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Childe is in the snow, chest planted to the ground and motionless, watching flakes flutter to join the mass event that is the permanent white blanket across the land. Beneath layers of uniform clothing he is burning alive—a dreadful heat has taken over him. 

 

He is able to mask it well – the scent of an omega, that is. Dottore’s help, of course, not done without a price. So even if he were to be in heat in the middle of La Signora’s funeral, sweltering and leaking and edging into insanity, no one would be able to tell as long as he maintained his composure. And it is hard, with the majority of the room reeking of alpha and hostility, nose buried in the red scarf around his neck, but he is successful. The moment the gathering ended, Childe made an immediate departure into the blizzard pelting onto the palace, determined to freeze himself solid rather than spend a miserable few days trapped in hell among wolves. 

 

Leading to his current disposition: collapsed into the snow, a scatter of enemies littering the perimeter in crimson patches. Restlessness continues to eat at his body, but it is somewhat bearable after expelling a wrathful amount of energy to take down the measly group. The blizzard has passed, unfortunately, and he is warm, deep inside, aching for things he wishes he did not.

 

The 11th sits and reflects for an unknowable amount of time, fully wallowing in the effects of his biology without actively indulging in instincts. He is spiteful in this way, committed to finding any other way to gain relief even if it means being dangerously coated in ice, clothing stuck in a cycle of damp and brittle as the snow is melted and frozen again by his skin and the air. 

 

He had missed this part about being home the most. Liyue was warm, and mimicking behaviors conditioned into him by ritual led to his near drowning in the ocean as it was the closest thing to snow and comfort. Childe is strong. It is a test every time—of willpower and of durability—but as the years go by it only seems to get harder. And he is mildly heartbroken. Liyue was too warm and it melted his walls to a charming funeral consultant, unable to even do something about his emotions before… He doesn’t want to think about it, the flush on his face growing deeper in embarrassment and he turns to rub his frosty cheeks into the snow. 

 

Laying like a dead man camouflaged amongst his kills, Childe does not even flinch when the crunching of heavy boots against snow steadily approaches. He is tired and handicapped but more than capable of eliminating a threat, lazily waiting for an ambush rather than strike in a frenzy. He’s imagining the way in which he will carry it out, heart beginning to beat erratically in anticipation, feels horrendously more desperate the longer he waits. 

 

“Tartaglia.”

 

Oh fuck.

 

Childe gives himself whiplash from the speed in which he flings around into a half-sit, braced by elbows behind his back. If he could, he would have stood and slammed his boots together. But he is aware enough to know that would have resulted in a total face fall back into white. 

 

“Capitano, sir.” He regards his senior currently standing some feet away. The 11th smiles but inside it is nothing but an amalgamation of despair and vile, depraved images. It is a horrible time for the other Harbinger to witness him. Perhaps fate is laughing at him with how he continuously pines for Capitano’s acknowledgement and the moment to prove himself is finally nigh, but he is three seconds away from groveling at the other’s boots for sexual release. 

 

“Care to explain the situation?” The deep, gravelly voice asks.

 

Childe struggles, mind like slime and, unwillingly, preferring to ogle at the hulking mass of a man before him than construct an eloquent response. 

 

“I was… taking a little break.” He laughs. Archons! To think Capitano would stumble upon him while star-fished out in the snow without a semblance of dignity, he could cry from the cocktail of emotions bombarding him, worsened tenfold by the hormones of his heat.

 

There isn’t a reply for a second, only the slow pan of Capitano’s helmet as he scans the vicinity, eventually settling back to give an empty gaze at the 11th. “The bodies appear to have been here for over half a day already. And you are… coated in snow. To think you would take to deceit so fast…Perhaps I judged you wrong, 11th.” 

 

Several things begin to flare off in Childe’s mind all at once, most pertaining to screams of self-berating, but a prominent chain spiraled off on the fact Capitano already had an opinion of him. It takes everything to keep him from blurting out the question what do you think of me? like an obsessive fool—could probably get off this one concept alone if he were alone. This might be the best and worst day of his life. 

 

He sheepishly laughs, tugging at his scarf remorsefully. “Well, truthfully I’m not feeling too well. But I'll be back to baseline soon! The snow just felt… nice.” 

