Latest Posts by pandora-n1ghts - Page 4

because i love you — [hoo boys headcanons]

summary: your "thing" with the hoo boys!

author's note: in honor of the pjo series coming out today,,have this rlly rlly short draft from earlier this year! xoxo

percy jackson — doodling on him

“give me your hand.”

“yes ma’am.”

minutes pass as you doodle gods know what onto percy’s hand. you always resort to this whenever the camp head counselor's meeting begins late—which seems to be every meeting—and giving percy "tattoos" certainly kills time. last meeting, you drew a can of beans and the time before that, was a bouquet of tulips. so honestly his guess being a pair of socks this time isn’t too far of a reach.

“okay, done,” you release his hand, a proud smile gracing your features, “cute right?”

he quirks a brow upon seeing the drawing, “is that…” percy turns his head to the side, gaining better perspective, “is that a flying fish?” 

“wow, you’re good,” you say, giving him a nod of approval, “although, last time you did say that my can of beans looked like a roll of toilet paper…” 

your boyfriend throws his hands in the air, “in my defense, you used a shitty pen so it was hard to tell.” 

“whatever.” 

jason grace — sewing your initials on his clothes

“hi love,” jason says, plopping down beside you on the couch. you give him a bright smile as he places a gentle kiss on your head, “almost done?” 

nodding proudly, you hold up his pair of jeans to show him your work: your initials sewn onto a corner of his back pocket, “yup, just finished actually! what do you think of the color? i think you bought the thread for me on our second date. but i totally forgot i had it until i went digging in my supply box.” 

a grin plasters itself on jason’s face as he nods his head in realization, “i knew the color seemed familiar. i remember wondering why a tiny spool of thread was so expensive. but it’s perfect, i love it,” he kisses your cheek, “all my friends are gonna be so jealous that they don’t have their girlfriends’ initials sewn onto their clothes.” 

you laugh as you imagine jason vehemently bragging about his jeans to all his friends, “tell them i’m charging $50 if they want me to do theirs,” you wink. 

“we’d make more than the stolls’ and their smuggling business if we did that,” he laughs, admiring your work once more. who knew that having your initials on his pants would have such an affect on him, “also, can you do my sweaters and my other jeans?"

you raise a brow, "i might have to start charging you at this point."

leo valdez — impromptu fashion shows

“wow!” you clap enthusiastically, “your outfit even puts paris fashion week outfits to shame!” yes, because a rainbow checkered crop top with a humongous green tutu and a pink boa paired with insanely skinny stilettos beats any and all high fashion runway outfits, “now, leo valdez, can you give us a few words about your new clothing line? and possibly a bit about what it’s like to be so amazingly talented?” you inquire, raising an invisible microphone to his mouth. 

leo oh-so humbly bows and rises with a proud grin, “thank you, thank you, but i honestly must give all credit towards my beautiful muse, y/n, she’s the inspiration behind my new line. and about being so talented, it really is such hard work to be this naturally gifted.”

“ooh, do tell about this ‘y/n.’ i’ve never heard of her but she does sound absolutely gorgeous!” you exclaim, keeping up with the act. 

your boyfriend nods firmly, “oh yes, she’s very, very, very beautiful,” adding a playful wink, “but i must say, she has the worst morning breath i’ve ever encountered!” 

your smile drops and you squint your eyes, “i’m going to choke you with that stupid ugly boa if you don’t take that back right now.” 

“uh ma’am,” leo backs up nervously, clutching his boa, “i’m going to have to call security if you threaten me again.” 

"i'm seriously going to kill you."

I absolutely love your writing style and choice of words😭😭 whenever you write scara or do a a character study he sounds like a loser lmao (in a good way-)

Thank you, dear anon! Your kind message inspired me to write a proper response (I haven’t done this in ages), so do forgive me for wasting your time on reading it! ❤️🙏

I think “loser” is a pretty accurate word to describe Scaramouche. He never gets what he wants, being either robbed of something he had spilled his own blood and tears to finally seize or prescribed to experience the underwhelming and unsatisfying results of his seemingly “successful” goals. In my humble opinion, it’s the latter that makes Scaramouche such a tragic character. In the end, he wasn’t even allowed to escape from the painful reality of living with the fact that he had spent almost five centuries believing in absolute lies and subjecting himself to blatant manipulations. He was denied the right to commit what the game essentially implied to be a suicide in the name of “correcting his mistakes”, and to someone as wilful yet fragile in terms of ego as he, having to continue existing in Teyvat and actually face the consequences of his actions instead of “quitting in a quick and beautiful fashion” is the cruelest but sobering punishment one could invent and execute against already broken and humiliated individual whose unyielding convictions were shattered by the sudden revelation.

In short, Scaramouche is a complete failure of a person (and deep down he knows it). It’s only natural that you, the “Reader” character, won’t be happy with his pre!Wanderer version — after all, you are the prisoner of his flawed mentality. His imperfections (hidden self-hatred and prejudices included) are too sharp to be smoothed, let alone to be rid of. They leave no room for improvements to be made to the cage you are placed in, depriving him of the pleasure of hearing you sing for him. A bird without a voice is a pathetic sight to behold, and there is nothing he can do about it other than activating his usual defense mechanisms and blaming you for not succumbing to his childish whims. He will be inclined to think that you deserve to have your wings clipped because... there certainly must be an urgent justification for making you miserable, right?

But he won’t be happy either with the outcome. Despite a certain amount of sadistic glee produced, your suffering won’t be considered a victory on his part. It doesn’t matter what kind of feelings you harbor towards Scaramouche — you may desire or loathe him, whatever. It’s he who is the sole problem here; to be precise, it’s his tendency to constantly contradict himself that really dooms your already unhealthy relationship. After all, you are no mind reader, so how would you know that Lord Scaramouche’s disdain for you was born out of his bizarre interpretation of how love works? How would you know that The Balladeer’s despicable demeanor has a complex layer to it? How would you deduce the discarded puppet hurts you because his guts twist at the thought of him — of all people — behaving in a genuinely nice manner?

He wants you to love him, truly, for even failed tools can long for the taste of intimacy. But he also has a burning hatred for seeing the sincere joy of another, himself included. As such, those mutually exclusive feelings constantly clash with each other — if he can’t just dream of that sweet fairy-tale nonsense without a feeling of revulsion, then he is not worthy of it at all. By this logic, the fault is yours alone (for causing him to malfunction, of course) and you are not worthy, too.

Scaramouche is being difficult because there is no other option for him to take – he simply can’t see alternatives. His preferred method of coping with the trauma is lashing out at those few pleasant things in his life and destroying them, therefore prematurely declaring his defeat. It’s as if he aims for it on purpose... or is in strong denial of his neglected need to be loved, thus unconsciously choosing the most crooked and thorny path.

Predictably, this path will lead him to an impasse. As long as he keeps refusing to admit he still has the capacity to feel himself human, he will never win. He is the creation of Eternity, the puppet made by the hands of the embodiment of everlasting stagnation; enthralled by false beliefs, he won’t reconsider them at his current state of being. Your humanity, on the other hand, gifts you the ability to endure, adapt, change, and ultimately prevail – a feat not eligible to his infinitely tolerant body. You have the advantage of possessing a spirit free of the constraints of an artificial creature and a mindset of agile properties – in other words, all roads are open for you to explore to your heart’s content.

Scaramouche, however, has only one. He shall remain a dedicated worshipper of the stale idée fixe until enough force – a force of source almost divine – is applied to his stubborn self. You don’t hold such power, but at least you will always find a way to escape the horror of cohabitating with him. Yet he… He will haunt the same repeated trail in a vain attempt to prove to the world and everyone living in it that his decision to torment you (and himself) was never wrong. Only time shall eventually show him the downsides of the narrative he has been obsessing over and point out the obvious inconsistencies, and until then…

Until then, he will never ever beat you. But will you still be here to laugh at him once he realizes that he never had the slightest chance of putting your king in checkmate from the very beginning?

It is a question you must resolve yourself. By then, his intervening whisper won’t entice you anymore; by then…

You will be the one to pull on the unlucky doll’s strings.

in which: you need to make it to liyue harbour in time so you can give kazuha a piece of your mind and a response to his love letter.

cw: fluff, 1.3k words, not too sure how canon accurate this is, potentially ooc-kazuha, gn!reader from inazuma, confessions, two wholesome idiots in love

a/n: for my little sibling @sixosix, i hope you enjoy

Liyue, out of all regions in Teyvat, is the hardest to run through.

It’s mountainous, your muscles will ache from going uphill, your ankles will be sore the next day from going too fast downhill. It’s grassy, the gravel is rough against the soles of your feet, and there is an abundance of hillichurls and samachurls waiting for you with their clubs and shields. Yet, they provide more motivation for you to outrun them, speeding right by their camps to get to Liyue Harbour in time.

Stupid Kaedehara Kazuha, when you see him, he’s in for an earful from you. Making you run from Lingju Pass all the way back to the Harbour, doesn’t he know how much you despise running for long periods of time?

A break is not plausible, especially when Beidou’s boat could leave the dock at any minute now.

When Liyue’s bustling harbour is in sight, it’s vast oceans appearing out the horizon, you feel like you can breathe. The sunlight glimmering on the ocean cheers you on, and you won’t stop until the waves are underneath your feet, the only thing separating you from them being wooden planks. 

You push through crowds, too tired and determined to be polite and apologetic to shoppers you push aside. You run past Mingxing Jewelry, Wanmin Restaurant, and Master Zhang’s workshop, and don’t stop until you, yourself, are climbing onto the Crux. Crew members are shouting in protest at your sudden appearance, yelling at your unexplained entrance.

There are people trying to pull you off the boat, and you don’t really know where the strength to push off burly sailors came from, but you successfully fend off all of them, and find Beidou at the bow of the ship. 

“Where is Kazuha?” You demand, decorum be screwed, nothing can stop your momentum now. 

Her uncovered eye lights up in amusement, a hint of knowing behind her crimson gaze. “Right behind you.” 

Lo and behold, the beige-haired in question was right behind you. “Uh, hello?”

“I have a bone to pick with you, Kazuha!” Stomping over to him, he grabs your wrist before you have another chance to talk, dragging you away from the bow of the ship where all the crewmates were unloading their cargo. (Beidou’s thundering laughter can be heard as he’s dragging you away, at least she’s not mad at your sudden intrusion.)

He stops when the two of you are on the quarter deck and turns to look at you with panic all over his face.

“What did I do?” 

From your pocket, you pull out a piece of paper like it’s an incriminating piece of evidence, one that he’s stared at for too long, so much so that he can recall every dip and curve of the dry-pressed leaves he added on for a more personal touch. It has sat on his desk for ages, seen all of his turmoils and frustrations over delivering it to you. 

The paper contains a mix of poems, haikus, and different confessions Kazuha has been harbouring in his heart for the past few years, ever since the two of you left Inazuma. Your hand clutching his gloved one as the two of you hurry onto Beidou’s boat with nothing but your visions, weapons, and the clothes on your back.

