you out, “most people would at least try to make conversation. Ask me how I’m feeling, maybe. Offer me a lollipop when it’s all done.”
“I’m not most people.” Your reply was clipped, your gaze never leaving the sutures you were threading through his flesh. The needle pierced his skin with a precision that bordered on inhuman, the thread weaving through the torn muscle like the strings of a marionette.
“That much is obvious,” he muttered, watching you with a fascination that bordered on unsettling. “You’re like a ghost, you know that? Always here, but never… there.”
You didn’t respond, your silence as sharp as the scalpel resting on your tray. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to unnerve you with idle chatter, and it wouldn’t be the last. But Childe was persistent, his curiosity gnawing at him like a dog with a bone.
“Come on, Doc,” he pressed, his tone turning almost playful. “What’s the harm in a little small talk? You could at least tell me your favorite color. Or your name. I’m dying to know.”
“You’re not dying.” You pulled the thread tight, tying off the suture with a finality that left no room for argument. “Though, at the rate you’re going, that may change.”
He winced as you pressed a bandage against the wound, your hands moving with a swiftness that left him no time to react. “So cold,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something softer, more dangerous. “It’s almost like you enjoy this. The blood, the pain… the control.”
You straightened, peeling off your gloves and tossing them into the waste bin with practiced ease. “I enjoy being paid,” you said flatly, turning away from him. “As long as your mora is good, I’ll keep you alive. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“And if I stopped paying?” he asked, his grin returning, though there was a sharpness to it now, a glint of something feral in his eyes. “Would you let me bleed out on your floor, Doc? Would you even blink?”
You paused, your hand hovering over the tray of instruments. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint hum of the infirmary’s ventilation system. Then you turned back to him, your gaze meeting his with an iciness that froze the air between you.
“Try it,” you said, your voice soft but laced with steel. “See how far your charm gets you when the mora runs out.”
His laughter echoed through the room, low and almost mocking. “You’re fascinating, you know that? I’ve faced gods, monsters, and everything in between, but you? You’re an enigma.”
You said nothing, your silence more damning than any reply. You had seen men like him before—thrill-seekers, chaos incarnate, desperate to shatter anything they couldn’t understand. But you weren’t something to be broken. You were the scalpel, the blade that carved through the chaos with ruthless precision.
And Childe? He was just another wound to stitch shut. Another patient to patch up and send back into the fray.
As he slid off the cot, testing the limits of his freshly mended body, he flashed you one last grin. “You can’t stay silent forever, Doc,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “One day, I’ll get under that icy skin of yours.”
You didn’t reply, your back already turned to him as you cleaned the instruments. His footsteps echoed as he left, the sound fading into the distance. And when the infirmary door swung shut behind him, you allowed yourself a single thought:
Some wounds weren’t worth healing.
———
The first time Childe tried to woo you, he began with something grand—fireworks in the desolate tundra of Snezhnaya. The sound cracked through the frozen air like gunshots, brilliant bursts of red and gold illuminating the oppressive gray skies. It was loud, jarring, beautiful, and utterly wasted. You didn’t even glance at the window. Instead, your focus remained on the gory mess of a Fatui soldier who had botched a mission and returned in shreds, your gloved hands threading sutures through his mangled flesh without a flicker of distraction.
“Really?” you’d muttered, your tone laced with quiet irritation as the walls rattled from the explosions outside. “Do you think this is the time or place for such nonsense?”
Childe, standing in the doorway, had grinned. “Come on, Doc, don’t you think it’s romantic? You and me, blood and fireworks. What could be better?”
Your only response was a glare colder than the frost creeping up the infirmary windows. It wasn’t disdain; it wasn’t even anger. It was complete and utter disinterest, as if he were nothing more than a shadow on the periphery of your world.
But he wasn’t deterred. Childe was nothing if not persistent.
———
The next week, he tried subtlety. He left small tokens for you, each more thoughtful and intimate than the last. A book of medical texts older than the Fatui itself, its leather cover worn and cracked. A jar of rare herbs cultivated only in the depths of Enkanomiya, their use obscure but undoubtedly valuable. Even a delicate scalpel forged from Orichalcum, its blade so sharp it could slice through bone as easily as paper.
You accepted each offering with the same detached efficiency you applied to everything else. The book was shelved without comment, the herbs labeled and stored in your inventory, and the scalpel placed neatly among your tools.
“Do you like it?” he’d asked one day, leaning casually against the doorway as you cleaned instruments. His tone was light, but there was a razor edge beneath it, a hunger for validation that he masked poorly.
“It’s adequate,” you replied, your gaze never leaving the bloodstained tray before you. “Thank you.”
That was the first time he saw your lips move in something resembling politeness. But the faint spark it ignited within him was immediately extinguished by the icy void in your tone.
———
When subtlety failed, Childe turned to extravagance again. He stormed into the infirmary one day with a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders, its fur as white as freshly fallen snow. Behind him, a Fatui recruit dragged the hulking carcass of the creature, its size dwarfing that of any normal beast. Its eyes stared lifelessly into the void, its jaws frozen in a snarl even in death.