 

There is no face to emote but there is definitely a skeptical aura from the Harbinger. Childe thinks he would rather commit to one of Dottore’s experiments than admit he is in the middle of his heat to the man he reverently admires. He begs Capitano to take it as it is, for once hoping the man doesn’t give two shits about his existence. 

 

“If you are ill then I will assist you back to the palace.” 

 

“What?” Childe’s voice cracks on the word, pitching higher like a boy’s.

 

Unimpressed, Capitano shifts on his feet. “This is an unsightly appearance for a Harbinger.” He explains no further. 

 

Horrified at being called unsightly, Childe adamantly tries to reassure Capitano of his well-being to travel alone. There is no way he wouldn’t blunder over something if they traveled back together, he’s already deranged enough currently. One intense wave of his heat and who knows what he would do in front of the alpha he has looked up to since joining the fatui. 

 

He rises into a stand to prove his point, grateful that his coat is fully buttoned and hiding any… evidence… of his ailment. Through sheer determination his legs do not wobble even though they cry out in disagreement. 

 

“I’ll be off first then!” He bows and begins his hasty journey forward, fully intending to book it into the woods once out of Capitano’s sight to collapse in peace. 

 

Childe takes five steps forward before Capitano speaks again. “The palace is in the other direction.” 

 

Great going, idiot!

 

“Ahaha I figured I would make a pit stop at an empty cabin ahead. Dry off my clothes.” Not a complete lie. There did exist a cabin about a mile off, visited before during a different heat. He waits nervously as his senior crosses his arms. 

 

“I will join you there at least. Another storm is on its way and it would be unfortunate were the Tsaritsa’s beloved youngest to get swept away.” 

 

The babying hurt a bit, paired nicely with the dread, but it is a better alternative to being escorted all the way to the palace. So Childe solemnly nods and resumes walking. Capitano keeps a couple yards behind to which the 11th is grateful for, unable to catch a whiff of the other’s heady scent he already crumbles under while out of heat. 

 

Thick snow proves to be a challenge, Childe having to work twice as hard to drag his feet forward. He does not look back, afraid Capitano will see how feverish and faint he knows he looks. And when he stumbles a bit he says nothing, only pushing ahead harder to make up for it.

 

The laborious death march must be some sort of punishment. His dick has been outrageously hard, thighs chafing from his slick soaked pants which has built up for Archons knows how long now. Insecurities are at an all time high since Liyue where he made a fool of himself in more ways than one. If Capitano found out, there would be no recovery. Rex Lapis was one thing, a childish crush—the sting lessened by the Archon’s disconnect—but now he was at risk of ruining his reputation forever with his idol. 

 

By the time the cabin is visible, Childe is wheezing.  Frigid air constricts his lungs tauntingly, clothes much too heavy, feet like cinder blocks. He feels like puking, dehydrated and gaining an understanding of his physical limits. The world is spinning.

 

To make matters worse, two treasure hoarders seem to have taken up residence, smoke rising from the chimney as the men idly chat outside. They notice the Harbingers, standing assertively as they approach. Childe senses Capitano shift behind him but he is too tired for chivalry and pointedly flings two hydro daggers straight into their foreheads before anyone can utter a word. 

 

Finally, the destination has been cleared. 

 

Childe steps onto the porch and gives a wave at Capitano, who is looking at the treasure hoarders, sending his thanks. And he almost makes it, he really does. His hand is on the door knob, sheer milliseconds from pushing the final barrier open, when a flashfire courses through his entire being, sending him crashing to the floor with a pained gasp. 

 

His vision whites out for a few moments, hands clenched around his abdomen as drool slips from his open mouth as he tries to ride out the wave. Childe doesn’t realize Capitano is there until large hands scoop under his arms to pick him up onto his feet. 

 

Nothing could have prevented the wretched moan which escapes from the 11th’s lips, jolting and shivering from the physical contact, legs giving out. 

 

“You are in heat.” Capitano states the cursed fact in revelation. 

 

Childe’s mouth gapes like a fish, writhing in the dangling hold as he gasps and gulps down air that smells of alpha alpha alpha

 

“N—no.” He denies weakly, pushing pathetically at Capitano’s firm chest to give himself space. A futile effort and unconvincing because his neck is strained to the side in regretful submission.

 

“Are you lying again, 11th?” 