He has loved you for this entire journey, and words could not surmise the depth of his feelings, let alone a measly piece of paper. Some days, it sees the sun when he dares it to, but it always ends up right back on his desk, waiting for the day that it will leave Kazuha’s possession and fall into yours.

This morning was the exact moment. He slipped it in your bag before you went on your expedition, the two of you meeting for a quiet breakfast before his eight-month long expedition, and your two-week one. He had waved you goodbye as far as he could go before leaving Liyue Harbour, even staying on the outskirts until your group left his sight.

Nothing could have prepared him for seeing you so soon, not after putting that letter in your backpack. 

“You’re a coward!” You accuse immediately, poking your finger to his chest. “A lousy coward!”

He takes it, knows that he should have just braved his fears and handed it to you in person, but the idea of being rejected on the spot causes his chest to ache in unbearable ways. The samurai rather you read it, then have eight months to prepare for your inevitable rejection.

Yet, he should have known that in the face of a storm, you are the only one brave enough to fight against the waves. Nothing ever goes the way he wants when it’s with you.

“You should probably sit down, Y/n, your legs are shaking and I’ll grab you some-”

Your hands fly up to grab the sleeves of his kimono, whether to stabilise yourself, or to stop him from leaving, or both, he stays. “Kaedehara Kazuha, I like you too,” you declare. “I just ran all the way from Lingju Pass, so I have nothing flowery nor sweet to say like your letter except that you are so very mean for making me come all this way.”

With one last heaved breath, you collapse to your knees. Kazuha, being the gentleman he is, freaks out and mimics your actions, clinging onto your shoulders.

“Y/n!” He calls out, his usually level voice breaching a panicked cry. “You shouldn’t be exerting yourself like this. Stay here, I’ll go grab water water.” 

Listening to the samurai, you rest against a nearby pillar, feeling the dull aches in all muscles of your legs. Archons, you’ll feel the pain tenfold tomorrow.

Kazuha returns not too long with a canteen in hand, and he twists it open before handing it to you. After a few beats of tense silence, he speaks up. 

“Honestly, I don’t really have anything to say either, I wasn’t expecting to see you for another eight months, and even then, I was expecting a rejection.” He admits sheepishly, a blush blooming along his cheeks. “Maybe an apology for making you run all this way just to see me is my first course of action.”

“Accept my confession first, jerk,” you punch his shoulder lightly, smiling up at him.

“I’ll accept anything so long as it’s from you, I thought I made that clear in my letter.”

“Don’t think you can charm your way into my good graces!” 

He thinks it’s adorable that you’re trying to maintain your cool mask despite your inability to look him in the eye, even if he’s hardly faring much better. The usual lyricism of his words have faded, and his quick mind can’t think of anything poetic to say, as if your confession has intercepted all the functions of his brain.

You like him back, you like him back, you like him back, and he doesn’t know what to do with that information except smile like an idiot.

“Are you still going on your expedition?” asks Kazuha. “Your group must be waiting for you.”

“I told them not to, dumped my rations and things with them and told them they could use it. I’m not running all the way back now.”

“Then, does that mean you can join us?” 

“I don’t want to intrude, and I don’t know if you have enough things on board for another-”

“-I’m sure Beidou and the crew wouldn’t mind. There are always extra rations, you can have some of mine if it gets to it, and our first stop is at sunset, so we could go and grab some clothes for you to bring along!” He quickly suggests, hope shining brightly in those crimson eyes of his, as if pleading for you to say yes.

The wind blows gently through his beige strands, and the moment feels enchantingly similar to one you had read in an Inazuman poem. Then again, Kazuha always had that effect; the ability to slow time and let you see the world through a different, prettier lens, even if the consequences were completely dire.

You want to continue seeing through his lens, exactly the way you did when both of you fled Inazuma and the Vision hunt Decree. And you want to see the rest of Teyvat the way he does. 

“Okay.” You agree, “I’ll come along.”

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

barbietoes

a better view for us

DRIFTER'S BALLAD. ⋆·˚ ༘ *

synopsis: in which you come whirling into the wanderer’s life like a tempestous storm, bringing pleasant gales in your wake and an unsuspecting puppet under your thrall. (or, alternatively, you end up worming your way too deeply into the wanderer's life that he doesn't want to let go. uh oh)

warnings: 10k words, strangers to lovers!trope, pining, HUGE SLOWBURN, misunderstandings, angst, the wanderer is bad at feelings (the complete package), reader is a traveler but NOT the game traveler and has a hydro vision. aether is the canon mc. i have no idea if this is ooc, mentions of fontaine, some references to scara's past names n titles not really all that canon compliant so sorry abt that lol

mhie's notes: it took me 1 large cup of coffee and a portion of my soul to write this fic and i think im severely delirious rn. honestly hate the ending but fuck it we ball, don't ask me why i randomly decided to churn out this monstrosity because idk it's the wanderer he does that alot, this is definitely my magnum flopus bc i hate it but also what the fuck did i just write. anyways enjoy?????

Sumeru is, quite literally, a breath of fresh air.

The nation of Dendro is nothing short of lustrous, lush, and teeming with life— various aromas of delicacies you’ve never even set eyes upon before; colorful wares the merchants of Sumeru City proudly flaunt, varieties of daily necessities and souvenirs all on display.

Yes, this would be the perfect place for you to temporarily take up residence in.

Once you got used to it, at least.

But trouble always follows the unprepared, especially for someone yet to be acquainted with such a place so humid like Sumeru, and you certainly don’t expect to find yourself robbed the moment you let down your guard sightseeing.

“Hey, hey! Get back here, you thief! That's my mora!”

Your shamelessness admittedly gets you strange looks by the locals there, but you hardly pay them any mind, too focused on actually getting your valuables back and potentially saving yourself from being in extreme poverty. Adventuring was already costly as it is. You didn't need a run for your money.

Just a little more and you could get to that thief… you were so close…!

…So close until you bump into someone at the worst timing known to Teyvat. Already irritated, it doesn't take long for you to direct such anger to said someone, despite knowing just how foolish that notion was. “Ugh! Hey, do you mind?! I was just about to get that damn no good th-”

“-ief…?”

The first thing you notice about the someone that you bump into is that oh, he's beautiful.

Not handsome, no, beautiful. Ethereal, almost. As if his visage was crafted by the very Gods themselves.

And then you notice that hat.

It was huge, clearly not of Sumerian origin, and now that you look closer, his clothing resembles that of certain Inazuman individuals… Right, what was the word again? Shugenja?

He hardly looked the part though, especially with that face. You've always thought monks would've had a kinder face. This guy's face however, seemed stormy. Melancholic, in a way— you can't deny that he is likely the most attractive person you've ever come across in ages.

“Oh, ah-! I'm sorry for bumping into you!” Archons above, your voice was so weak. What was up with you? Did tumbling into some random guy mess with your brain so bad you seem to see him in rose-tinted lenses now?

And was it just you, or did he seem to look forlorn for a moment? He seemed quite aimless, too… maybe missing someone?

That brief glimpse of sorrow fades from his gaze like a flash of thunder, as if it was never there in the first place, and a sigh escapes the beautiful stranger’s lips, mildly displeased. “It’s fine. Watch where you're going next time.”

A pause, before he looks towards the direction of where the thief last scuttled off to, in a rather sketchy corner of the Grand Bazaar. “If you're done staring, the guy you were chasing went that way, by the way.”

...??

“Oh. Oh, right! Sorry, sorry, I have to go… Thank you for telling me though!”

You don't hear his response as you zip past him.

(Oh. Archons. He looked so beautiful. There's heat travelling to your face and you're not sure if that's the adrenaline from running or just a side effect of that eye-catching stranger.)

Although, a small part of your mind can't help but wonder why such a pretty person seemed to be making such a sad face.

── ➶-͙˚ ༘✶ ──

Thankfully, all was well after that encounter with that stranger. Like the heavens themselves answered your pleas, it was just your luck that a matra had spotted the thief, and by extension, you.

Turns out that the thief was quite well-known, having robbed quite a lot of people to warrant himself a top priority capture in the Matra’s jurisdiction. Apparently, he used to be a researcher that fell from grace at Sumeru’s most well-known academic institution, the Akademiya. Really, scholars were quite the odd bunch, weren't they…

Being severely hungry as a result of the chase, you end up going to a certain Lambad’s Tavern and, in a sick twist of fate, you find the stranger there again, sipping away at a cup of coffee, looking like it's no one's business what he's up to.

This time, it's his hat that you notice, not his face. In the back of your mind, you wonder why he didn't take it off. He was already inside the tavern, so why didn't he remove that big hat of his?

(He suits the hat, though.)

You don't know what drives you to move forward, whether it be liquid courage or just because of the way he seemed to be someone you were oddly drawn to, somehow. Even if you've only met him just earlier.

So, with a smile and determination on your face, you approach him, sitting down from across his seat. He visibly stops, and you can see that he's internally weighing whether to drive you out. “You're the stranger from earlier, right? The one who helped me?”

“...” Not a talkative one, is he?

“Y’know, staying silent forever won't stop me from asking. You mind if I can sit here?”

You can see him exhale out a sigh, as if the very notion of answering tires him to his bones. Okay, how rude. “Do what you want. Just keep your voice down. Don't you know people need their peace?”

You raise your brow. “Well, don't you know it's polite to make small talk?”

“Heh, well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don't know, in fact, since I rarely engage in them. Trivial things like that are no use to me.”

“Wow, what a life you must live then, with that mindset of yours.”

He gives you a condescending look. “Yeah, it's great. Perfectly content with this mindset of mine, thanks.”

You should be fuming right now, really. At the sheer audacity of this blue-garbed stranger, at his extremely candid and no filter words. But you aren't. If anything, it was quite charming. “You have a knack for throwing people off, don't you?”

“Hah, that's their problem. You humans can be annoyingly sensitive sometimes, after all.” another sip of his coffee follows suit.

Humans. Was he a non-human then if he seems to exclude himself from that category? What an interesting stranger.

You ask for his name; he's reluctant, letting another beat of silence pass before he gives it to you. Wanderer. What kind of person names someone Wanderer? Maybe he wasn't human after all.

As if sensing the weird look you give him, he noticeably bristles up. “What? Got a problem with that name?”

“No, it's just…” you pause, before you grin uncontrollably. “Pfft, ahahahahaha! What kind of strange name is that? That sounds so cool! Yet so- Er, sorry, how do I say it? Ah, right. Eccentric! That's quite the eccentric name you got there, Wanderer.”

(He tenses slightly. How strange, being reminded of the past in the company of a stranger.)

“With the way you seem so amused by my name, I’d think you'd put me off as some clown on the streets.” he grumbles, but makes no motion to actually be offended by your words. “Your order’s here. Best you compose yourself or you’d make a mess laughing yourself silly.”

“Oh, you're right..!” and indeed, your delicious order of Sabz Meat Stew comes in right at the perfect time, the smell of the mild lemon and aromantic spices wafting through the air in a harmonious blend. You could almost drool at the sight in front of you.

When you accidentally burn yourself by immediately taking a small sip of the stew, there's a snicker from across you from Wanderer, his expression mildly amused.

“Even sturmbeasts have the patience to wait till it isn't hot. If I didn't know any better, I’d say you’d finish that stew in one go.”