“For you, Doc,” he said, his grin feral, the blood of the beast still splattered across his face. “Thought it might make a nice rug. Or maybe a coat. Something to keep you warm, since you seem so damn cold all the time.”
You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. You simply looked at the beast, then at him, and said, “Dispose of it. You’re contaminating my workspace.”
For the first time, he faltered, his grin slipping into something closer to frustration. But he recovered quickly, chuckling as he signaled for the recruit to haul the carcass away.
“Playing hard to get, huh?” he muttered, half to himself. “Fine. I like a challenge.”
———
By the third week, his persistence had taken on an edge of desperation. The gifts became more frequent, the gestures more elaborate, and his presence more intrusive. He appeared in the infirmary at all hours, sometimes with fresh wounds and sometimes with none at all, just for an excuse to linger in your space.
“You know, most people would’ve fallen for me by now,” he said one evening, lounging on a cot as you stitched up yet another gash on his arm. His voice was smooth, but there was an unmistakable tension in it, a crack in the facade. “I’ve got charm, looks, power… What’s your deal, Doc? Are you even human under all that ice?”
Your needle paused for the briefest of moments, so subtle it was almost imperceptible. But Childe noticed.
“You’re wasting my time,” you said, resuming your work with the same detached efficiency as always. “If you have nothing useful to say, keep your mouth shut.”
His grin turned sharp, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You’re good at shutting people out, aren’t you? Makes me wonder what you’re hiding. What’s so broken in there that you won’t let anyone in?”
You tied off the suture and stood, your gaze meeting his for the first time that night. There was no anger in your eyes, no hint of offense. Only an emptiness so profound it was almost suffocating.
“You misunderstand,” you said, your voice as cold and unyielding as the Snezhnayan winter. “There’s nothing to hide. Nothing to break. Now leave.”
For a moment, Childe said nothing, his grin frozen on his face like a mask. Then he laughed—a low, bitter sound that echoed through the infirmary.
“You’re really something, Doc,” he said, standing and rolling his sleeve down over the freshly stitched wound. “But I’m not giving up. Not yet.”
As he walked away, the air seemed to thaw in his absence, but you felt no relief. You knew he’d be back. Childe was like a storm—relentless, chaotic, and impossible to ignore.
But storms could be weathered. And you were the unyielding mountain in their path.
────────────
The infirmary was silent, save for the rhythmic drip of water leaking from somewhere in the cracked stone ceiling. It was late—too late for anyone but the most desperate to seek your aid. Yet there he stood, leaning against the doorway, his grin wolfish and unsettling in the dim light.
“Doc,” Childe said, his voice a soft murmur, edged with something dark and teasing. “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”
You didn’t respond, didn’t even look up from the scalpel you were meticulously sterilizing. His antics had long since become white noise, something to endure rather than acknowledge. But then the sharp, metallic scent of blood hit your nostrils, stronger than usual, and the faintest flicker of curiosity crossed your features.
When you finally turned your head, you saw it.
The corpse was slumped in a wheelbarrow, its flesh discolored in ways that defied the natural progression of decay. Greenish-black veins spiderwebbed across its chest, branching out from a festering wound that pulsed faintly with some unholy residue. Its face was twisted in agony, frozen in the grotesque contortion of its final moments.
“This one,” Childe said, gesturing toward the body with a dramatic flourish, “wasn’t easy to find. Some poor bastard from the Abyss, infected with something… interesting. Don’t ask me what it is—I figured I’d leave that to you.”
He stepped closer, dragging the wheelbarrow into the center of the room. The corpse’s arm flopped out limply over the edge, leaving a wet smear of blood and ichor across the pristine floor.
For the first time since you’d met him, you froze. Not in disgust or revulsion, but in something far more profound. Your cold, unfeeling mask cracked—just a little—as your gaze locked onto the body. Your eyes lit up, faint but undeniable, with something akin to excitement.
Childe’s grin widened, sharper now, predatory. “You like it, don’t you? I knew you would. You’re not like anyone else, Doc. You see beauty in things that’d make most people vomit.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you approached the wheelbarrow, your footsteps slow and deliberate, as if drawn by an invisible force. You knelt beside the body, your gloved hands ghosting over its mottled skin.
“This… decay pattern,” you murmured, your voice almost reverent. “It’s… unusual. The infection—it’s accelerated, but localized. Post-mortem processes are suspended in some areas and hyperactive in others. This isn’t natural.”
Childe leaned against a nearby table, watching you with a mix of amusement and fascination. “Took me days to track him down. Thought it might be worth your while.”
You glanced up at him, and for the first time, your expression wasn’t entirely empty. There was no smile, no overt display of emotion, but the faintest glimmer of gratitude lingered in your eyes, fleeting yet unmistakable.
“This… will require thorough examination,” you said, your voice steadier now. “It’s rare to encounter something like this. You’ve done well.”