 

“No sir!” He grits out harshly, firm in a way to try and convince himself otherwise. He’s so embarrassed tears are starting to form.  And—despite the incessant and violent urge to cling and present himself for the other as if he were a whore—Childe bites his lip and holds his breath, trying not to humiliate himself further. 

 

Capitano opens the door and pushes him inside. Childe groans on the wood in shame, suffocating around his scarf. 

 

“You think me a fool, Tartaglia? Whatever was hiding your scent before is beginning to wear off.” 

 

What convenient timing!

 

He finds a way to blame Dottore, unable to face reality in full. He’s failed again. Capitano is disgusted. And now he will suffer through his heat with this knowledge. 

 

A large boot presses onto his crotch and he wails, head knocking back onto the floor. Deliriously, Childe blinks through bitter tears to look at the alpha in confusion. 

 

Capitano wrings his wrists before rolling a shoulder with nonchalant authority. “You’ve lied to me twice now, 11th. This calls for some sort of punishment, yes?” 

 

Unable to form words, Childe only garbles out random syllables, clutching the boot on his crotch. It is warm inside with the fireplace fully stocked, and to Childe it is sweltering without icy wind on his face. 

 

“I asked you a question, 11th.” 

 

“Yessir!” He meekly spits out, expecting the worst and accepting his demise. The foot grounds down a bit more and it is too much, dick untouched since his heat began. He cums with a loud shout, arms flinging up to cross over and hide his face while he bucks up in spasming thrusts. 

 

He’s crying, almost hyperventilating as everything comes crashing down, but a hand grips into his hair, Capitano taking a knee to get in his face. At the same time the windows shudder as a gust of wind howls outside, catching both of their attention for a second. The blizzard has hit faster than expected. Capitano turns to look back at Childe, dropping his head with a hum. He walks away, boots thudding on the wood and he takes a seat on the couch with a slow exhale, lounging. 

 

“Strip.” 

 

Childe’s hands work faster than his brain does, grabbing at his clothes before it finally clicks and he sits half naked sprawled on the floor, frozen in bafflement. 

 

“…Sir?” He questions with a squeak, voice failing, fingers trembling with anxiety and flushed from head to toe. He’s mortified. 

 

Capitano leans forward a bit, imposing. “Don’t make me say it again.” 

 

And because Childe is a simple man he scrambles out of the rest of his clothes, privy to any command his senior could give him. Anything to earn him a good reputation with the other.

 

His mind is pliable in the closed room, locked in with Capitano’s scent. So he sits properly with hands on his knees, bare and leaking and ashamed, awaiting what could either be his punishment or a chance to redeem himself by following Capitano’s command. 

 

“Come here.” 

 

Childe gulps audibly, tentatively standing up. 

 

“No.” 

 

He halts, crumpling back down. He is given no other instruction, left to figure it out himself. Slick coats his inner thighs and collects on the floor and he resists the self conscious itch to cover himself in modesty as that would be against the point. Ah… he understands. 

 

On hands and knees he begins to crawl toward Capitano, head bowed between his shoulders in disgrace. But the deep rumble from the other Harbinger is worth it as he arrives at feet, slowly lifting his head with a grimace because he is rippling from humiliation. 

 

Capitano does not move, simply stating. “All the way.”

 

Childe gawks before gritting his teeth together and climbing into his senior’s lap. He’s horribly hard again, ruining everything his legs brush against. But the anxiety rapidly dwindles with the close proximity, nostrils flaring and he almost throws himself onto Capitano to get closer to the thick, dominating scent filling his nose. It’s near irresistible. If Capitano’s next command were for him to start begging, he imagines it would come naturally. 

 

Panting with anticipation, Childe fidgets with his hands, actively fighting against the gravitational pull of diving nose first to the other’s neck. An armored hand drags sharp tips up his spine, crumbling his resolve as he makes a guttural noise, bracing himself on broad shoulders while rutting his hips down for friction. Capitano grabs his flushed face with one hand, crushing his cheeks until he stops. 

 

“Behave.”

 

It’s unbearable, but he sits in the hold, waiting. There’s shuffling where his field of vision cuts off. Something moves across his skin, unnatural.

 

What the fuck was that?

 

A long mass dances across one of his thighs, startling the 11th with a yelp. His mind races, frustratingly unable to see below him. Capitano’s finger taps his cheek, blue eyes flicking back with ten thousand questions begging to be asked. But his senior says nothing. 

