rattomatto
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Summary
The handwriting is not as sharp as he’d envision from a man whose mission is honing himself into a blade. It carries an innocence that sits completely opposed to the death it heralds. The cursive bends elegantly around imaginary straight lines, every letter flawlessly aligned, masterfully connected to the others with fine yet firm strokes. A most intriguing penmanship, revealing a precision that Zhongli can’t help but hope he’ll soon be acquainted with. The fangs behind the smile.
It takes a single reading to memorize the name and the address noted down, yet his stare lingers on the words some more, as if they could answer the cravings of a god’s curiosity. They leave him with a charming promise of more.
Or: Zhongli develops a fascination towards Childe's violence.
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Before meeting death, the scholar already composed his own epitaph-
"This person’s name was seldom mentioned by others. Incomplete, just like his fate."
He would sweep his own grave at the beginning of every Month of Reaping, staring long and hard at his stained hands...
Or: Anaxagoras visits his grave (ft.Cerces)
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A lesson in addiction. He loves it: wealth, frivolity, games of chances. It's the taste of fine wine lingering on his tongue, the bruises he likes to touch on the side of his neck from the hard kiss of a ringed finger. The throw of a coin in the air, the multicolored spin of a wheel, the masterful shuffling of a deck of cards.
Addiction is all about anticipation. Will the coin smile back at him? Will the knife come back stabbing him in the back?
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Childe’s teeth are the same unblemished white of the snow he comes from, perfectly straight and a pretty contrast to the crimson of his mask, his scarf, the rubies on his harbinger uniform. Zhongli imagines them sinking down on his neck, biting down until the blood he so wishes to see is drawn, ripping away patch after patch of his human skin until he finds something in him he finds honest, something worth trusting.
He’d let him. If only to feel that touch once more.
He’d let him. If only to let the warrior touch the heart of the god.
That’s what he had come for, after all, to paint gold with red.
Series
- Part 2 of The dreams we share
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There’s no sound of footsteps, no breathing but his own, not even the shivering anticipation of murderous intent.
Nothing but darkness, warmth and quiet. Yet he realizes his fingers have closed around the hilt of the knife, not in fear but in expectation.
“Allow me” the voice is deep and rich, and the lips that brush his ear are as soft as the hands walking through his wet locks, gently lifting them away from his eyes and pushing them back.
It feels safe, so it is dangerous.
Ah, it’s one of those dreams.
Series
- Part 1 of The dreams we share
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