His grin faltered, just for a moment, replaced by something softer. But the feral edge returned quickly, his satisfaction bleeding into his words. “That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from you. I’ll take it.”
You ignored him, already lost in the intricate web of disease and decay before you. The scalpel in your hand gleamed under the flickering lamplight as you made the first incision, your movements careful and precise.
Childe didn’t leave. He stayed, watching as you dissected the corpse with a surgeon’s grace and a scholar’s fervor. There was something hypnotic about the way you worked, your focus absolute, your cold detachment melting into something closer to passion.
“You know,” he said after a while, his voice softer now, “you almost look happy.”
Your hands paused mid-cut, but you didn’t look at him. “Happiness is irrelevant. This is… intriguing. That’s all.”
He chuckled, low and almost smug. “If this is what it takes to make you intrigued, I might have to start raiding morgues more often.”
You said nothing, but the faintest tilt of your head suggested you’d heard him. For Childe, that was enough.
As the hours stretched on, he remained a silent observer, his usual bravado muted in the face of your singular focus. The corpse became a canvas, each incision revealing new layers of mystery and horror.
And for the first time, Childe felt like he’d won. Not completely, not yet—but he’d found a crack in your armor, a weakness to exploit.
In the end, it wasn’t charm or extravagance that piqued your interest. It was the grotesque, the morbid, the unknown.
He could work with that.
———
The first time he brought you a corpse, you hadn’t spoken, but your gloved hands trembled faintly as you reached for the scalpel. He didn’t miss it, the subtle shiver of anticipation. Since then, Tartaglia had made it his mission to unearth the macabre, dragging the dead and the dying to your doorstep with an unrelenting grin.
And you let him.
It wasn’t that you encouraged him. You never spoke more than necessary, your tone clinical and stripped of anything personal. But Childe was a hunter, and he recognized the thrill of a chase when he saw it. Each corpse, each grotesque offering, became a challenge. How far could he push? What limits could he break to see that faint flicker of interest in your otherwise impenetrable gaze?
He started small—a soldier infected with a rare disease, his body a roadmap of bloated veins and necrotic flesh. You dissected him with mechanical precision, but there was a spark of intrigue in the way you lingered on the abnormalities, your fingers tracing the patterns of decay like a sculptor studying a masterpiece.
Then came the elders, their bodies twisted by experiments gone wrong, their deaths soaked in cruelty and despair. When he placed the first one on your table, your fingers stilled for a fraction of a second. He swore he saw your lips part as if to speak, but the words never came.
“Not enough?” Childe asked, leaning against the doorway like a specter, his voice low and dripping with mockery. “Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll do better next time.”
And he did.
He brought you a man who had died screaming, his throat raw and his eyes bloodshot from ruptured vessels. He brought you a corpse riddled with scars—self-inflicted, deep grooves carved into flesh by hands trembling with desperation. He brought you a woman whose limbs had been twisted and reshaped into something monstrous, her body a canvas of agony.
Each time, you remained silent. But your actions betrayed you.
You rearranged your office with meticulous care, creating more space for the specimens you insisted on keeping. Your tools gleamed under the harsh lamplight, organized with obsessive precision. Chests appeared, their contents locked away and guarded like treasure.
When you thought no one was watching, you would pause to run your fingers over the edge of a scalpel, or linger just a second too long over a particularly grotesque dissection.
Childe was always watching.
“Death,” he said one evening, his voice soft but laced with something unhinged, “is what makes you tick, isn’t it? You don’t care about life. You care about the end of it.”
You didn’t look up from the corpse on your table, its chest cavity split open to reveal the mess of rotting organs within. But your hand faltered, the scalpel freezing mid-cut.
He grinned, sharp and triumphant. “I knew it.”
The next day, he didn’t bring you a body. Instead, he brought you something… alive.
The man was barely breathing, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps. His skin was pallid, his lips tinged blue, and his eyes—wide, bloodshot—darted around the room like a cornered animal.
“I found him in the Abyss,” Childe said, his voice almost conversational. “Something about the air there eats away at the lungs. He’s got maybe an hour, tops. Thought you’d enjoy figuring out why.”
You turned to him, and for the first time, he saw something that wasn’t cold indifference. There was a faint, almost imperceptible light in your eyes—a glimmer of hunger. Not for the man’s suffering, but for the knowledge buried in his dying body.
Without a word, you moved to the table, gesturing for Childe to lay the man down. Your hands worked quickly, methodically, cutting through flesh and peeling back layers with a precision that bordered on artistry.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Childe murmured, leaning against the wall as he watched. “But you’re fascinating, Doc. You think I don’t notice, but I see it—the way your eyes light up when you’re unraveling the mysteries of death. It’s almost… cute.”
You didn’t respond, but your fingers tightened briefly around the scalpel.
The man died less than thirty minutes later, his body convulsing as whatever toxin the Abyss had left in him completed its work. You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, as you cataloged every detail of his death.