You huff. “Well, I'm hungry, so just spare me the clever quips, will you? Or I just might.”

Unbeknownst to you, a strange feeling of nostalgia wells deep within him when he sees you scarf down the stew, albeit quite gracelessly.

There's awe in your expression for such a simple thing, just a broth made from herbs and meat.

It reminds him a little bit too much of the puppet he was before, that starry-eyed face.

What an interesting stranger.

── ➶-͙˚ ༘✶ ──

“Ah! It's you again, Wanderer!”

He can see you scrambling to get to his side, and frankly, he doesn't even know why he ended up here, focusing on the now muddy path in front of him. The rain rumbles on, getting stronger by the minute.

He'd been getting restless as of late, always dreaming, the ghosts of the past being more of a pain lately. Since Lesser Lord Kusanali did tell him to take it easy… even she couldn't blame him if he couldn't help but want to leave the stuffy air of the Akademiya. She'd understand.

Probably.

So here he was, in some corner of Avidya Rainforest, walking through the heavy rain. This was his life now, being a wanderer. To think that he, a former Fatui, a Harbinger at that, would end up writing research papers about how that recluse’s nation ended up is now letting time pass by aimlessly walking through this inconvenient rain shower… truly, he's fallen far from grace.

“Wha-! Hey, don't ignore me! You're going to get soaked..!”

Though with your appearance, he supposes it wasn't a bad decision. Even if his ears hurt from your volume.

“Shouldn't you be worrying about yourself rather than me?”

Unlike him, you were visibly soaked, rain droplets littering the expanse of your form, the water making your clothes cling to you like a second skin. You wave your hand dismissively at his statement.

“It's no big deal. I'm used to heavy rainfall already, on the road and all… and besides, I gave away my umbrella to a merchant passing by before coming here. But in any case-!”

You grab at his wrist, and he could easily shove you away, tell you to leave him be, but somehow, he doesn't. “What are you doing?”

“Getting shelter, obviously!” and just like that, you take him by the hand, hiding under his hat, whirling past the strong breeze, unwavering, running towards the nearest shade you can find. “The both of us will end up soaked at this rate!”

Your hands are warm in his own.

Soft, gentle. So unlike his own cold, mechanically structured joints. A small part of him loathes the sensation.

Human touch reminded him of what he was, after all. Created, artificial. So different from the warmth of your fingertips, of the heart you housed in your body. It’s a bitter reminder of what he had yearned to be, and what he could never be.

And yet inexplicably, the Wanderer finds that he doesn't hate this particular touch.

(How bothersome.)

The two of you find shelter in the form of a huge tree, big enough to block out the temporary rain, and he watches as you gather your bearings, checking your travel bag for any soaked items. He can see that you're diligent, tirelessly taking out the items that seem to be a lost cause, and leaving the ones that seem salvageable to dry near the shade. You even hum a tune while doing so.

Hah, how carefree.

“So, why did you give it away?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Your umbrella. Humans get sick easily, and only an idiot would give up their umbrella in this downpour, so why bother giving it to someone else? They won't even return it.”

He can see you purse your lips, contemplating how to answer his words. Then, you shrug. “Guess I just wanted to. Doesn't hurt anyone if you just wanted to do something good.”

Are you serious?

“But you'd be the one inconvenienced. It's not worth it.”

“Says who? That merchant looked troubled, and if I could help him even with something small as giving my umbrella, then it's worth it.”

How vexing. This unabashed kindness certainly takes him for surprise; You could've easily ignored that merchant, like all humans do, and go on with your life, perfectly dry and dandy. He would certainly do that, anyway. But then again, he wasn't exactly the giving type, and he wasn't a saint. Who was he to judge?

A few moments of silence pass, and even for him, this awkwardness is stifling.

“...Say, do you think it was a bad decision?” he can't discern anything deep in your tone except for the simple desire to keep up cordial conversation. “Giving my umbrella away, I mean.”

“No.” he answers immediately, despite not really knowing why he answered that way. He doesn't even think it was a good decision to give it away in the first place. “It wasn't.”

“Why?” there's curiosity in your voice, and for a moment he seems out of it, plunged into a bygone memory. Why indeed?

(“It’s only natural for people to want to help someone in need. It's in our nature.”

“I'm not exactly.... 'people' though, Niwa.”

A bygone laugh lost time echoes across the breeze.

“Who says you aren't included? Everyone could use a helping hand. Naturally, it applies to those who aren't human too, Kabukimono. But I already did tell you, right?

You're human just like the rest of us, as far as I'm concerned.”)

The voice of Niwa echoes in his mind, a passing thought.

“Its in human nature to want to help people, and because just a simple thing like that meant there was one person who wanted to reach out to you,” a pause, before he adds something far more personal than his normally guarded self would.

“-and because that meant there was at least someone who wanted to help you, even if for nothing in return. Just wanting to do something good. No strings attached.

…It's not a bad thing, at least.”

(This, he supposes, is one of the things that made him long to be like them in the first place.)

You probably wouldn't know just how much it took for him to say these words, just how much your passing words seemed to impact him. You probably wouldn't know either, how saying these words, forcing them out from his artificed jaw had made some part of him feel infinitely lighter. Snapping an invisible shackle from his body.

Making him feel a little more free, in a way.

“Hm.” You fall back into that silence, and he can see you musing to yourself about his words. “Is that what you think?”

??? “I guess so.”

He doesn't see the smile on your face. “You’re a good person, Wanderer.”

Hah. What a joke. Him? A good person? If only you knew. “You shouldn't just assume things about me just because of my words.”

What part about him was good? Humans truly loved to jump into conclusions easily.

(He's a fire, turning everything he cherishes to ashes, and then blaming it on himself. Hazardous to everyone around him. He's nothing like a good person.)

And yet he elicits a laugh out of you, melodious and clear, the sound strangely pleasant in his ears. What audacity.

“Yeah? Well, I guess it's just a feeling. You're pretty blunt, but you have this strange sincerity to you, you know? I like that. It's good, that honesty. It means you can accept the harsh parts of life people normally turn a blind eye to and move forward. That makes you a good person, that type of mindset.”

(Huh. He's never thought of it that way.)

It was still raining. Wanderer can hear the pitter-patter of the droplets from above the tree, gloomy sky overhead. It's sorry weather and this was one sorry conversation, hitting too close to something he thought he had long buried in the dust.

“You’re strange.” he mutters, and you laugh again, smile playing on your lips.

“Thanks, I get that alot.” you snark playfully, turning away from him, already getting back to fixing your things.

The weather was gloomy and dark, but the glow of your smile seemed to overshadow it all.

Indeed, how strange, this conversation.

For the first time in a long, long time, when he dreams, the Wanderer finds that the restlessness that plagued him isn't as suffocating as before.

── ➶-͙˚ ༘✶ ──

“Woah, you can really see the best view here!”

Had he not heard the crunch of the leaves under your feet, perhaps he would've startled, immediately throwing you off with a simple gale from his anemo powers. But you'd probably end up showering him with that stupid hydro vision of yours, so he doesn't entertain the thought, at least for now.

You plop down next to him on the soft bed of grass, one knee propped up to rest your head on. He follows suit, sitting down at one of the vantage points he's come across.

For some reason or another, you both find yourself in each other's company too many times for Wanderer to count. Whether it be from him passing by you in Sumeru City, or spending time at Avidya Forest and seeing you help around with those Forest Rangers, he certainly has seen quite a lot of you these days.

Whenever you do cross paths, he gets dragged into unsavory situations like helping out the people in Avidya Forest, getting a meal at some tavern you introduce him to, ever spontaneous with the incessant conversations about the mundane that he can't help but indulge in.

It has gotten to the point where he begrudgingly accepts the title you bestow upon him as friends.

Ridiculous, unnecessary. He didn't need a human connection, not now, not ever. Why the hell did he not rebuke you? He's received titles that are far more intricate and complex than you could ever imagine, ever comprehend.

(He won't say that he actually does enjoy it, being someone you consider your friend.)

You talk about your travels, about the nations you've been in, about damn almost everything possible. He's never enjoyed chatty humans, but your presence exudes comfort in some way, one that he can't help but return to, despite all his complaints and grumbles about it. He can bicker with you all he likes, spout insults upon insults from his lips, and you'd still see through him anyway, calling him out on his true intentions.

(“You know, you're kinder than you give yourself credit for.”

“That's ludicrous. Did the daydreaming rot your brain too much?”

“You say that, but if so, why are you so insistent in helping me with these simple things?”

A cart full of Zaytun peaches in his hands and yours. A commission for more mora. Your commission. He could've let you do it yourself. So why?

Both of you know why, but the puppet you've come to be endeared with is far too prideful to admit the true reason.

“That's... It was just in a whim. That's all. It's nothing like what you think it is.”

“Heh, sure, whatever you say, Kuni.”)

Whether you've intended to or not, you've glued yourself by his side to the point where he doesn't even know when there's a day he hasn't heard your enthusiastic voice talking about who knows what, and somehow, he finds that he doesn't tire of it at all.

If anything, your presence by his side is like a refreshing breather from everything in his life.

You've helped him immensely, despite the fact that it likely took you a great many times trying to break through his demanding and standoffish nature. For that, Wanderer truly does feel grateful for the fact that you chose to stay by his side despite how prickly he often lauds himself as. It's beneath him, it should be, it is.

(You've made it clear that he can easily get out of this strange arrangement as he sees fit, but even if it came to, the Wanderer can't find it in him to complain. He never does.)

In the duration of your time together, he finds that being the subject of your attention and companionship is something he takes great pleasure in, amugness and haughtiness aside. And frankly? He's firmly attached to it now, and he's sure as hell he's now unwilling to let such an addictive and warm feeling slip by his grasp.

…Maybe Buer wasn't so foolish about this whole companionship thing after all.

(“We’re friends now, you know! Companions, whatever you wanna call it.”

He can see the mirth on your face, the upturn of your lips. He can hear your laugh, and he can almost see your eyes crinkling around the corners. He didn't answer then, only turning his hat away from you to hide his face which houses a smile he’d rather not show you, given your teasing nature.

“Hmph. What childish whims you make me take part in.”

He'd also rather not show you how red his face was, but that was besides the point.

“Aww, you're shy! Hehe, I knew you weren't all gloomy and sarcastic! Come on, let me see how much you like being called my companion!”

“...Be quiet or I’ll take back my words.”

Laughter peals out of you, and the sound makes his smile just a tad bit bigger.

Your friend. Your companion.

That wasn't so bad.)

Out of all the humans he's come across, he thinks you're the most bearable.

The soft glow of the setting sun paints a picturesque view of Sumeru’s forest, amplified by the soft blend of reds, yellows and orange which makes the sunset look even more wonderful. Your hydro vision glints by the angle of the light hitting it, situated near your heart. Similar to his vision’s own placement, he notes with satisfaction.

The occasional breeze passes through as well, making your hair all messed up.

(Endearing.)

“Guess you were right. It is quite pretty here.” You continue, again, smiling at him with that irritatingly dazzling smile as you turn back to the sunset. Something in him stirs.