 

The tendril brushes against his rim, delicately tracing up his perineum to glide over his balls and wrap around his dick. Childe is unable to look down, completely held in place by the iron grip on his face. He loses himself in the feeling of getting jacked off for a moment and doesn’t realize another tendril has joined until it is pressing into him, wriggling. Childe’s breath hitches, hands digging into Capitano’s chest. It travels in, prodding intrusively, causing slick to ooze out and he tries not to gag under his sharp gasp, straining to get just a glimpse behind him. Capitano chides him by adding more pressure to his cheeks, lips pressed together in a goofy manner, forcing his attention forward. 

 

The tendril slips out and slowly smooths itself between Childe’s ass, parting it. Through feeling alone he deduces that this one is tapered, base thick as it grounds itself against his hole, tip curling forward to tickle the bottom of his spine. 

 

“You seem to be quite loose already, 11th.” The voice is almost mocking and it makes his gut coil. 

 

Childe cannot speak with the hand distorting his mouth, instead crinkling his eyebrows together in a plea. 

 

“You’re not allowed to look until I say so.” 

 

Then the hand over his face moves south, cupping over his throat and holding it there to keep him up. Childe does not look, bucking forward as a harsh tug on his cock tempts his gaze. He anchors his vision onto the brick fireplace, focusing on the flames as the second tendril begins to enter once again, slower this time. Deliberate. The mass angles itself, twisting with a squelch that makes Childe’s ears burn, lazily compacting in to press against his prostate, pressure increasing the more is fed into his hole. He can’t breathe, mouth parted into an o shape, and the tendril continues to move as if it were alive. It violates him, squirming and burrowing inside. Cries escape from his mouth, bursting in volume from trying to hold them back. 

 

And even though it filled Childe with disgust, he finds himself hoarsely sobbing out as he is wrung through another orgasm, neck pressing against the hand gripping his throat for support. 

 

His chest rises and falls rapidly, the tendril still journeying inwards through it all until Childe feels speared apart. In a concoction of sensations of nausea and adrenaline and depraved lust, Childe clenches down on the tendril, whimpering when more slick drips down onto Capitano’s pants. 

 

“Go on then.” 

 

Childe whips his head back to stare into the helmet, eyes wide. 

 

Capitano’s spare hand finally joins the action, sliding up Childe’s torso to thumb over a tender nipple. “Pleasure yourself on me.” 

 

The 11th flings his head away in crippling embarrassment over the words which force him to acknowledge the situation. Straddled over and impaled by his senior, gushing out slick. He stutters, unsure of himself. “I’ve never—I don’t— ahhh! ” He whines as the tendril vigorously worms inside him. 

 

“Hoh?” Capitano says, slightly surprised. He tenses his fingers around Childe’s throat in contemplation before gripping hard. “I didn’t know you were a coward, Tartaglia.” It’s embarrassing, how Capitano already has Childe figured out. Yet, still, it sparks a drive in Childe, the omega grinding down onto the length, giving into his heat. 

 

He wants this. Packed full by Capitano’s weird tentacle dick. And he plows himself down onto it, barely kept balanced by the other Harbinger’s hands on his neck and chest that dwarf his body. If he had claws he imagines that Capitano’s uniform would be torn to shreds with the way he braces himself, knuckles turning white. He bounces on the length as if he were waiting for this moment his whole life, thighs burning in exertion, wanting to prove himself. And the tentacle moves with him, scrunching out with each rise and spearing forward with each fall, moving even when he is not. As he catches his breath it pulses in and out between his parted legs, causing the 11th to arch his back into the thing with long moans, toes curling, until he resumes his own motions again. 

 

The second tendril has formed a tight ring around the base of his dick, and even though he feels pressed to the very edge, he cannot cum. He goes until he cannot, twitching and jolting around Capitano. 

 

“Sir—“ He gasps, head slumping to the side. He’s sweating and frantically trying to get more air in his lungs around the restriction on his neck. “Sir, I can’t anymore.” 

 

Capitano lets go of his neck, Childe falling onto the large chest and circling arms over shoulders to remain centered. 

 

“Why not?” 

 

Childe whines pitifully in response, hiding in the other’s chest. 

 

Humming, Capitano shifts slightly, sliding down the couch further, wrapping arms in a vice hold around Childe’s body. Miraculously, more tendrils make an appearance, two of them tracing along Childe where thighs meet crotch until they’ve cupped around the entire curve of his ass. Still, Childe does not look, huffing stubbornly into the other’s clothing with shut eyes. 