When it was over, you turned back to your tools, your face unreadable. But as you reached for the next specimen, Childe caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
For anyone else, it would have been horrifying. For him, it was victory.
He kept going, kept digging deeper into the grotesque and the morbid, searching for the perfect gift to draw out more of those fleeting reactions. A cursed artifact that reeked of death. A vial of blood that wouldn’t clot, its origins unknown. A severed hand that twitched on its own.
Each time, you accepted his offerings without a word. But your actions spoke volumes.
You started locking your office door when you weren’t there, a sign that the items inside were too valuable—or too personal—to be left unguarded. You began staying late into the night, the faint glow of your lamp visible from the hallway as you worked in silence.
And when Childe brought you a corpse so riddled with death that the very air around it seemed to decay, you didn’t hide the way your hands trembled as you reached for it.
For the first time, you spoke without him prompting you.
“This is… adequate.”
It was the closest thing to praise you’d ever given, and Childe’s grin widened, feral and triumphant.
“You’re welcome, Doc,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Anything for you.”
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The room reeked of formaldehyde and rot, a scent so cloying it seemed to stick to the walls like tar. Instruments gleamed under the sterile glow of the overhead light, sharp and surgical, reflecting faint silhouettes of the monstrosity on the table. The corpse was extraordinary—a tangle of twisted limbs and decaying flesh that almost pulsated with the remnants of a life steeped in agony.
Your gloved hands worked with meticulous precision, slicing through cartilage and peeling back tissue as though unwrapping a gift. Every movement was mechanical, devoid of hesitation, and yet, your voice—low and steady—cut through the silence.
“Why?”
It was the first word you’d ever directed at him unprompted, and Childe, leaning against the far wall, froze. His usual grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of something darker, something less rehearsed.
“Why what, Doc?” he asked, though the rasp in his voice betrayed him.
“Why are you doing this?” You didn’t look up, didn’t pause in your work. The wet squelch of flesh beneath your scalpel filled the air. “Your motives don’t align with anything rational. It’s not charity. It’s not loyalty to the Fatui. So why?”
It wasn’t suspicion in your voice, nor curiosity, but something colder—an analysis, a dissection of his intentions as sharp as the blade in your hand.
He chuckled, a sound too light, too rehearsed, for the weight of the question. “You think I need a reason to spoil you? Maybe I just like seeing you happy.”
“You’re lying.”
His grin faltered again, but you didn’t give him time to recover.
“You’re a harbinger. A soldier. A predator. You don’t invest time and resources into something unless you expect a return. That much is obvious. So what return do you expect from me? What does someone like you want with someone like me?”
Childe pushed off the wall and took a step closer, his boots echoing against the cold, sterile floor. “Maybe I just find you interesting. Ever think about that? You’re not exactly easy to impress, Doc. It’s a challenge.”
You finally paused, your scalpel poised mid-air as you turned to face him. Your gaze was unreadable, cold, and clinical, like a microscope zeroing in on a specimen.
“A challenge?” you repeated, the words slow, deliberate. “Challenges are fleeting. This… obsession isn’t.”
Childe tilted his head, his grin sharp and fox-like. “Obsession, huh? Big word for someone who doesn’t like to talk.”
You ignored the jab, your tone unchanging. “Let’s enumerate the possibilities, shall we? One: this is a power play. You want leverage, perhaps to undermine Pantalone or someone higher. Two: it’s a trap—an elaborate game meant to sabotage me in the future. Three: it’s personal, though your reasons for targeting me specifically remain unclear. Four—”
“Doc, you’re overthinking this,” he interrupted, his voice laced with mock exasperation.
“I don’t overthink,” you shot back, your words cutting through his like a scalpel through flesh. “I calculate. And you don’t fit any predictable pattern. You’ve given me resources, specimens, and opportunities that no one else would, and yet you’ve asked for nothing in return. Why?”
He took another step closer, the dim light catching the sharp edges of his face. “Maybe I do want something in return. Ever think of that?”
“Then state it plainly,” you said, turning back to the corpse on the table. Your hands resumed their work, steady and unbothered. “I’m a scientist first, an entrepreneur second. I don’t play games. If there’s something you want, say it. If not, leave. I don’t have time for irrationality.”
Childe was silent for a long moment, watching you as you worked. The sound of the scalpel slicing through sinew filled the air, almost rhythmic.
Finally, he laughed, low and humorless. “You’re something else, Doc. You really think I’d try to sabotage you? If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”
“Precisely my point,” you said, not looking up. “You’re not stupid enough to waste time on something pointless. So why?”
He stepped closer, until the scent of blood and steel mingled with the faint trace of ocean salt that clung to him. “Maybe,” he said, his voice soft but edged with something dangerous, “I just like you.”
You didn’t pause this time, your scalpel slicing cleanly through a tendon. “An irrational answer.”
“But not untrue.”
Your hands stilled for the briefest moment. You didn’t look at him, but your voice softened, just slightly. “If that’s your reason, then you’re more unhinged than I thought.”