“The view is... bearable at best.”

He can see you scrunch your face in feigned irritation. “Jeez, just say you agree!”

Wanderer doesn't respond, content to drink in the comfortable silence between you two.

Indeed, for all his wandering, he'd come across many sights that were quite tolerable, a fact that you would understand most, being of similar standing as a traveler. This view in particular better than the rest, he muses.

You look good with the setting sun in the background, lighting your skin aglow. Not that he'd ever admit it to your face or else he'd probably face even more teasing from you, irksome terribly nosy as you are.

You both stay that way, watching the sun descend below the horizon, melting away like a soft flame, the darkness of the night soon to come.

“Hey, Wanderer?”

“What is it this time?” Masking it with feigned irritation, he hopes the fondness of his expression doesn't reach your eyes.

“Thanks for showing me such a pretty view.”

The Wanderer turns to you, the words he painstakingly garnered after internally warring with himself die on his lips, seeing you watch the blood red sun soon disperse, leaving the flickering embers of reds and orange in its wake.

The view, huh?

Yeah, it wasn't so bad.

---

“Oh! Welcome back. You stayed out quite late. Did you have a good time with [Name]?”

Nahida’s gentle tone greets him when he returns. She knows of you, given how frequently you've visited the Sanctuary of Surasthana to bother the ever so aloof puppet. The Sanctuary is relatively quiet, save for the occasional light noise of Wanderer's geta sandals as he descends down the steps.

Night has long graced Sumeru City, the pitch black darkness encompassing the nation, but the lights down below still find that the City itself is still bustling with life, likely soon to close up as the people get ready to rest after a hard day's work.

“It wasn't anything special.” she looks at him quizzically, intent to seek a reaction from the ever so guarded puppet.

It's only when she gets close enough that she stops, a small, knowing smile creeping up her face.

“It was just to see the sunset for a few minutes.”

There, from a miniscule glimpse from behind his face does she notice it.

The red on his cheeks that's all too similar to the shade around his eyes.

── ➶-͙˚ ༘✶ ──

It's been a while since you and the Wanderer have graciously known each other (his words), and to her most eager surprise, Nahida finds that it seems you've changed the puppet for the better.

He's visibly less prone to snapping at people, more mild-tempered (which is a huge improvement in her book) and can even hold conversations with others more— granted, only if she or you were there.

Of course, he still actively avoids delving into the trivialities of mortals, but is content to stay in your company.

His thesis and research papers have seen the light of day more often too, being given to her days early in advance when he normally would've waited till the deadline to submit them.

(“I see that your productivity has increased with regards to your academic endeavors. That's good news!

If I may, what’s with the change of heart?”

She could see the Wanderer scoff, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, defensive. Like a cat with its fur on end, she likens.

“That's not your business to be concerned about. Besides, aren't you glad I'm finally putting up with this tiresome activity you've given me to learn more about myself like you wanted?”

“Anyway, just take it already. I just-” he'd sputtered then, so uncharacteristic of his normally apathetic nature, tipping his hat low away from her as he hands her the stack of papers.

She doesn't miss the pink hue splattered across his face. The sight is familiar.

“I'm in a hurry to meet someone, and these boring research papers will end up making them wait for me even longer. Need I say anything else?”)

In fact, by the way he's acting lately— the constant hovering around you under the guise of simply going out of the Akademiya to gather research material, the various times she's caught the both of you asleep, shoulder to shoulder in the corners of the House of Daena, scribbles of shared notes and books around you two, the way the Wanderer seems more keen on interacting with you than others…

The rumors that seem to point to him spending much more time outside the Akademiya, and sightings of him across various parts of Sumeru with a certain someone.

And to hit the final nail in the coffin, the final puzzle piece of the dichotomy of the puppet she's harbored in her tutelage, she even caught him making a certain something with great care that's normally atypical of him, clearly tailored to the taste for a certain someone.

Yes, by the information at hand, she could even say that the Wanderer is….

No. She shouldn't jump to conclusions just yet. Wisdom came with knowledge, and she didn't have sufficient knowledge to prove whether her hypothesis was correct.

The wisdom she's gaining here is still invaluable despite it being an arbitrary decision she had just thought of; She had nothing to lose here, and this would bode well in order for her to understand the workings of the puppet once called the Balladeer.

A creak of the Sanctuary’s doors alerts her to the appearance of someone coming inside.

“Nahida…?”

Ah. Perfect timing. It seems she’ll get the answers to her questions today.

“[Name]! What a nice surprise. What brings you here? Is the Wanderer giving you any trouble?”

The shake of your head is vehement, and you're quick to defend the prickly puppet at once. “No, no way! Well– Not too much trouble, anyway. You know how he can be.”

She smiles at that, slightly relieved at how earnest you answer. As expected, you were truly a sweet one, and she can tell why the puppet is intent on sticking by your side. “I see. Then, a friendly chat? If that's the case, feel free to chat with me. We're all friends here, after all.”

“Well… Yeah, about that.” Your expression is sheepish, a little meek. She keeps a mental note of the small color adorning your cheeks. “I wanted to ask for some advice. You know? For me- I mean! For a friend! Yes, for a friend, haha…”

“A friend?” she can play along with this if it meant she would gain insight to her current predicament. “Well then, ask away! Please tell me what this friend of yours needs advice on.”

A deep breath from you, willing yourself to take out the words lodged in the back of your throat.

“Say, Nahida. What would you do if you realize that someone who you've recently spent a lot of time with makes you feel… well, makes you feel, you know.”

Oh?

The God of Wisdom can almost giggle at the way you're trying to get your words to make sense, stringing them together in an instant. When you've clearly mulled it over enough, Nahida cranes her neck to hear your voice.

“Mm? What was that, [Name]?”

You take a deep breath, and spill everything to her.

By the time you exit the Sanctuary of Surasthana, she's trying hard not to fight but a grin on her face, and ultimately falls short.

There's only one final conclusion she's came to, and the puzzle has already come together.

Now, she wonders, if her conclusion was indeed right, how would it go from here? Once she'd understood the situation at hand, she'd given you just a small hint at the feelings she knows is simmering beneath the normally composed Wanderer, and hopes that you'd do well with such information.

This time, would a puppet such as him accept what was to be offered to him? Or would he turn away from it, as he always used to do with what he truly wished to have?

Truly, there were still many questions in this world that needed answering, and this was no exception.

---

“Are you done speaking with Buer?”

The puppet with the huge hat is by your side the instant you exit the Sanctuary. Instead of the usual exuberant energy, the you he's greeted with seems more quiet.

What did that damn god do? He swears, if she had even offended you in some way, he'd–

“....” Still quiet.

“Hey, have you grown mute or something? Look at me.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. We talked. Just about… something trivial. About my travels, that's all! Don't waste your time thinking about it, Kuni.” you're visibly out of it, but you flash him a smile as you always do, immediately heading back to the City.

He's unconvinced that was just the content of your conversation, given that God's need for constant information. He might as well say it. She's more nosy than she gives herself credit for, so he rather hopes you didn't give in to her (most likely) constant questioning.

“Well, if you say so.” immediately turning on his heel and moving, he misses the look you send him, and the words you utter under your breath.

“Yeah, maybe I should trust Nahida.”

“You've always been good at looking past the surface, [Name]! I'm sure this time is no different.”

“Still, what if I thought wrong? What if he simply sees me as his companion, or like, a confidant, and not-”

“That's unlikely. I'm certain he feels the same. But it's always better to try.”

“Well, you're right about that. Are you really, really sure he'll respond the way you think he will?”

“You'll do great regardless of the outcome, you know. Even if things will change between you two because of your decision, the Wanderer will appreciate you regardless. You've been a huge solace to him. Knowing him, he won't let you slip through his grasp easily.”

It's silent for a moment.

“I sure hope you're right.” an exasperated, fond sigh escapes your lips. “Really, he can be so confusing sometimes. Guess that's part of his charm.”

“Hehe, that I agree. You'll definitely do well, [Name].”

“Thanks, Nahida.”

You're having second doubts about what you're doing, each step nearing the Sanctuary of Surasthana you've no doubt the Wanderer is in right now. He'd never willingly go anywhere else on his own accord unless it was here, after all.

In your hand, the small glint of the present you've prepared for a certain someone gleams, spotless and pristine. A lotus pin. Its petals contain liquid resin and encased in it, a real Nilotpala Lotus, the colors resembling the shade of the Wanderer's eyes the reason why you picked it in the first place.

(You hope he likes it.)

Aside from the pin, there's also the letter containing your heart— rather, the feelings that have threatened to burst ever since the day you've come across that beautiful puppet with the strange, strange name. The one you’ve considered to be the sole captor of your attention, and not long after, your adoration.

Ah, what's the point in lying to yourself? From the moment your eyes met those blue-indigo ones, you knew you stood no chance in the feelings that soon enveloped you.

It took some time to get over once you've realized it, the subtle shift of you and the Wanderer’s dynamic growing to be more and more difficult to ignore as you both spend time together.

Just how deeply have you begun to feel for this puppet, longing to be able to see all the sides of him?

His joy, his melancholy, his anger, his arrogance, his haughtiness…. The sides he condemns and holds in a tight grip, and the softer parts of himself which he desperately tries to hide.

How he always seems to be more patient when dealing with children or the elderly on your encounters in Sumeru City or Avidya Rainforest, how his words betray his true intentions, how he’s far more human than he ever believes himself otherwise, being the most caring person you've ever come across, in his own weird ways.

Every second you spend with him, you see even more parts of himself that he bares before you, trusting you to accept it and stay by his side even then. And you do.

You're completely and utterly enamored with him, it's terrifying.

Sumeru was just supposed to be another next stop for you. Being a traveller, partings and meetings with others were transient, fleeting. You didn't expect to feel the growing attachment to this fragile yet untouchable puppet swell until it consumed you.

(You didn't expect to care for him this much, to fall for him this deeply.)

He calls himself someone beneath such simple feelings, but you can't help but hope that perhaps he has grown to care for you as well, in one small corner of his heart.

He may say that he doesn't have one, a homage to his inhuman origins, but you're not buying it. How could you believe him, when all his actions proved otherwise?

You remember when he first opened up to you, a small sight into what made up his entire being, a glimpse behind those stubbornly unreachable walls he's conjured up to protect himself. The both of you were high up in one of the huge trees that only the rainforests of Sumeru can boast, under the canopy of leaves.

He'd been standing, looking at the stars with that same stormy expression you had first seen on him the day the both of you had first encountered each other.

You'd been in awe of the twinkling stars high up in the sky, to which the Wanderer had responded with his normal apathy, immediate nitpick about your supposed ‘simplemindedness at mere balls of gas in the heavens’. It had escalated, a conversation about the stars slowly turning in the direction of fate, and eventually towards questions about yourselves.

(“So I can call you by that name? Kunikuzushi?”

Even though you tried to hide it, there'd been an unmistakable grin on your face. He'd finally told you at least some part of his past! Perhaps this would lead you two to get closer.

And maybe….

Wanderer– Kunikuzushi, rather, crossed his arms, giving you a deadpan look. “You're so happy about that. It's just a name. Use it if you want to. Calling me Wanderer all the time is way too troublesome.”

