097 » it could take a bit of time to heal this

[ironwind]

[ All you do is run, Childe snarls — and Aether doesn't have time to breathe out a biting response because he knows it's the truth.

The Harbinger's too fast. He's always too fast when he's in his Foul Legacy Transformation. Every time Aether has managed to win, he's beaten Childe not by strength or speed but by sheer endurance; he knows that he only needs to survive long enough for the transformation to take its toll on Childe's body, and so his strategy has never been to beat Childe, but to outlast him. The traveler's no fool: he's not going to risk getting within range of that electrified lance when Childe only needs half of a second to strike him down, so instead of engaging in melee combat, Aether dips and dodges, occasionally pausing to summon a Geo construct or a line of Geo spikes to defend or attack as necessary.

The problem with this as a tactical pursuit — and he's known it from the start — is that it's only going to work for so long. Childe gets stronger, lasts longer in his transformation every time they battle; Aether, meanwhile, hasn't been able to pull off his elemental changes on command. The initial burst of being able to channel Anemo and Geo energy at the same time was just a fluke — it wasn't intentional, but his powers going out of control. And if that happens again —

He can't have that happen. He tells himself that he won't let that happen. He just needs to last a little longer — but then, as he's running a short arc along the chamber inside the Golden House, Aether suddenly finds his path cut short by Childe's lance, thrown like a javelin into the wall. Swearing, the traveler skids to a halt, making split-second decisions — ]

Damn it —

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leans against your doorframe with a rose in my mouth

[household]

[ spikes of white-hot lightning slice through the are, radiating heat and thundering noise against his helmet. a beautiful sound that instills that delicious fear in aether's wide eyes. electro energy coils under his veins, pumping him with an adrenaline high that makes him want to tear his flesh free from his mortal skin. not only himself, but the young traveler that stands in his way.

the javelin sends the traveler to a screeching stop, knows that the boy is trying to make a decision, and tartaglia is far too fast for him to ever decide.

he strikes like lightning, his gauntlet jamming deep into his small, exposed belly, hoping it makes him vomit whatever food he has eaten to maintain his strength for this battle. truthfully, it might be an overkill; his foul legacy form has made him lose much of reason, chasing this pure instinct that he has harbored in his heart since he was a child. he doesn't consider how much larger he is than aether in size, how he doesn't need to punt the kid so hard he passes out. that's not the intention here; he may be a bad guy, but he doesn't actually wanna kill someone who's so much fun to play and duel with.

he watches the boy fly to the opposite side, tumbling into the pool of freshly minted mora, and the jostled coins makes such a peaceful sound despite how beaten the boy looks in its pit. ]

What did I say about disappointing me? [ his voice echoes from his helm, no longer friendly and playful as it once was. ] Folding at such a crucial time— that is hardly your style, Aether.

[ he zaps forward, picking aether from the pool and tossing him back into the ring like he's a lifeless doll. ]

swoons into your arms

[ironwind]

[ for a man who stops at nothing to keep promises made to his younger siblings, childe is always making aether promises he can't keep. maybe he really does mean it when he says things like i promise i'll be gentle and i swear i won't kill you — but those promises always fall by the wayside when he's in the throes of his bloodlust.

like here. like now. the blow to aether's stomach doesn't make the traveler vomit, but it makes him retch, leaves him gagging and gasping on a dry throat in that pile of coins. he hasn't even regained his bearings before childe throws him again, slamming him into the tiles where he struggles to his feet, swaying dangerously as he tries to stay upright while the world is spinning and he's seeing stars.

it's fine. it's fine. he can still win this. stoic, determined to avoid letting the humiliation show on his face, aether angrily wipes the blood from his mouth, breathing hard, eyes full of hate. ]

I haven't... folded.

[ his voice comes out as a rasp. ]

I'm just evaluating my hand.

[ the problem is that he doesn't have much of a hand left to play. he doesn't have the power he's used to — doesn't have the power he needs — but there's one thing, one last thing that he can try. his heart is hammering in his chest, and he's running out of other options. he might die here, if he isn't careful. but he can't die here. he can't —

it's the desperation, the sheer adrenaline, that makes it work.

abruptly, teeth gritted, aether forces himself past his nausea and lunges, desperately tapping into his anemo powers despite that he's attuned to geo — the swirling wind in his palm congeals into a greater force, a raging whirlwind littered with stones, and for a moment, just the barest moment — as the howling gale hurtles towards childe — six tattered wings of light flash behind aether before disappearing into nothing... ]

[household]

[ the electricity in his veins make his blood boil. his skin feels like it's melting into his armor; it's too hot and too cold at once and he nearly bursts from his armor, revealing the pulsing muscles beneath, his veins black like tar against pale skin. half of his armor remains, as well as his flashing helmet and his cape made of galaxies. his cock hangs between his legs, half-hard with excitement. it leaks at the tip lewdly, and tartaglia has half a mind to jerk himself off to the image of the boy bleeding out.

the wings of gust shatter and aim tartaglia's way, and he easily impales them like birds out of the sky with his thundering lance, still bright with purple light. ] Aether!!!

[ his voice roars, just short of shaking the entire building, but it echoes throughout every corridor.

another lightning zap, and his armored fist grasps aether by the throat and slams him headfirst against the wall. his large form ruts against his back, cock drooling against his bare lower back. ]

You've lost, you've lost! But shit, I like how you keep trying. [ his other hand tugs against his bottom. ] I think you quite understand, though, Aether. I want you to understand.