He chuckled, stepping back. “Maybe I am. But you’re still keeping the gifts, aren’t you?”
You didn’t answer. But the faint glint in your eyes as you focused on the corpse before you spoke louder than words.
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The metallic tang of blood was faint in the air, masked by antiseptics and the sterile chill of the room. Childe sat perched on the edge of the examination table, his shirt hanging in tatters around a freshly bandaged wound that seeped sluggishly through the gauze. The injury was deep—slashed through layers of muscle—but it didn’t stop the faint smirk pulling at his lips.
“You know,” he drawled, tilting his head to watch your hands as they methodically wiped down your instruments, “for someone so cold, you sure know how to bleed a guy dry.”
You glanced up, your expression unreadable, though your eyes flicked briefly to the absurdly large stack of bills he’d laid on your desk. “A fair price for the quality of treatment,” you said flatly. “Unless you’d prefer a hospital’s guesswork and subpar sutures.”
“Fair?” he scoffed, though his grin only widened. “I’ve paid assassins less than this. What’s next, Doc? You going to charge me for breathing in here?”
You didn’t look at him as you packed away your tools, your tone calm and clinical. “Considering how much oxygen you waste talking, it’s not a bad idea.”
The laugh that burst from him was sudden and sharp, echoing off the stark walls. “You’ve got a sense of humor under all that frost, huh? Cute.”
You ignored him, stepping to the side to retrieve a sealed vial from your supply cabinet. “Hold still. The last thing I need is you bleeding all over my floor.”
“Careful,” he teased, leaning closer as you prepared a syringe. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re worried about me.”
“I’m worried about pathogens,” you retorted, plunging the needle into his arm with mechanical precision.
Childe winced, though the smile never left his face. “See? Always so gentle with me.”
“Hold pressure on that for ten minutes,” you ordered, handing him a sterile pad before turning back to your desk. “And don’t touch anything. The last thing I need is your germs contaminating my workspace.”
He watched you, his blue eyes gleaming with that familiar spark of mischief. “You’re all business, huh? No time for pleasantries? Not even for this?”
The sound of something small and metallic clicking against the edge of the table drew your attention. You turned, your gaze locking on the object he held—a small, unassuming box, worn but intact, its surface etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly in the low light.
Your composure shifted imperceptibly, but he caught it: the faintest widening of your eyes, the slight hitch in your breath.
“You recognize it,” he said, his voice softening into something almost triumphant.
You stepped closer, reaching for the box, but he pulled it back, holding it just out of your reach.
“Childe,” you said, your tone neutral but firm, “don’t play games.”
“Games?” he echoed, his grin turning sharp as he looked down at you. “This isn’t a game, Doc. It’s a gift. But I think I want to see you work for it.”
You frowned, narrowing your eyes. “You’re bleeding out and still find time to play childish tricks. Hand it over.”
He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Hmm, let me think about that… No.”
Your frustration was palpable, though you refused to show it. Instead, you straightened your posture and regarded him with cold calculation. “If you want me to analyze it, delaying only prolongs your ignorance. And if you’ve damaged it in the process of acquiring it, there’s a high likelihood it’s already unstable. Do you want it studied, or do you want it destroyed?”
His laughter was sudden and sharp, filling the room like a jagged blade. “You really are fun, Doc.”
When you reached for the box again, he held it even higher, forcing you to step closer, your fingers brushing against his arm. He smirked down at you, clearly enjoying the contrast between his towering frame and your smaller stature.
“You asked me once what I wanted in return,” he said, his voice dropping into something quieter, more dangerous. “Do you really want to know?”
You met his gaze, unflinching. “What I want is irrelevant to this transaction. If you want something, state it plainly. Otherwise, leave.”
His grin softened, but the intensity in his eyes only deepened. “What I want…” he trailed off, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “…is to see what happens when someone finally breaks you.”
You stared at him, unblinking. Then, as if his words were nothing more than static, you extended your hand again, your tone clinical. “The box, Childe.”
For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours as though expecting some hidden reaction. But when none came, he let out a low chuckle and finally handed it over.
The moment it was in your grasp, your demeanor shifted ever so slightly. You turned it in your hands, your fingers ghosting over the intricate runes with a reverence you hadn’t shown to anything—or anyone—before.
“Careful,” Childe said, watching you with a mix of amusement and something darker. “Wouldn’t want you to fall in love with me, now.”
You didn’t respond, already engrossed in the artifact, but the faintest ghost of a smile flickered across your lips. Not for him, not even for the jest, but for the promise of discovery in your hands.
———
The air hung thick with the faint hum of restrained energy. Your hands moved with practiced precision, fingertips ghosting over the etchings on the artifact’s surface. Its texture was cold and alien, the runes faintly pulsing beneath your touch like a dying heart. You had already spent hours analyzing its composition, mapping its structure, tracing its origins in the decayed husk of ancient civilizations. And yet—no matter how you probed, no matter what tool or technique you applied—it would not open.