“Troublesome? I don't think so, though? And of course I'm happy! Finally, here I thought you'd never tell me anything about yourself. This is cause for celebration, you know.”

“Hardly. Only simpletons like you would find it fit to be celebrated, but the sentiment is admirable.” Adorable, hiding his face beneath his hat. The small peek at the normally straight line that is his lips turning upwards tells you all you need to know.

“Riiight… In any case, Kunikuzushi is too long!” he grimaces at that. If it had been anyone else, he probably would've smited them for the slight insult. You aren't just anyone, though.

“So, can I call you Kuni?”

He takes his time weighing the option whether to be dissatisfied with the nickname or not, but in the end, ultimately decides the latter.

“Do whatever you want.”)

Whatever the case, you've already been persuaded by Nahida to tell him about your feelings.

You weren't going to run away from this. You won’t. You were going to give it to him. You were going to give it. Don't be a coward, [Name], this won't hurt anyone at all, and Kunikuzushi—

“What are you talking about, Buer? It's nothing like that.

....Look, they're not that important as you think, you've thought wrong. [Name] is just....”

The Wanderer's voice echoes loudly, irritated. And he's pissed, judging from his tone. Hiding near the steps to the entrance the Sanctuary of Surasthana, you can't help but listen in. Was he arguing with Nahida? And a mention of your name...?

“Are you sure? Because I thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong. There's no way I'd be attached to someone that's as troublesome as them, who can't even learn to take a hint that I don't want to be bothered.”

Huh?

“But, [Name] is a good person. They've clearly helped you immensely, and if you keep ignoring their impact on you, then…”

“They’ve done nothing. They're just– Look, whatever foolish flight of fantasy you've conjured in your head about me and them, it's nothing. Don't bother trying to refute me, because it really isn't anything.”

You hardly pay attention to Nahida's response, too busy trying to steady the emotions currently rushing through your body.

Normally, you’d immediately question his words, chalking them up as him just wanting others to stop prying into his business.

But the sincerity in his words, the finality of it- Was that what he really thought? You thought he at least appreciated your presence. Not… not this. You feel like your chest is threatening to burst.

Did you really mean nothing to him? Was all that time you've spent together really nothing?

You don't know. In fact, now that this riveting declaration he'd given had come to light, all you know is that you don't want to be here right now. He's talked about betrayal before, something in his past. He didn't divulge too many details, but you knew it wounded him deeply.

Now, though? you can't help but think it was you that had been betrayed.

To think that all this time….

Whatever traces of your earlier enthusiasm has died and snuffed out like a flickering candlelight. If he were to spot you now after you know how he truly feels about you, would you be able to face him?

There's only one answer. You can't.

You needed to get out of here, and fast.

So you did.

── ➶-͙˚ ༘✶ ──

When the Wanderer goes to the spot you two meet up frequently and doesn't find you there, he's mildly displeased.

His pride was far too big to quantify, so normally he would've brushed this off, but it was you. You, the only person he'd even relatively opened himself to.

Ever-present you, who he's grown to care for in more ways that he can admit. You, the person he can't help but be drawn to, the one being who's been on his mind far too many times to count. The one who's shown him that in this damn world, there were things that were worth something.

That he was worth something. Worthy of attention, companionship, and all the good things you've brought to him.

He shouldn't be feeling this way, because he really shouldn't. It was just a day without you, how hard could that even be?

But the sting of slight hurt can't help but surface at you not showing up at your designated meeting spot.

You don't show up the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next day after that. And the next day after that day.

There's a sinking feeling in the void where his heart lies, bitterness that can't compare to the coffee he takes in that stupid Lambad's Tavern.

Without the constant rambling of a certain someone inadvertently making his days lighter, his routine has grown as dull as it always has, now that you've left the picture.

(He despises this feeling.)

Ah. Again, someone else had left. You left. Left him just when he was so close to realizing the fact that maybe, this transient connection between you two should be something he could care for, that he was allowed to foster; Something that the Wanderer could finally hold dear.

What a joke.

Though his mind had long cemented the idea that you had indeed left him in the dust as all mortals he'd cherished had, some idiotic, hopeful part of him thought otherwise.

Would you really leave him without warning?

Without good reason? As much as he would like to say to himself that yes, you would, for fate has never been kind to a puppet such as he, always taking what he cherishes away from his grasp, deep down, he knows you wouldn't do that.

The [Name] he knows isn't like that. You could be mischievous, insufferable, stubborn to a head-ache inducing fault, but you weren’t someone who would leave without a reason.

You upheld your beliefs to a strict standard, too tough on yourself sometimes that he finds it irritating, and always so easy to sway. As much as he'd like to disagree, he knows you too much, so much that he undoubtedly believes you wouldn't leave without a reason.

As for why… There had to be a reason why you suddenly thought it was best if you would spend less time with him. Rather, that you stopped spending time with him.

Was it because of his personality?

Immediately, he chuckles humorlessly. Hah, don't be an idiot. If that was why you'd left then you would've left a long time ago.

Then…. something he’d said to hurt your feelings? He doesn't recall anything of the sort so why—

Oh. Oh.

(“Well, you thought wrong. There's no way I'd be attached to someone that's as troublesome as them, who can't even learn to take a hint that I don't want to be bothered.”)

Curse his traitorous tongue.

Immediately as his hopes had risen, they were crushed by the steady, disgusting realization that because of that one conversation with Lesser Lord Kusanali, you had deemed yourself unfit to stay by his side like he's secretly been wishing.

He didn't mean it.

As realization festers like an ugly weed poisoning his mind, it's fear that spikes him like little pin pricks all over his consciousness, before desperation takes over and worsens his already crumbling thoughts. He didn't mean for you to hear that. That wasn't what he meant.

Again, someone he held dear had been stripped away from him and it was all his fault. Again, he was the fool, the puppet that hoped for too much.

(“Nothing is so broken that it can't be fixed.”

“What kind of useless advice did you pick up on your travels? What a joke.”

“Hey, just so you know, I actually believe in this saying! After all, it's true. And it's a wonderful statement, don't you think?”)

“Nothing is so broken that it can't be fixed.” he murmurs to himself like a mantra, and though he tries to stomp it out, he can feel the rush of adrenaline pumping his mechanical joints, willing him forward.

He had to apologize. At least, clear up what you had heard that day, tell you that no, that wasn't what he meant. It wasn't what he meant at all.

This was selfish of him, truly, and he won't deny that perhaps he doesn’t deserve to face you, but who cares?

He's grown far too deep into this bond with you that even if Celestia itself had threatened to tear it apart, tear you two apart, he'd use every part of himself to resist, to tie back those broken strings, damn pride forgotten in the winds.

If it wasn't salvageable anymore, then he'd make it so that it is. He'd tell you that he didn't think you were a bother, or that you were just a simple passerby in his long life.

He'd tell you that he’s sorry, that you were more than those things, that you've been more than just a simple companion to him for a long time already. That you've been more than that for a long, long time. If you would allow it, he'd tell you that he—

No. He needs to focus on finding you first. That can wait until after he sees even a glimpse of you.

Now that he has a clear goal in mind, the Wanderer works with a brutal efficiency that he once harbored, back when he held the title of the Balladeer.

Though that version of him is long behind him, if it could speed up the process of finding you, then he'd use it.

He'd use any means necessary right now.

So, he heads to your residence, determination filling his body and a simple outcome in his sights.

── ➶-͙˚ ༘✶ ──

“Are you sure about this, [Name]? You said you really, really like Sumeru… Maybe you should really think about it more! You might regret it if you don’t!” 

Paimon’s voice is sympathetic, and clearly because of how haggard you looked. You thank the heavens she and Aether don't question the tear stains on your face. 

“Sorry, Paimon, but I’m sure. I’m not changing my decision.” your voice is a little hoarse from the crying from earlier and probably the day before that, but you put on a brave face to reassure the floating girl. “And right now, I'd think a trip to Fontaine is much better than staying in Sumeru.”

Aether and Paimon look at each other, concerned looks on their faces. It warms your heart, despite the fact that you don't know them all too well and just decided to tag along when they mentioned they were headed off to the Nation of Justice. 

You've only heard about Aether in passing, often talked about by the very reason you had even left the Land of the Dendro Archon. The hero of Mondsdat, the outlander, Sumeru’s savior, the endless titles leave you reeling even still. If it were any other day, perhaps you would be taken with him, someone you admire immensely in the flesh.

Too bad your heart is still stuck on one particular puppet. Really, what luck, falling for the one man (puppet) who was as untouchable as he was prideful.

This wasn’t you coping, no, but now that you think about it, this outcome wasn’t something to be surprised about. The Wanderer had made it clear his view on human relationships. It was you who had simply assumed that perhaps like those cliche light novels you’ve come across, maybe there could’ve been something else born out of the companionship you and the Wanderer shared.

“Just know that you’re always welcome to travel with us.” Aether says simply, giving you a simple smile. Luckily, you find it in you to smile back, just a bit. You’re really grateful for them.

But then your mind wanders, back to your residence, back to the contents of the conversation you’ve heard out of Kuni’s– Wanderer’s– mouth. Fine. If this was what he wanted, you stopping to bother him like he so loudly explained– then he’d get it.

The gift you’d made for him, the letter. Just thinking about it made you want to sink into a hole and just never come out.

(Maybe he’d come looking for you. Maybe he’d miss you, feel the depth of your absence like you do for him. You wish he does. You hope he does, really. You were really a goner.)

Looking at Port Ormos’ docks, watching the boat that’ll take all three of you to Fontaine get closer as you begin to forcefully open a new chapter of your adventures, your heart can’t find it in you to be excited at all, although normally you’d be thrilled at the idea of even visiting a nation you’ve been unfamiliar with. You’d probably be chatting away with Aether and Paimon right now, asking about the food, the best sights, everything.

You should be doing that. It’d give you a reason for your mind not to wander and think about the crippling weight of your decision and the feelings that are still very much stirring up within you, with the cause being a certain man with a large hat.

Ugh, could you even stop thinking about him? For all you know, Kuni might just happen to be around the corner and—

“And just what do you think you’re doing now, hm? Intending to leave after you so carelessly hadn’t informed me? Didn’t you say that we were companions? I get that you tend to be forgetful, but even so, this is too much.”

Oh my god.

You’ve never whipped your head around so fast, turning your body towards the source of that familiar, arrogant tone. Lo and behold, speak of the man and he shall appear. What in the world was he doing here? He looks like he’s about to murder someone right now. You hope that someone isn’t you, but there wasn’t anyone else he was looking at dead in the eye, so that’s all for your hopes.

(And why did you feel so relieved? Get a grip on yourself, you fool! This wasn’t a damn tragedy movie.)

From the corner of your eye, you can see Aether and Paimon giving you two strange looks. You can't blame them. It was weird seeing the normally unbothered Wanderer in the company of someone other than Nahida.

Nonetheless, you face him straight in the eye, eyebrows raised and defiant. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at Sumeru City?”