 

The cold metal of Capitano’s helmet stings Childe’s shoulder where it touches. An inhale, then a growl. 

 

“Your scent is quite strong now.” He remarks. “I suppose you did adequately.” And then the new tendrils jerk themselves down, dragging Childe with them onto the length. He seizes in overwhelming pleasure, open mouth drooling a wet patch onto Capitano’s uniform, fingers tearing at the fur around his senior’s shoulders, snagging onto hair. Capitano retaliates by repeating the action, this time completely thrusting into him. Like this, Childe can feel the odd press of his navel rubbing against the body below, reaching a state of delirium as the distended flesh is pressured from inside and out. 

 

Slowly, he is pummeled into, dragged up and down casually. 

 

Capitano grumbles into Childe’s hair who just barely catches the words beyond the sound of his desperate, cracking moans. “You’re doing well, Tartaglia.” He thrusts a few more times before grabbing fistsfuls of Childe’s ass, bending the 11th completely into his being. The hands hold him open, displayed to the universe as the main tendril incessantly drills into him. White static rings in Childe’s ears from the praise and the sensation of the tendril sloppily fucking him speechless. For a minute he thinks he’s actually gone insane as another length whips and pokes at his puffy hole. This can’t be real.  

 

Gurgling on spit, his voice pitches airily high. “Wha—AH ! Sir! What—“ 

 

“You can do one more, what do you think? Wouldn’t want to disappoint now, would you?” Capitano chuckles at him. 

 

Panicking, Childe sits up to look at the helmet, shifting further onto the tentacle cock, nearly looking down and ruining his good behavior from the electric shock it sends straight to his core. What does it look like? What does he look like with it occupying his insides like a frenzied worm? The newest tendril starts to weasel its way in and Childe flinches away in fear, going nowhere with the tendrils squeezing at his thighs, hands splaying cheeks apart, cock held captive. 

 

“Wait! Wait a minute! Wait wait wait—“ 

 

Capitano does not wait, doubly penetrating him as the two tendrils seem to dance around each other inside his walls as they try to make space for themselves. Childe yells, crazed, head flung back as a dry orgasm terrorizes his body. He’s wrecked, stuffed full, organs fondled and prostate abused. Tears drench his face as he shrilly wails for mercy, snot dribbling down his chin, babbling incoherently. Capitano shushes him, drawing his head near by a hand over his nape. The brutal assault lessens, Childe cracking a watery eye open in time to witness the void of Capitano’s helmet materialize into a sleek, black length, reminiscent of a grossly dramatized tongue. It sneaks forward, teasing at Childe’s lips and slipping underneath to glide across his clenched teeth. 

 

“Open.” He is demanded. He does not want to, distinctively put off by the appendage, amplified by the horror of two tentacles idly squirming inside him. He feels the way they poke out his flesh, like they are possessively making a home for themselves, sliding in and out in alternating sinusoidal patterns. Most of all, he wants to ask how the man(?) is speaking at all, new ways to be confused being discovered every minute. Childe grunts, nose scrunched in distaste as he slowly parts his mouth open to the thing. It, like the rest of Capitano’s biology, slithers in freakishly, testing Childe’s mental like never before. Without manners it explores the moist cavern. And it seems to have a short attention span because in the next moment it plunges down Childe’s throat. 

 

“Mmmmnh!”

 

He chokes violently as he is forced to guzzle down the appendage, muffled protests falling on deaf ears. Capitano seems extremely pleased, kneading Childe’s ass as he fucks into the spasming throat, the two tendrils buried inside both curling down against his prostrate. Childe’s eyes roll into the back of his head, tensing so hard that it drags a long moan from his senior as he hangs off the tendril violating his mouth. 

 

“That’s good, Tartaglia.” Capitano hisses. He is rewarded with release, the tentacle around his cock finally loosening, giving two tugs to the weeping member before Childe outright screams, cumming all over himself and the other. 

 

Capitano’s horror of a tongue retracts, slipping from his lips with an obscenely wet noise. Childe falls boneless into his senior’s arms. The 11th twitches violently, gasping for air, eyes shut and totally lost as sparks dance through him in what is the most extreme orgasm of his life. 