Your patience, like the artifact, was wearing thin. You sat back, your fingers pressing into your temples as if to physically suppress the rising irritation. The solution hovered just out of reach, taunting you like a phantom, and it infuriated you.
“That’s a new look on you, Doc,” Childe’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, sharp and teasing, as he leaned lazily against the doorway. His bloodied shirt hung loosely around his waist, exposing a web of bruises and neatly bandaged cuts. His smirk widened when you didn’t respond. “Frustrated, are we?”
You ignored him, your focus locked on the box. “It’s not frustration,” you said evenly, though the edge in your voice betrayed you. “The mechanism is deliberately obscured—hydro-based in nature, reinforced with a layer of delusion energy. It’s intricate. Too intricate for brute force or conventional methods. I need—” You stopped abruptly, realizing your mistake.
Childe straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest. “You need… me?”
You looked up, fixing him with an icy stare. “I need you to deactivate the hydro lock.”
He stepped closer, his smirk softening into something almost boyish, though the mischief in his eyes remained. “What’s the magic word?”
You blinked, deadpan. “Deactivate it, or I’ll find someone who will.”
“Aw, come on,” he said, feigning a wounded expression as he closed the distance between you. “Don’t be like that. You’re always so formal with me, Doc. What happened to sweet-talking your favorite patient?”
“You’re not my favorite,” you said, your tone clipped.
“Ouch,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “You really know how to hurt a guy. But seriously—” he leaned over, his voice dropping into a low murmur, “—you’ve got to give me something in return. You’ve been running up quite the tab on me lately, you know.”
You straightened, glaring up at him. “You’re already compensated.”
“Am I?” he asked, tilting his head in mock confusion. “You charge me a fortune to fix me up, and now you want me to hand over this for free? Doesn’t sound very fair, does it?”
“Fairness is irrelevant,” you snapped, your patience thinning dangerously. “If you don’t deactivate the lock, this artifact is worthless. And if it’s worthless, so is whatever leverage you think you have.”
He laughed—a deep, rich sound that reverberated through the sterile room. “Oh, Doc, you’re adorable when you’re desperate.”
Your expression darkened, but the heat behind your irritation only seemed to fuel his amusement.
“You’re always so cold, so composed,” he continued, circling you slowly. “But now? Now you’re practically begging. It’s cute. Like a little kitten swiping at something it can’t reach.”
“I am not begging,” you said sharply, though your tightly clenched jaw betrayed your simmering impatience.
“Not yet,” he teased, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned in closer. “But you’re getting there.”
Your hands clenched at your sides, but you forced yourself to remain still, your voice sharp and cutting. “If you’re not going to help, then leave. You’re wasting my time.”
He chuckled, stepping back just enough to stay out of your reach. “Fine, fine. I’ll help. But—” he held up a finger before you could speak, “—only if you give me something in return.”
You frowned. “What do you want?”
He grinned, his expression turning wolfish. “Oh, I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of something.”
“Then we have no deal,” you said curtly, turning back to the artifact.
His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could pull away. His grip was firm but not painful, his tone playful yet edged with something darker. “Easy, Doc. I’m not here to cheat you. I just want a little… cooperation.
You yanked your hand free, glaring up at him. “Cooperation implies mutual benefit. I fail to see how indulging your whims benefits me.”
“That’s because you don’t trust me,” he said, his tone mock-solemn. “Which is fair. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
“Then prove yourself useful,” you said, your tone colder than ever. “Deactivate the lock.”
He tilted his head, his grin widening as he stepped closer, until you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he said softly. “I like seeing you like this. All that frost finally cracking.”
You stared at him, unblinking, your voice low and dangerous. “If you’re trying to provoke me, you’re wasting your time.”
He smirked, leaning in until his lips were inches from your ear. “You sure about that?”
———
The silence stretched, charged and crackling like static between you, his smirk still curling at the edges of his lips as his eyes bore into you, sharp and glittering with something dark and unrelenting. Childe stepped closer, the faint scent of blood and salt clinging to him, a predator inching into his prey’s personal space.
“Tell you what,” he murmured, his voice low and playful, a dangerous lilt underscoring his tone. “I’ll deactivate the lock if you give me something first. Let’s say… a kiss.”
You stiffened, the cold detachment you clung to like armor flaring to life in the icy glare you shot him. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all.” His grin widened, toothy and unapologetic. “Come on, Doc. It’s a fair trade. One little kiss, and you get what you want. Or…” He tilted his head, the faint glow of his delusion sparking faintly at his fingertips. “I could just walk out and leave you with this unsolvable puzzle. Your call.”
Your hands clenched into fists, the frustration pooling in your chest threatening to spill over. “This is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” he asked, his voice mockingly sweet as he leaned in, the heat of him a sharp contrast to the coldness you tried to exude. “Or are you just afraid you might like it?”
“I won’t indulge your games,” you snapped, shoving him back, though it was like trying to move a boulder.