He tries to answer, but you can see that he falters momentarily, and that seamless face of his morphs into something that– you hope you weren’t imagining it– something that you can only plainly describe as regret, that in which you can’t help but feel an inexplicable pang in your heart.

Then, you notice it.

Pinned above his vision, with the golden feather he seems to carry with him everywhere. The lotus pin. Right, you’d left it at the inn you were staying in, not wanting to see it again after… Wait a moment, he’s wearing it.

You've hardly the time to feel elated when you feel it. A tug of your hand. You try to remove it from your own, but you’d underestimated the strength he harbors in that lithe body of his; he’s pulling you to the side, immediately heading in the opposite direction. For a moment you’re almost swept into the visage that seems straight out of a romance novel, his hand firmly in place in yours. “Wh-! Hey, Wanderer, wait…!”

Only when you’ve both crossed a specific distance from the docks and in a rather sketchy alleyway with no prying eyes to bother you both does he see fit to let go of you, stopping abruptly that you almost bump into him had it not been for his hat.

It's almost ironic. You'd first met him in an alleyway not too dissimilar to this, and now you're both in another alleyway, this time not as strangers, but as two individuals who have wormed their way into each other's lives so deeply that the presence of the other bleeds, so entangled and mixed into the life of the other in a manner that allowed something far more personal to fester like ink bleeding into a blank canvas, unable to be scrubbed away.

“What were you thinking?”

Is he actually asking this now? What’s more, not even sparing a single glance at you. Honestly, you’ve had it with him. If he wanted to play this way, then so be it.

“What am I thinking? What are you thinking?” you hiss, crossing your arms. “I was just heading off to a new destination of mine, like all travelers do. Yet you act like it’s the end of the world or something. If anything, aren’t you glad I’m not here to bother you anymore?”

“'...So you did hear me and Lesser Lord Kusanali’s conversation. I knew it. Tell me, what else did you hear?”

“That’s… none of your business. Now leave me be, the boat’ll be arriving soon and I don’t intend to be late. Unless you’re purposefully trying to stop me?” 

A smirk from him. So he still had the gall to look haughty? “What if I am trying to stop you? What would you do then?”

“Then I’d run away.”

“You know I’m faster than you, right? Or are you forgetting I can use my vision to keep up?”

“So? It can’t hurt to try. Who knows, maybe I’ll use my vision to walk on water to escape you. That'd be a sight to see.” you say, stubbornly sticking to your stand. “Enough bickering, Wanderer, let’s just save the small talk and get to the point. Why are you really here?”

Again, that look of regret flashes across his face. “....”

You wait for him to speak. When he doesn’t, you immediately turn away back to the direction of the boat. Of course that gets him talking.

“I didn’t mean them. The things I said to Buer, it- it wasn’t…. I really didn’t mean it, [Name].” there’s urgency in his voice, a hint of desperation too, one that seemed almost at the edge of tipping over. “Believe me, I didn’t mean them, I swear.”

You aren’t ready for this right now. “Then why say it in the first place? To Nahida, too…! I can’t possibly believe that you didn’t mean them.”

“I’ll keep saying it till you believe it.” the intensity in his voice is firm and determined, surety in it that makes you feel warm from head to toe. Dangerous. He really doesn't know just how much he affect you.

“You’re more than just a companion to me.”

── ➶-͙˚ ༘✶ ──

Please, self-control. Do not be swayed by that face.

But the softness in his tone when he says these words inform you of the sincerity of what the Wanderer is trying to convey, the nature of his words right out in the open, unmasked and raw, bearing itself to you. Genuine regret and guilt fill his expression, and if you decide to look closer, you can see it. The small outline of tears from his eyes.

You can’t look at him. You can’t, or else you know you’re going to be a goner.

“How do I know that’s not a lie?” you challenge, voice small, sneaking a peek at him. There’s a breathless chuckle from him, as if endeared by the thought. The expression he holds right now leaves your mind utterly blank, the fondness in it, the affection seeping from his eyes in waves, a fact that you notice firsthand. You always notice.

“Do you really always have something to say at a time like this?” his words lack bite, amused more than anything. “Then, if you don’t believe me…”

He draws closer to you, close enough that you can push him away if you so desired. You can see him look at you momentarily, a silent question. When you don’t refuse, however, he seems satisfied, and takes it as a signal to proceed.

“I’ll just have to prove it.”

What was happening? Hold on, was he really going to—

His touch is cold, but comforting. Thumb brushing against your jaw, to your lips. So softly, and so lovingly it leaves you in a mess, face burning. You can feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, the spot he’d held with such care still smoldering in its wake. He cradles your face in his hands like it was you that were precious porcelain, but he doesn’t close the distance like you’ve envisioned.

Instead, you find that there’s hesitance in him, a line he desperately tries not to cross, not from repulsion, but fear. Fear that this was all a dream, that it would be taken away from him in a heartbeat. Fear that you would be taken away, whisked into an unfortunate end like so many others he held dear. Fear for what it meant if he embraced the tempest of feelings he’s long harbored for you.

Fear for what it meant if he held you.

It’s this very fear that’s brought upon the teardrops falling down his face. And oh, how beautiful he looked despite his sorrow. How glad you feel, the sole witness to his spirit, the unwavering bundle of mysteries that makes up who he is.

You hadn’t forgiven him for his words back at the Sanctuary that day, but that would be brought up later, and hopefully by the end of this, banished from your mind, a simple misunderstanding.

For now, with equal tenderness as you would handle a treasure, you wipe away the tears that encompass the flawless canvas that is the Wanderer, and the world seems to stop at the way you both stare at each other, wordless. Words were unnecessary, for the eyes have always been the window to the soul.

His gaze overflows with unspoken words and apologies and the hidden nature of his true intentions. You've no doubt yours holds the same weight.

Stay, his eyes seem to scream. Stay with me.

For once there’s no playful banter, bickering, or any other devices that mask the true nature of your feelings. You can hear the faraway call of the boat’s captain for any passengers heading to Fontaine to come and hurry! but you’ve long made up your mind. 

bonus: clear skies after the storm.

“Did you see Hat Guy pull [Name] away like that? Oh, he’s definitely up to no good! Traveler, do you think we need to check on them? He seemed like he wanted something out of them, though… You know how scary he can be if he wants to.”

The chatter of Paimon’s voice flies over his head, with Aether simply dismissing her thoughts.

You didn’t come on the boat after all. But still, he’s not paying heed to Paimon’s words, because it really didn’t seem that way.

In fact, by the way he held your hand, the utter relief he’d seen in the Wanderer’s face when he'd found you, the slight protectiveness he'd displayed over you, and the way your eyes had lit up at the sight of the former Harbinger, Aether could even say that you two were…

Suddenly, it clicks.

“Ah... So it was a lover’s spat.”

“Huh? A lover's spat? What are you talking about now!?”

@ MHIIEEE 2023 : do not copy, repost, or plagiarize my work.

boyfriend.

yandere!female!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, implied (cyber)stalking, cheating, dub-con, alcohol/intoxication, characters written as 18+ note - riddle seeks to prune the filthy weeds from your life, starting with your ill-mannered boyfriend. // inspired by dove cameron's boyfriend.

i. i can’t believe we’re finally alone. i can’t believe i almost went home. what are the chances? everyone’s dancing, and he’s not with you.

Riddle has never traveled to this part of the city before—the seedy, unsavory sliver overshadowed by towering skyscrapers, illicit, perilous secrets tucked away in every alley. It’s not as if she’s here under duress. Although if you were to frame it from her perspective, it would feel less like an active, consensual choice and more of a you’ve-forced-my-hand choice. It’s blatant rule-breaking all the same, a stain on her delicate character. Blight on her shiny social status as a golden child, forever marked as the obedient one.

She’s lived her rebellious streak, was punished swiftly and accordingly, and strived to be better in the aftermath. It was one thing to slip out during independent study, and that fun had been trampled upon by a cruel, heeled foot. That was a child’s error. A lesson learned. A valid reason to sever all distractions and improve academically, consequently maturing with sharp, sparkling intelligence and abysmal social skills. 

But Riddle is no longer that starry-eyed, impressionable child, and she does not make the same mistake twice.

Or so she’s always believed, but she’s willing to risk an unforgiving tongue-lashing and life imprisonment at the hands of her mother if it means she can fix things. No matter how she spins it, the truth remains the same: She’s fallen back on an old habit, sneaking out and keeping secrets. She’s an open book to Trey, though, who she’d taken care to message on the train ride into the city, her text mostly cryptic: Should anything happen, this is where I’ll be. It’s wrong to skirt around the truth, especially when it’s your closest friend. She knows this, but then she also knows Trey gives terribly good advice. The type of terribly good advice you often don’t want to hear.

Advice like: “You need to let her go.”

And Riddle can’t—won’t. 

So she steps into the digital footprints left by that brash, brutish party animal you lovingly call your boyfriend, and she follows the string of social media posts like a diligent detective, flicking through each with manicured fingernails. She commits them to memory so that they remain imprinted in her mind before they’ll eventually expire at the twenty-four hour mark.

In the days leading up to tonight, Cater had taken her out for their usual self-care makeover day, which was really just a day dedicated to dressing up and gossiping at the salon. It was a monthly arrangement, and it kept the both of them entertained and sane. The latter of those two was called into question when Riddle, wholly out of character, selected black nail polish for her mani-pedi, which left Cater looking on with brewing curiosity. She gazed at him, pouty lips upturned slyly, and said, “I thought I’d give red a temporary break.”

“Oh, but red is so your color!” he insisted, raising his phone to capture both of them in frame. 

Riddle smiled at the camera. “I know.”

It has always been her color, a staple in her closet. It’s a favorite she can never truly shake, hence why it stains her lips instead. Bright like arterial blood, a blossoming carnation, it stands out starkly on her pale countenance—the only splotch of color on her person. Cater took her shopping when he’d learned she was attempting to fit a new style into her wardrobe of prim, modest clothes. They ran up and down the racks, grinning at each other from across the store and holding up sweaters and skirts, weighing whether either would suit Riddle’s night out. In the end, she settled for the outfit she wears now: a red tube top, a cropped puffer jacket, a pencil skirt that doesn’t pass the fingertip test (not that she cares to follow that rule), tights, and knee-high heeled boots. To finish the look, she’s pulled her hair from its usual plaits, allowing it to cascade down her back like a crimson waterfall. Fingerless lace gloves adorn her hands, stitched with intricate patterns of roses and thorns.

Cater called it the Femme Fatale Friday fit. It’s a Saturday night, but it feels like Friday when she peers at her reflection in a pocket mirror, checking her makeup once more. 

She will not make the same mistake twice. She’s a paragon of perfection—Riddle Rosehearts, for seven’s sake! 

Stuffing the mirror into a matching handbag, she eyes the skyscraper looming before her, sleek with its metal framework and industrial glass. The bright cityscape reflects off of each window, dazzling with luminous specks of light. She considers the contents in her purse, reviews each with a critical eye, and inhales a steadying breath. 

This is necessary.

She’s an adult now, nearly finished with her graduate studies. She lives on her own in a quaint, pet-friendly apartment with her hedgehog, and she works part-time at the café down the street, putting forth her best effort as she weathers the woes of university. Despite all of this independence, she doesn’t feel like an adult. 

