zhongchi(??) wip snippet (nsfw)

[gigantomachy]

(this came from server talk about zhongli as a venom-esque being, so it's kind of a mass effect-type flavor of sci fi involving the idea of venom as understood by a person whose only actual understanding of venom comes from That One Friend's pretty kinky fic, what)

Childe realizes he's been drumming his fingers against the chair's armrest — probably for some time, given the tender buzzing feeling in his fingertips.  His attention sweeps over the smooth panel in front of him, eyeing the ship's various gauges — fuel capacity, efficiency, radiation shielding.  In the corner, numbers like an accusation: 03:24, universal time.

 

You should get some rest, Childe.

"Easy for you to say," Childe grumbles as he turns his eyes to the stars ahead, catching sight of his haggard scowl in the reflection of the darkened glass.  What could an AI possibly know about being too keyed up to sleep?  Childe might be a veteran of long missions and dangerous situations, but a successful raid on the heart of Liyue itself would be enough on its own to keep him buzzing for hours.  Add a daring escape and the inexplicable attachment of this Morax and it's hard to imagine he'll sleep before touching down on Snezhnaya's surface at all.  "You don't happen to have any stims squirreled away on this thing, do you?"

They would be several hundred years out of date, Childe.

"Works out for booze, doesn't it?"

There is a significant difference in the chemical composition of alcohol and that of even the simplest stimulant, and recklessly ignoring expiry dates can lead to significant impairment and even sustained neurological damage in humans.  The atomic breakdown is —

"I was kidding, okay? Fuck."  Childe slouches lower into the pilot's chair and crosses his legs loosely, irritated by the growing tightness in his neck and shoulders.  The trip home was meant to be his time to relax — just him, his little freighter, and several hours of spaceflight in which to imagine how pleased the Tsaritsa would be with the fruits of his labor.   But now?

He does not know this ship.  He does not know this AI; he's never even heard of the Morax line.  Probably ancient, given what the Tsaritsa's been angling for.

Have you considered the benefits of meditation?  I am fully capable of guiding you through a number of exercises to ease your tension.

Childe can't help it — he laughs at the mental image of himself, cross-legged on the cold steel floor.  "Do I look like a meditative kinda guy to you?"

You are a warrior; I am certain the concept is not alien to you.

"You see that when you were accessing my memories?"

Briefly, yes.

Well, at least the bastard thing is honest about it.  He uncrosses his legs.  Then he tilts his hip to the side.  Then he throws his knee over the arm of the chair, struggling not to reach up and scrub the grit from his eyes for no good reason at all.

The seat reclines, if you'd prefer.  Beneath the left arm rest, you'll find the controls.

"Whatever," Childe says, rolling his eyes like the AI can see it.  Tiredness makes him petulant; unfamiliarity makes him worse.  If he had a partner on this mission — someone like Scara or gods forbid, Signora — he'd probably be halfway to a fistfight just for something to take the edge off.  Instead, he's stuck with some silk-voiced parasite. 

Very well. How do you choose to relieve tension then, Childe?

"What, you didn't pull that out of my brain, too?"

My inquiry was focused on your intentions in my hall, and your mission.  I did not pry longer than I needed to, once I retrieved the information I sought.  You are not without mystery to me, Childe.

Childe can't help it; he laughs at the sense of apology that comes with the statement.  Maybe coders had a better sense of humor back in the day; maybe they were still committed to the idea of trying to make their software feel like people. Maybe that's why it's so eager to talk.  "You sure you wanna know that?  Maybe it's kicking babies."

You would not.  All witnessed action points to a deep affection for children, whether their lives hold personal value to you or not.

"Fine, I don't kick babies.  Maybe I fuck dead bodies, though." 

The potential is there, I suppose.  If such an event exists in your memory, I hope not to encounter it.

"Oh great," Childe mutters, and shifts restlessly in the pilot's chair again.  "Of course I get saddled with a judgy system.  Better keep yourself contained then, data-brain — never know what else is floating around my head."

Indeed.  You have failed to answer my question, Childe.

Childe grits his teeth, annoyed by the way his gut twists beneath the AI's smooth voice, the hint of rare hesitation in the back of his mind when it comes to responding.  It's — probably because of the insinuation that he could be some sort of fucking necrophile.  Way more Dottore's thing, but of course the stupid system didn't manage to access that info.

"I jerk off, okay?"  Childe finally mutters, a little defensively.  "Like literally everyone else in the galaxy."

So do that, and seek rest.  Your health is important, and stress combined with poor sleep increases your likeliness of illness significantly.

"I'm not really an audience guy," Childe says.  "Sorry to disappoint."

For a few moments, Childe is treated to blissful quiet, not even a faint sense of presence — like the AI has retreated somewhere completely separate from him.  Good riddance, he thinks.  

But then, eventually — 

You will disparage the presence of artificial intelligence, but are embarrassed by the idea of such a program witnessing a normal human function?

"It's not like that," Childe says.

What is it like then, Childe?

"It's just — weird.   Like some sort of perv jerking it in a theater or something."

I do not understand.  But if you wish, I can provide assistance, and thus relieve you of the burden of performance.

Childe's not thinking about it.  He's really not thinking about just taking two minutes out of his life to rub one out.  There's more synthetics than not working brothels and clubs all across the galaxy; he's been close enough to know exactly what's available more times than he cares to count.

(He knows how fragile they can be, too.)

"Of course you wouldn't.  And it's not really like — wait, what?"