“Oh, but you already are,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement as he caught your wrist in a firm grip. “And that’s what makes it so fun.”
Your glare could’ve cut glass, but Childe only found it endearing, his eyes alight with a predatory glee. “You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?”
“Let go,” you growled, yanking at your arm, but his grip held firm, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in a way that sent an unwelcome shiver skittering up your spine.
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that curled like smoke around your ears. “Not until I get what I want.”
Before you could retort, his lips crashed against yours, hard and unyielding, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck and pull you closer. The kiss was hungry, almost brutal, his teeth catching on your lower lip and tugging just shy of pain.
Your initial shock froze you in place, but when his other hand slid down, gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him, your instincts kicked in. You shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge, his strength a wall against your resistance.
“Stop—” The word barely left your lips before his mouth was on you again, his tongue sliding past your defenses to taste you, hot and invasive. His hands roamed, one trailing up to tangle in your hair while the other slid lower, gripping the curve of your hip.
“You’re so tense, Doc,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and teasing as his teeth grazed your jaw, trailing down to nip at the sensitive skin of your neck. “Relax. I promise I won’t bite—well, not too hard.”
———
Childe’s lips descended on yours again, this time with an aggression that bordered on feral. He shoved you back against the cold metal of the vivisection table, the force of his body pinning you down as his mouth claimed you. The taste of copper bloomed between your lips—a mix of his split lip and the sharp nip of his teeth against your skin.
“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he growled against your lips, his voice low and ragged, his hips grinding down against yours in slow, deliberate movements. “Always acting like you’re untouchable.”
Your protests were muffled as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with an almost punishing fervor. He tasted of salt and blood, the metallic tang mingling with the faint scent of iron that clung to the room. His hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat, the other gripping your waist with bruising force, his fingertips digging into your flesh as if to brand you.
The vivisection table’s sterile, cold surface pressed against your back, amplifying the heat of his body on top of yours. He shifted his weight, pressing his knee between your legs to force them apart, his hips grinding down against you with a primal urgency that sent shockwaves through your body. His breaths came hot and ragged against your neck as he pulled away just enough to trail his lips and teeth down your jawline, his tongue lapping at the blood he’d drawn from the bite marks he left in his wake.
“You don’t even realize, do you?” he murmured, his voice a low growl as he licked the streak of blood from your collarbone, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin. “How damn irresistible you are like this—cold, detached, thinking you’re above everyone else. It just makes me want to ruin you.”
You squirmed beneath him, your body stiff as you tried to push him off, but he only laughed darkly, catching both of your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head. “Ah, ah,” he teased, his free hand tracing the line of your hip before sliding under the hem of your shirt. “You’re not going anywhere, Doc. Not until I’ve had my fill.”
His fingers brushed against the bare skin of your waist, his touch both searing and possessive as he explored every inch he could reach. The contrast of his rough callouses against your unmarked skin made his blood sing. He’d expected resistance, of course—anticipated the cold glare you’d level at him, the sharp words you’d try to cut him with. But what he hadn’t expected was the sheer thrill that surged through him at the realization that you were so inexperienced. Untouched. Pantalone hadn’t even laid a finger on you.
It made him feral.
“You’re so pure,” he murmured, almost reverently, as his teeth grazed the shell of your ear, his hips grinding down against you again, harder this time, as if he couldn’t contain himself. “So perfect. And all mine.”
Your sharp intake of breath was the only response you managed as he pressed his full weight against you, his movements becoming more frenzied, more desperate, like an animal in heat. His lips found yours again, his tongue tangling with yours as he kissed you with a hunger that bordered on violent, his teeth biting down on your lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He pulled back just enough to admire his handiwork, his thumb swiping across the bead of blood that welled up before he pressed it to your lips, forcing you to taste it. “See that?” he said, his voice rough and dripping with satisfaction. “That’s what you do to me.”
You glared at him, the fire in your eyes only fueling his desire as he leaned down, licking the blood from your lip before trailing his tongue down your chin, your neck, and lower still. His hands roamed with abandon, one sliding beneath your shirt to cup your chest, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin with a pressure that made you gasp despite yourself.
“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he muttered, his voice low and almost reverent as his fingers explored further, memorizing the curve of your body beneath his touch. “You try so hard to hide it, but I can feel it. The way your body reacts to me, no matter how much you try to fight it.”
The metallic tang of blood filled the air as he bit down on your shoulder, his teeth sinking into the flesh just enough to leave a mark but not enough to break the skin. His hips ground against yours again, harder this time, his breath hot and heavy against your ear as he whispered, “You drive me insane, you know that? I’ve been holding back for so long, but now that I’ve got you like this…”
He trailed off, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that was as much about possession as it was about desire, his hands tightening on your wrists as if to remind you that you were completely at his mercy.
You bucked against him, anger and desperation flaring in your chest as you tried to twist free, but it only made him chuckle, his voice low and almost affectionate. “Go ahead,” he said, his breath brushing against your ear, nipping and sucking at your earlobe. “Struggle all you want. It just makes it more fun for me.”