Not when she can hear her mother in the back of her head: You look ridiculous. Come home right now before you make a fool of yourself and sully my good name.

Riddle scowls at the concrete, curling her fingers into fists. 

She’s an adult now. She is not her mother’s doll.

Leaving all hostility and self-doubt at the door, she steps through the lobby and beelines for the lift. It carries her to her destination—one of the highest floors. A penthouse suite. 

And not just any penthouse suite. Floyd Leech’s penthouse suite.

Under normal circumstances, she would never willingly set foot in his territory. She survived four years of school with him, which was already a sickening amount, and in that time she watched him glide through his undergraduate with just barely passing grades. That wasn’t enough to stoke the red-hot embers of envy, though. It only made him seem even more like a cockroach, unable to be crushed by the weight of scholarly responsibilities, for he never took anything seriously.

For that reason, Riddle has never envied Floyd. But by the end of their third year, he had something Riddle didn’t. 

He had you. 

How he managed to settle into a relationship when all he did was slack off, party, and break the rules was beyond Riddle. He was a slippery delinquent, hardly deserving of your sweet affections, and yet you looked at him like he was the only one on the planet. Just where was the appeal? His manner of dress is sloppy. The way he carries himself is unpalatable and crude. The way he acts suggests his insipience is incurable. Even when he applies himself, he is still Floyd and that doesn’t clean his slate or shine his reputation. So in Riddle’s discerning eyes, he does not possess a scintilla of romantic appeal.

You don’t seem to agree with these sentiments, for you’ve been with Floyd for four long years. 

Love is blinding, but Riddle has never been in love before and so she doesn’t have adequate data to prove this point. It was forbidden in her home. She’s only allowed to love the men her mother handpicks, plucking each specimen like they’re ripened strawberries from a bush. In the beginning she found all manner of minor details to excuse them from her life, insisting upon a nonexistent list of impossibly high standards. He was too tall. He was too forward with his interest. He wore contrasting colors. He didn’t like tea. These reasons were far too critical and childish, and each man had been sent away in a huff. Her mother would scold her, halving her with a nasty glare: “Are you planning to die alone?”

Yes, Riddle realized by the twentieth admonishment, yet another man cast aside. If dying alone means romantic freedom in life, I’ll do just that.

The elevator spits her out into the hall, which isn’t as silent as she thought it’d be. Bass shakes through the walls, reverberating all the way through her ribs as if it intends to stir up her organs. She catches her reflection in the windows, noting the dark, monstrous scowl, and smooths her face into something courageous. She means business as she clicks down the hall, preparing herself for the whirlwind that undoubtedly waits behind the door. Riddle starts to wonder how Floyd’s neighbors have yet to file a noise complaint and then stops, her thoughts cutting off abruptly. It’s a challenge to make complaints when your father holds parts of the city’s underground in his palms.

He’s got it easy, that spoiled pest. 

Riddle’s gait slows to a halt and she reaches out to knock thrice. The door is thrown open before she can even bring her fist down. Soon she’s staring at a rosy-cheeked stranger, whose eyes trace her figure like he’s trying to paint her on his mental canvas. She’s prepared for the worst, having tucked the spray in her bag, its container disguised to look like lipstick. The strawberry keychain hanging from her purse is a self-defense alarm, ready to be pulled at a moment’s notice. His ogling does not frighten her, nor do his intentions, if he can even harbor any in that intoxicated brain of his. She’s braved scarier horrors. Like living out years of her life with her mother.

“Heyyy, you one of Floyd’s girls? Here for the party?”

Riddle suppresses the disgusted shiver threatening to crawl up her spine, swallowing bile. “Just the party.” 

She is no one’s girl. Definitely not Floyd’s. 

When she’s let inside and the stench of sweat and alcohol assault her nostrils, coupled with the too-loud party music, she considers retreating, her mother’s judgment echoing: You look ridiculous. Her fingers twitch towards her purse. One text and Trey would pick her up. One call and Cater would be on his way. But then she’d be forced to tell them the truth—would have to admit that she’s chasing the one person she can never have. 

She hardens her resolve, pushes through the throng of bodies in an effort to find refreshments, and there you are, her perfect, pretty wallflower in a perfect, pretty silver dress. The dim neon lighting casts you in a luscious pink haze, and she watches you scroll through your phone, your eyelids falling and opening. You’re so beautiful—the sweetest thing she’s ever seen, more saccharine than a truckload of strawberry tarts. Her hand slides away from her purse, and she tamps down a gleeful smile, stepping over to you with newfound confidence.

“(Name)?”

You turn your whole body towards her, your gaze unfocused. She can smell the liquor on you, can see the hickeys not quite covered by a velvet choker. Her gaze narrows. He’s all over you, isn’t he? From top to bottom, you are covered in traces of him. Her nose scrunches. Just what do you see in him?

It should be her teeth on your skin, tearing it open, bruising it, tasting slick copper on her tongue. It should have always been her, but it’s not. Why did you have to settle for less when you’re entitled to so much more?

You peer at her like she’s something in a museum, perplexing and abstract. And then it clicks. You gasp, your mouth falling open in awe, and your words come out horribly slurred. She fails to hide her wince when you throw your arms around her, hanging off of her like a tote on a shoulder.

“Riddle! You…seriously showed up… Can’t believe it’s really you. It feels like it’s been forever.” You pull away, swaying with the motion, and place your hands on her arms. “Your outfit is suuuper cute.”

She’s blushing. She knows she is because her face is burning with heat and suddenly it’s much too stifling in here. “Oh. Ah, um, t-thank you very much… You look very nice, too.”

Really? Is that the best thing I could say? ‘You look very nice’? Honestly, Riddle…

But you smile, and the sight steals her heart all over again. You can have it. By all means take her heart. Take it and love it to pieces. That way it will be fair when she takes yours. An even exchange in accordance with the rules of love. 

Or maybe it’s more so the rules of romantic warfare, carried out to the extreme on a chessboard. Or a croquet court. Something sporty and metaphorical, anyway.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asks, refusing to say his name lest she speak him into existence and tarnish her near-perfect evening.

Her question strikes a chord within you, and you heave an exaggerated sigh. You cross your arms over your chest, leaning against the wall for support. “Left me to go hang with the guys. S’not fair!” you whine, sliding further down until you’re sitting in a defeated heap. 

Riddle bends down to your height, her tone as soft and sympathetic as her expression. “Does he always do this?”

Hurt flashes across your face, but you don’t say anything. So he does. Why is she not surprised?

Who in the world leaves their partner at a party, vulnerable and alone? Riddle thinks, anger flaring up in her chest. Someone could take advantage of you. You’re in no state to be standing here by yourself. That fool… He doesn’t know how to treat a lady at all. How have you put up with him for four years? Your patience amazes me.

“It’s not like…” You shut your eyes and rest your head against the wall. “Not like an always-happening thing…”

Riddle isn’t going to sugarcoat it. She wants her words to cut deep, all the way to the heart you’ve allowed Floyd to bind. “Whether or not he does it often, the fact still stands that he left you intoxicated in the corner of this room. That’s careless and unsafe.” She tilts her head, admiring the way you’ve done your makeup, the way your plush lips jut out in a miserable pout. And it just rushes out, words she’s thought but never had the courage to say. At least, not to the sober you. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You deserve so much better.”

Like me, she almost adds, but that’s too direct. And she’s not even sure the admission will land when you’re so out of it.

“Appreciate it…” You scrub your face, groaning. “Ugh. I feel sick…”

“Would you like to get some fresh air?” 

You shake your head, stubborn to a fault. “Can’t. Gotta wait for Floyd.”

Riddle frowns. “I highly doubt he’s coming back anytime soon.” 

“Still.”

“At the very least, let’s get you some water.” She offers her hand, hoping and praying to the heavens above that you’ll take it.

You do. It’s a flawless fit. Her heart flutters, weightless and feathery, when her fingers close around yours. She wonders what moisturizer you use, what sort of lotions kiss your skin. Are they scented, or is that just your perfume? Or have you done away with perfume for tonight and is that a natural fragrance? Or maybe it’s the sweet scent of a fruity wine, printed on your tongue like a delicious tattoo. 

She wants to kiss you. 

“Just how much have you had to drink?” 

“Like a cup or two? I…dunno. Does it matter?”

You stumble when she helps you up, grabbing at her shoulder for support. Riddle almost falls back, but the wall braces her. You place your palm right by her head, and suddenly you’re leaning in, inadvertently pinning her to the wall. Her pupils nearly eclipse her blue-grey irises, and her breath sticks in her throat. Oh, you’re so close. You’re a drunken mess, pushing yourself up against her, your beauty enveloping her like a chrysalis. If this is a dream, she never wants to wake, for the world that awaits her beyond this is cold and colorless. 

Your head lowers to the dip between shoulder and neck, and she gazes heavenward. The ceiling is much nicer at this moment, if only so she can clear her own heady haze of impure thoughts. 

There are people about, she has to remind herself, shaking off the urge to close her fingers around your chin and tilt your head up to meet her mouth. And she has a boyfriend. Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.

But the chance is much too beguiling. You’re right here, quite literally within her reach, and Floyd’s nowhere in sight. It’s too perfect. She can’t quite wrap you in an affectionate embrace—though that is an irresistible urge she must fight off—so she settles to rub circles into your back instead, dutifully reflecting the role of a concerned friend. It’s not the part she wishes to play. Rather, she’d gladly take on the title of boyfriend if it meant you’d feel loved. Every day, at every hour, for the rest of your life. She’d do all the things Floyd ought to do: care for you, appreciate you, protect you, stay by your side through thick and thin. 

Love is a dangerous, thorny thing, but it’s the encroaching jealousy that kills. 

Floyd doesn’t deserve you. If anything, he deserves a mouth full of soap to scrub every profanity he’s ever uttered. Just what does he tell you in bed? That you’re a good girl? That you’re soooo tight? That you can take it? Does he know which ways you like it? Does he know where to touch so you’ll unravel faster? Does he know how to get you properly, thoroughly worked up, so much so that it feels like your skin is aflame with potent want and desire? 

Does he even know your anatomy, or are you simply a body for his avaricious appetite? 

Like roses twining possessively around a trellis, Riddle holds you close in her arms, her hand sweeping across your lower back. Her glacial eyes scan the crowd, warding off anyone who may be curious with her most malevolent death stare. 

“Mm… I need to lie down. My head is…spinning…”

With that, the murderous, overprotective haze sticking to Riddle like a poisonous fog dissipates. A sickly sweet smile widens on ruby-red lips. “Let’s find someplace quiet.”

Together, the two of you stagger-walk out of the room, leaving the party and its inhabitants behind. Crossing through the attached kitchenette, Riddle pilfers a bottled water from the fridge.

Her mind is sharp as a cut diamond. Her skin prickles with anticipation.

Down the hall you go, with Riddle supporting you with what minimal physical strength she has. A door looms before the both of you, cast in a comfortable glow from a neighboring skyscraper, and you struggle to pull your heels off while she pushes the door open. It reveals a messy room, clothing and candy wrappers strewn about sloppily. 