 

And—finally—Capitano, once again, scoops the younger up effortlessly by massive hands under his arms, framing his chest like a harness, to grant him permission to “Look.”

 

Blearily, Childe looks down from where his head hangs, blinking his vision back. He brokenly whines. Archons… His abdomen is bulging out, the tendrils moving and distorting the flesh in grotesque waves. His legs are dripping from slick, hopelessly shaking. It should revolt him, everything about the situation has gone beyond the boundaries he didn’t know he needed to have, but he lifts a trembling, curious hand up. He rests his palm over his cum smeared belly, keening when the tendrils press against it through his flesh. 

 

Completely loopy, he cracks a messy grin at Capitano, barely able to lift his head to do so, eyes scrunching from the strain. “You’re in my womb…” He mumbles out almost giggling over the words, canting his back to fit against the other better. His heat still pulls at his mind and, despite the outrageous situation he’s landed himself in, he finds he isn’t completely satisfied. 

 

With a roll of his aching hips, Childe clenches down and groans, going limp again. He pushes his hand against the tendrils inside. “—ight here…” He mutters, shivering as the high of his orgasm begins to leave. 

 

“Speak, Tartaglia.” 

 

The 11th sighs childishly, harshly inhaling the air back when the tendrils slightly roll to become a solid mass against his hand. 

 

Childe sniffles, licking his lips. “Fill me up, right here… Sir, please…” He hoarsely begs, voice cracking. 

 

Capitano makes a terrifying, animalistic noise and Childe is lifted up, legs hooked over arms, as the other takes a stand. Childe scrambles for purchase by linking arms around his neck, and Capitano walks them to a table, slamming the 11th down without remorse. The violent action has Childe flaring up, emotions haywire considering everything, hiccupping on an offended sob, but then Capitano is over him. Hands rub across his scar littered body, pinching and twisting at his nipples which he arches into. The tendrils on his thighs have not left and bruisingly jerk him down onto the appendages warming his belly. Capitano huffs into his neck, tongue twisting around it to taste the sweat that pools in his collar bones. 

 

“Are you always so obedient, 11th?” Capitano slams into him, tentacle cocks seeming to have twisted around each other into a single entity. Large, armored hands grip onto Childe’s waist, manhandling the younger onto the length again and again and again. 

 

Childe tries to respond in defense, open mouth gagging on unformed syllables through the rough treatment, forgetting about it instantly as the tongue worms into his mouth once more. He’s overstimulated but resilient, hands journeying through fur to knead at Capitano’s neck where the other’s glands reside. More of the pressuring scent fills Childe’s nose who responds by sucking firmly on the tongue, making out with the thing as if it were normal. As if to prove Capitano’s point, Childe finds himself spineless, surrendering to his senior as he is used like a ragdoll, unashamed in trying to please. 

 

The table creaks, scraping against the floor but Capitano does not let up. Childe is forced to endure, a hand wandering down to find a spare tendril. He fondles it between his fingers, getting used to the texture, before he tugs at it. Capitano snarls at him, pulling him off the cocks and flipping him around onto his stomach in a single motion. The 11th doesn’t process the change through his muddled brain until the tendrils angle directly into him. He screams. The hands on his waist become painful, tips of the armor beginning to divot into his flesh in pinpoint lesions. 

 

He’s gonna die.

 

Finger nails dig into the table to scratch across the surface, holding on for dear life, forced onto his tip-toes between the weight on top. 

 

For what feels like eternity there is only the sound of wet skin slapping, his sobs, and the table. For a minute he blacks out, brought back by the same sensation which had rendered him numb to start. At the verge of passing out, Capitano lurches over him, one hand slamming onto the wood. Then there is a final thrust, warmth spilling into him. The tentacles work the liquid out—pulsating—despite Capitano’s body locked into place, pumping the release into Childe. 

 

Childe takes it, whole body heavier than the sun. There is so much. He’s at overcapacity, the added volume only inflating his abdomen further. The fireplace crackles distantly, interrupted by the sound of thick cum dropping onto the floor between his legs when the tendrils begin to recede. He’s so full. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to warrior out another heat alone in the snow again. 

 

Outside the blizzard rages with no signs of stopping. 

 

As sleep begins to claim him, Childe can only hone in on the sound of Capitano’s voice in his ear. 

 

“Next time you will take three.”