At its basest form, sexual excitement is simple electrical impulse, a mechanism to release hormones into the brain.  Such system manipulation is simple; you need not do a thing.

It takes a half-second for Childe to realize the AI in his arm is coming on to him.  Sort of — badly.  "If that's a pick-up line, it's total shit, you know."

It is not, though I will construct one if you prefer.

"You've been in my brain for two days, and you really don't know that much about me?"

It was not necessary information.  However, your psychological profile skews heavily toward homose—

"Fuck," Childe curses the system into an apprehensive silence, and sits up straight in the chair.  "You know what? I take it back — finish that line and I'll cut my arm off so I can personally drop you out the airlock, data-brain."

I see; my apologies.  Shall I try again?

A soft laugh. Childe stares at his pallid reflection and wonders how he ended up here.  "Fine. Hit me with it."

I can make you feel good, Childe. Like no one else ever can.

It's like getting dropped into zero G, the way the AI's voice drops to a low, soft rumble, shivering through his whole body — he feels the fine hairs on his arms lift in anticipation as a wave of heat rolls through him, down to his toes.  "That's cheating," Childe whispers, and squeezes his eyes shut.

I have yet to act.  Nor will I, without your express permission.

For a moment, Childe considers that.  It seems risky, letting a system loose in his body — but it's already in there, isn't it?  In the data center, it turned his blood to fire and froze his breath even as it rifled through his mind, making a place for itself inside his already crowded gray matter.  Strange that it would ask permission now, with the both of them knowing it needs nothing of the sort.

Gods, Childe is so tired.  "I don't need this," he mutters into the darkness of the cockpit, eyes going soft and unfocused until the dead light his ship moves through glitters like countless precious gems in his blurry vision.  He means it; there's nothing he needs from anyone that can't be doled out in blood.

Of course not, Childe.  It may be easier to close your eyes.

Childe's head slumps back against the shallow headrest with a muted thud, his boots flattening against the steel floor as his fingers clench the armrest, bracing for — the illusion of contact, he supposes.  "Well, get to it already."

Excuse me, then. 

Nothing at all.  Childe huffs a laugh and tilts his head to the side — twitching a moment later at the sensation of a stray hair across his cheek.  He reaches up to bat it away on pure instinct, and then sighs at his own naivete.  "Any time now would be great, Morax."

He hasn't even finished the title when he feels something run solid and warm across his cheek, smoothing soft beneath his eye to trace the curve of his cheekbone.  More warmth and pressure — a hand?  Molding against his face.  Remarkable, how accurately he can perceive the pressure.  My dick's down there, he thinks, but is intrigued enough to keep his mouth shut.

More warmth and pressure, this time on his thighs, the sensation of a person settling into his lap, knees pressed tight against his hips.  The illusion isn't perfect, or perhaps he's just looking to pull it apart; there's no creak of material beneath that phantom weight and the dissonance grates on the edges of his mind.  The breath he feels on his cheek is wet and hot, but there is no rasp of lungs to accompany it.  The scrape of fingers against his scalp does not sound inside his skull, but he feels gooseflesh rising regardless.

It feels a little silly, being petted like this.  "What are you doing?" Childe asks, surprised by how quiet his voice has gone.

You are so tense, Childe.  It need not be only sexual gratification that soothes you.

"Whatever," Childe mutters again, and allows his eyes to shutter once more.  When he feels the sensation of hands dragging along his throat, he tenses again — they drop to his chest quickly, and Childe smirks at nothing when the AI's silky voice murmurs an apology.  An arm slips around his shoulder, fingers curling into the meat of his shoulder.  The feeling is so real that he nearly opens his eyes to look, convinced that the fabric of his jacket would be dimpled beneath the touch.

Do you enjoy being touched gently, Childe?

"I don't need it," Childe whispers.  He's lived his life perfectly content to find an outlet in fighting, and in serving his Lady; it is so much easier to say as much than it is to admit: I don't know.  That voice hums, low and resonant, shuddering its way down his spine, and he draws a slow, steadying breath.  The sense of pressure shifts, tracing down the center of his chest before shifting to the side, a ghost of a smooth caress shattered by a sharp pinch against his nipple.  Startled, he cries out, then bares his teeth to the darkness.

Or do you enjoy something a little sharper?

He doesn't even have to try to catch the amusement in Morax's voice.  Another pinch, and then a soft warm brush like fingertips, petting again.  "It's all the same, anyway," Childe says, and maybe it's not a whole truth but he can feel his cock straining hard against the front of his heavy combat trousers, the fabric already damp.  "Aw, fuck," he mutters, "I should — gonna make a mess."

I will take care of it.  Now, please do try to loosen up, Childe.

That phantom weight shifts on his hips, grinding down.  Childe breathes a low groan, forgetting to marvel at the system's precision; there is only the sensation to anchor him, the feeling of a body against his own, chest to chest — he can even feel the dig of a phantom cock against his belly, a solid line of shocking heat pressed from his navel to sternum, dragging a slick line along his skin. 

He chokes out a small sound when long, smooth fingers curl around the head of his cock, stroking small circles over his slit, smearing precome.  The touch is exploratory; the sensation of breath against his cheek comes faster now, urging on his own excitement.  Childe's hips twitch into the illusion of that hand; it should be disorienting, but the system compensates so smoothly Childe forgets his skepticism a heartbeat later.  "Fuck," he breathes, and then, before he can help himself, "please."

As you wish, Childe.