His tongue darted out to lap at the blood from the bite marks he’d left on your neck, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine despite the fury burning in your veins. His hips moved against yours with a rhythm that was almost punishing, the weight of him pressing you into the table as his hands continued their relentless exploration.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice raw and filled with a dark kind of satisfaction. “Every inch of you. Mine to touch, to taste, to ruin.”
His words sent a chill down your spine, the raw intensity in his voice making your stomach twist in ways you refused to acknowledge. But the irritation bubbling beneath the surface finally boiled over.
———
Your body tensed, muscles coiled like a spring, your mind rapidly calculating trajectories and weak points as his weight pressed you against the cold steel of the vivisection table. The air around you was thick with the scent of blood, copper and salt mingling with the sterile tang of antiseptic. His breath was hot against your ear, words teasing and playful, but there was a weight beneath them—a hunger that set every nerve in your body screaming.
You bucked against him, your movements sharp and purposeful, but he didn’t so much as flinch. His hands were unyielding, his grip ironclad as he laughed softly, his voice dripping with amusement. “Is that the best you’ve got, Doc? I thought you were supposed to be clever.”
Your lips curled into a snarl, your calm composure cracking like thin ice under pressure. “Get off me,” you hissed, venom dripping from every word.
But your resistance only seemed to spur him on, his grin widening as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Why would I, when you’re finally letting me see the real you?”
With a sharp twist, you freed one hand and reached for the blade you’d hidden beneath the table—a weapon forged in desperation, its edge honed to lethal precision. The movement was fluid, seamless, the blade slicing through the air toward his neck in a blur of silver.
He caught your wrist effortlessly, his reflexes honed by years of bloodshed and battle. His eyes gleamed with a predatory light as he pinned your arm back down, his smirk returning, sharper and more dangerous than before. “Really? You’re trying to kill me now?” His voice was filled with mock disappointment, but there was a spark of something darker beneath the surface, a flicker of genuine thrill. “I’ve got to admit, Doc—that’s kind of hot.”
You glared at him, chest heaving, your mind racing as you struggled to find another opening. But he simply held you there, his weight pressing down on you like a predator savoring its prey. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice low and almost affectionate as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your lips. It was slow and deliberate, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that was as much about control as it was desire.
When he finally pulled away, your breath hitched—not from lack of air, but from the sheer audacity of it. He chuckled softly, his gaze raking over you with a lazy, shameless intensity. His fingers brushed against the marks he’d left on your neck, his expression turning almost reverent as he took in the sight of you—hair disheveled, clothes rumpled, lips swollen and tinged with blood.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice filled with dark amusement. “All messed up like a common street whore. And it’s all because of me.”
Your eyes narrowed, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you. You clenched your fists, willing your composure to return, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands.
“You’re disgusting,” you spat, but your voice lacked its usual sharpness, the words trembling ever so slightly as you forced them out.
“And you’re beautiful,” he countered, his gaze burning into you with an intensity that made your stomach churn. “Especially like this. Messy, flustered, and pissed off. Damn, I could keep you like this forever.”
You shoved at his chest, finally managing to put some distance between you. He stepped back reluctantly, his hands raised in mock surrender, but the way his eyes lingered on you made your skin crawl. He looked at you like a starving man gazing at a feast, his breath coming faster as he debated something silently.
“Don’t even think about it,” you warned, your voice low and dangerous as you grabbed one of your smaller inventions—a compact firearm designed for precision and lethality. You leveled it at him, your grip steady despite the whirlwind of emotions raging beneath the surface.
He whistled low, his grin widening. “You’ve really got a thing for sharp little gadgets, don’t you? That one’s new, isn’t it? Packs quite a punch, I bet.”
“Do your part of the deal,” you said coldly, your finger hovering over the trigger.
He held up his hands, his movements slow and deliberate as he stepped toward the artifact. “All right, all right. Don’t shoot, Doc. I’ll play nice—for now.”
You watched him warily as he placed his hand over the artifact, the air around him shimmering faintly as he deactivated the hydro lock. The runes flickered and dimmed, the mechanism clicking softly as the artifact opened at last.
“There,” he said, turning back to you with a grin. “Happy now?”
Your eyes remained fixed on him, your gun still trained on his chest. “Leave,” you said, your voice as steady as the weapon in your hand.
He tilted his head, his grin turning almost wistful. “You really didn’t like it? The kissing, I mean. I thought we had something special.”
Your glare was answer enough, but he only chuckled, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But don’t miss me too much, Doc.” He stepped toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
“Oh, and by the way,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, playful drawl, “you look even sexier when you’re ready to kill me. Makes me want to stick around and see what else you’ve got.”
Before you could respond, he slipped out of the room, his laughter echoing faintly in the air behind him. You lowered the gun slowly, your hands trembling as you tried to process everything that had just happened.
The artifact sat open on the table, its secrets finally laid bare—but your mind was anything but clear.
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𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 