[ his sharp gloved hand prods at his hole, no lube, no anything; just the sharp cold metal of his gauntlet. ]

[ironwind]

[ aether knows he's lost the moment his last desperate ploy gets shrugged off like it's nothing, but still, he keeps trying. he wouldn't be himself if he didn't keep trying. he's still struggling even when a clawed hand slams him by the neck into the wall, still trying to kick and claw and break free even when he drops his sword and watches it disintegrate like the wings he doesn't have anymore. he still thinks, against all hope, that he'll come out of this unscathed. maybe childe is coming out of his transformation, maybe him losing bits of his armor is an indication that he's losing control —

— he thinks that right up until he feels that obscene cock slide up against his spine while childe yanks his pants from his hips.

no is the first thought he has in response. not even no, don't do this, but no, that can't be right. because that's — that can't be right. it can't...

it's not as if he's never known. he's seen a thousand different worlds; he knows that this happens. in distant, wartorn nations, he's watched this happen to people that weren't himself. a means of subjugation and humiliation more than anything else.

it's not as if he's never known. he knows that he looks and dresses a certain way. he knows that people stare, sometimes. men and women alike have been guilty of tracing his slim waistline with their eyes. he knows that people have looked at him and wanted.

it's not as if he's never known. it's not as neat as saying that childe is a bad person. sometimes, under the right circumstances, childe is a very good person. but he loses control of himself when it comes to battle and bloodshed and carnage. this has always been sexual for him, a kind of foreplay.

but for it to really happen? to be overpowered and conquered like this?

he should have known that it would come to this eventually — and yet, somehow, the only thing aether can think to do is babble. ]

W-Wait — Childe, you can't —

[ this isn't like him. he knows this isn't like him; he barely recognizes himself. where is that fearless traveler who looked stormterror dead in the eyes and thought, very calmly, i will put an end to this? his golden eyes have gone wide, and his voice is shaking. he can't think of what he should be doing with his hands. ]

Not — not like this. Childe, please don't...

[ what is he asking for? for childe to stop? surely stop wouldn't come out as not like this. ]

[household]

[ where's all that noise coming from? there's only the two of them in the golden house, and yet it feels like there are murmurs all around them. or maybe it's just aether's shuddering voice echoing through the corridors, and occasionally the sound of freshly-minted mora. luckily, aether's little noises is music to tartaglia's ears, ringing against his eardrums as sweet as aphrodisiacs. more so is the way his eyes look, wide and terrified like his soul as escaped to save him from the reality of what's happening - what's going to happen - to his small body.

because aether isn't wrong; he can't - not like this. this is not how he wanted this to go, some part of him begs, but fury, adrenaline, and lightning courses through his veins. he fingers the tight hole roughly, and there's immediate resistance with each harsh shove of his gauntlet; soon, the silver tips of his sharp gauntlet is his other hand gripping hard on his nape to keep him pinned and defenseless. all the thrashing, kicking and pleading does nothing against tartaglia in this form, physically or otherwise. but even the childe that the traveler knows is in there, somewhere, watching helplessly as his foul legacy form rips into his bag and tears into the first slimy thing he can get his fingers in— and with his gauntlet slicked with clearish slime condensate, it's all too easy to breech the sharp claw, one of his fingers is already the size of an average cock, and his dick only throbs and leaks. ]

Like what, Aether! [ his distorted voice echoes from his helm; only a purple light stares back if aether tries to turn and look. ] D'you want me to lie you down on a luxurious, silk bed? Treat you like a blushing virgin?

[ the sharp tip of his claw grazes against his wall, never penetrating, but he applies pressure where aether squirms the most. ]

Don't think so, my cute little Traveler— [ it can't feel good, but the sounds the spill from the boys lips are tells another story entirely, as if despite the pain, it's still only focusing on what feels good- he swears he hears a moan melding in with the screams. he leans in and whispers into aether's ear. ] Not when your body responds like this—

[ironwind]

[ there is a part of aether that is acutely, painfully aware of everything that is happening. there is another part that is still in denial, that is denying that any of this is happening at all. he feels sick to his stomach; he wishes he really had vomited when childe hit him the first time, but nothing's going to come up now. the finger probing inside of him is encased in leather and cold metal, and it feels — disgusting, in a word. foreign, in another. he doesn't want to be whimpering, but the clammy sensation of the metal pressed up inside of him is so unpleasant that he can't do anything but whimper.

then childe finds the spot that makes pleasure jolt through aether's cock, and all those pained whimpers melt into one long moan.

his own cock is starting to leak, and he's not sure what's worse: the idea that this might hurt, but that the pain will be temporary, or the idea that he's going to be raped — by a man who was, in a twisted way, a friend — and he's going to have to live with the guilt of liking it.

those claws of childe's may not have perforated aether's walls, but the traveler holds himself perfectly still just in case his squirming and thrashing makes it worse. as darkly funny as it might be, he can't say that he wants childe to literally tear him a new asshole or leave him bleeding out on the floor of the golden house. part of him wants to scream, but he knows no one is around to hear him. another part is still blaming himself. but you knew he was like this, something inside of him keeps chiding himself. you knew he was dangerous, and you chose to play with him anyway. this is your fault. you only have yourself to blame.

the worst voice is the one that whispers you wanted this to happen, didn't you? ]

Childe — Childe, you have to stop —

[ fuck, why is he so big in this form? why are his fingers so big? how is aether supposed to take a second or a third? how is he supposed to take that massive, drooling cock? abruptly, aether realizes that he's small enough for childe to simply wrap one hand around his waist and just bounce him up and down like a fleshlight. he could almost laugh if it wasn't happening to him right now. ]

You're better than this, please, please...