Riddle feels like she’s on top of the world, and she is. Up in the clouds on the forty-third floor of this luxurious penthouse apartment. 

ii. i could be a better boyfriend than him. i could do the shit that he never did. up all night, i won’t quit. 

All throughout her undergraduate, Riddle pined. Hopelessly. Forlornly. Desperately.

Hungrily. 

It was unbecoming to want something to such an obsessive degree. She buried herself in her studies to do away with lustful delusions, each more distracting than the last. But then you would crop up in her life when she least expected it and soon the two of you were studying together. Soon you were visiting her dorm to watch movies during the times in which she allowed herself the break (and she only did so because it was you). Soon you were spending nights in her room, sleeping sprawled on the floor even though she offered her bed time and time again. You’d get ready in the mornings, debating what the breakfast menu would entail. She’d watch your reflection in the floor mirror as you pulled your shirt up and over your head, eyeing the way you slid seamlessly into a lacy black bra. And then she’d change out of her nightgown, and you’d comment on her undergarments. 

“We should go shopping sometime. You gotta get cuter stuff!”

“Why should I? No one’s going to see it,” she insisted with a flustered huff.

“I’ll see it the next time I sleep over,” you told her, smiling innocently as you stepped into a blue handkerchief skirt. “Besides, there are so many cute sets you could wear. You’d look so pretty in something red and frilly. You’re totally missing out.”

Riddle considered it back then. Your eager eyes had almost won her over, but she was firm in her decision. “I’m fine with what I have now.” 

And the conversation ended there. She really wishes you would have pushed it back then because just a little nudge in that direction and she would have given in, entirely at your mercy. 

Selfishly, she just yearned to be stuck in a changing stall with you. 

All throughout her undergraduate, Riddle fostered a special sort of friendship with you. You’d stop by her dorm during finals to insist she take a break, your offer too tempting. She’s always been weak to sweets. You were close enough to exchange intimate details with one another. She listened to all of your dating woes, and conversely you’d sit still and bear witness to her ramblings about fascinating law facts. Sometimes she’d rant about her mother. You always listened. “She sounds like she sucks,” you said once. “How are you even related to her? You’re so nice.”

It was a pleasant three years. If she deluded herself enough, she could have pretended you were her girlfriend and then she’d have something to tell her mother to put an end to the countless attempts at scoring her a husband. I will never marry any of your options, she would think, playing the confrontation out in her head. I have a partner now and we’re very happy together. Sometimes Riddle imagined her mother tossing darts at a board with photographs of men attached to it, disregarding compatibility altogether in favor of upholding traditional rules. But then Riddle realized she’d have to die before she could ever admit her own romantic freedoms to her mother, and so that conversation only ever came about in daydreams. 

I’d rather die alone than live life shackled in a loveless marriage. She wonders if her father thought the same.

Those three years had been a wonderful reality, filled with sugared, candy-coated love. A one-sided love, sure. But Riddle could settle for platonic affections, for that was just as sweet.

And then he arrived at the doorstep to Riddle’s fantasy cottage, kicking the walls down and sweeping you off your feet.

Floyd Leech has always been a nuisance. You were there to shoo him away every time he came knocking, all broad grins and vexatious jeers. He listened to you most days, a mutt without proper leashing, oddly loyal to you. As if you were his keeper of sorts. Riddle was amazed, befuddled, and worried all at once. Unlike her, you could keep your cool, could still smile so kindly even when Floyd was being an utter pain in the ass with his foolish nicknames. When he tried to pluck Riddle’s hairpin from out of her braids—a handmade gift you had given her for her birthday—she slapped him hard across the face and hissed, “Don’t ever put your filthy paws on me again.”

And maybe it was because you were there that she was able to recover shortly after the outburst. (Although she still meant that slap with every fiber of her being.) Maybe you were her collar. Maybe you were her keeper. Maybe she was meant to meet you so that you could color her world, lead her along into the friendship she’d been robbed of as a child. 

Looking back, Riddle realizes that was the catalyst. Because when Floyd cradled his bright-red cheek, giggling like a maniac, you asked him, “Don’t you have anything better to do? Can’t you bother someone else?”

And then you were made the prime target. 

What’s worse is that you reveled in it, adored every ounce of attention Floyd gave you like it was something holy, later admitting to Riddle during a movie marathon that you “wondered if Floyd was seeing anyone.” She wanted to retch. You, a seraph incarnate, with a devil like Floyd? Impossible. But your tone was so whimsical; you were dreaming of it. You liked him. 

She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

By the end of her third year, just as finals gave way to summer, you threw your arms around Floyd’s neck while he pressed you up against the trunk of a flowering tree. Pink petals fluttered to the ground, and with the falling blossoms came Riddle’s hope, crashing and burning in a heartbroken heap. 

She won’t make the same mistake twice, which is precisely why, when you flop onto Floyd’s unmade bed, she turns the lock to keep all outside influences away. The party is but a mere muffle now, thrumming through the floorboards with reckless abandon.

Her nose wrinkles at the pile of dirty laundry. Slob, she thinks, brimming with hate. What does she see in you? You’re a mess, you’re definitely a criminal, you can’t keep a stable job, you throw obnoxious parties every other week, you leave your own girlfriend unattended… What part of that is appealing? She gazes at you next. You’re too good for him, (Name). You can do so much better. Raise your standards. Find someone respectable and attentive. Someone who’ll stay with you forever. Someone who won’t let you get stupidly drunk and then run off to Queen-knows-where.

“Someone like me,” she mutters.

You have to be coerced into drinking, and you’re so sleepy that the water dribbles down your chin. Riddle tuts at you, swiping the liquid away with her sleeve. 

“You’re a mess,” she says, affectionate despite the barb. 

You’re my mess.

She slides your heels off, casting them elsewhere. You look like a starfish when you lay sprawled, or maybe you’re more like a snow angel. Only rather than snow, you imprint yourself amongst wrinkled sheets. Riddle knows it’s wrong, but you’re right here. She’s waited so many years for a moment like this one.

It’s not fair. 

She unzips her boots, kicks them off, and stands at the edge of the bed, locked in a fierce debate. You should have thrown your arms around her that day. You should have kissed her, should have spent the last four years with her, should have stayed in her life like the permanent fixture you were destined to be. She’s never wanted anything more than this. Not even a surplus of strawberry tarts. Not even the dreams she’s working tirelessly towards achieving. She’s only ever wanted you. 

But Floyd took you away, and her world has never been the same since. 

The mattress dips under her weight; she’s made up her mind. 

“Do you remember the promise we made?” she whispers, running her hands up your legs. You lift your head to look at her, eyes glassy with inebriated exhaustion. “The one in which we’d live together after graduation? You said you’d want to live somewhere pet-friendly so we could get hedgehogs and name them Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

You hum, your lashes fluttering. 

“We could still do that. Just you and me. Without your boyfriend.”

“What?”

Her fingers catch on the waistband of your panties. “Hm?” 

“Mm, no, nothing… You should get going. It’s late…” “Someone has to look after you.”

“Floyd can.”

She presses her thumbs into your hips and the tiniest gasp leaves your parted lips. “But Floyd’s not.”

“He will.”

“He won’t,” she snaps. Something flickers in your eyes, a flash of unrest. Riddle chews her lower lip. “He’s… (Name), what do you see in him? Honestly, truly, what is it? Please educate me. Please… What does he have that I don’t? What makes you stay?”

“Cuz he’s my boyfriend,” you mutter slowly, perplexed, “and I love him.”

“Do you?” 

“Riddle, why are you so…” The words fizzle out on your tongue when her touch strays too close to home. “Wait… We can’t… Not in here.”

“Why not? It’s just one more mess. He won’t even notice.”

“That’s not it… Riddle, wait. I… I don’t like you in that—”

She collapses, anchoring herself to you, her manicured nails digging deep into your arms. And then her mouth is on yours, clumsy and uncoordinated. She doesn’t want to hear it—can’t bear to hear it. She knows the truth. It’s haunted her from the day she met you, a shadow looming like a guillotine’s blade. You were fated to be forever out of reach. Just like those strawberry tarts in the bakery window. The kiss is filthy, all desire and zero skill. Her tongue flashes into your mouth. It’s nothing like the way they describe it in fiction or portray it in films. It’s obscene. Sinful. Libidinous. Her lipstick smears; she tastes the wine in your throat, licks your teeth and nibbles your lip, delicate and gruesome all at once. She tries her best, unyielding. 

The technique doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. It’s just blind, unrequited passion. She’ll learn it eventually and when she does she’ll kiss you drunk. It’s just another thing she’ll master. And she will because that’s just who she is. Give her a textbook and she’ll have it memorized. Give her a kiss and she’ll return to practice it to perfection. 

She pulls away, panting, her lipstick in disarray. It’s all over you, smudging on the corners of your mouth. Running a hand through her hair, her figure outlined in the tantalizing glow from the city lights, she licks her lips. 

“Riddle…” 

Spoken soft like prayer, it’s a whisper she’ll treasure. Over and over, without end, repeat it like a mantra. 

“Riddle, please…”

“He doesn’t know anything about your preferences, does he?” Your dress is slid up next. She traces a heart into your bare stomach, capturing your navel in invisible lines. You shudder under her touch, grabbing at her wrist with a limp hand. She brings it up to her lips and presses a chaste kiss to the top of it. “I know you much better than he does. I always have.”

To prove it, she presses two fingers to your clothed pussy. You whine, reedy and high-pitched. “But…”

“I read it takes fourteen minutes for women to reach their end during partnered sex.” She levels you with a half-lidded stare, smirking. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in raw confidence. “I’ll only need less than that, so you won’t have to feign anything for my sake. I know you well enough, my rose.”

A wide range of emotions waltzes across your countenance. Your arm falls over your face next. It’s defeat or hesitant acceptance, but to Riddle it’s love. 

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, conceding. “And then…you need to leave.”

She makes you cum in just five, covers you in lipstick prints, each kiss a sly cover-up. Floyd may be all over you, bites and bruises blooming new and old, but he’s not inside you, wringing you out like a sodden towel. You sob like you’re in heat when she sinks her fingers into your slick warmth, scissoring so slowly, until you’re begging her to make you cum again. Your fluids soak through the sheets. The scent of sex and sweat hangs heavy in the air. She’s alive, wildly untamed, a knight who’s just rescued the princess and slayed a bloodthirsty dragon. 

Her head is between your thighs next, her hands braced on either leg to keep them apart. You watch her with glazed eyes, soon throwing your head back when she slides your hood up to reveal your pretty, pert clit. Experimentally, she licks a teasing stripe up your slit. You shiver and dig your fingers into her scalp, imprisoning her there. It’s where she’s always wanted to be. 

“Tell me,” she murmurs, the words fanning across your pussy, “if he’s so good, why haven’t you proven it? Is this the most you’ve ever cum in a night? Does he please you or do you please him? If he’s everything you’ve ever wanted, why are you still so unsatisfied?” 

“Because… B-Because!”

Your protests are fragmented and spotted with gasps. That’s arguably more telling than a detailed response. 

Riddle smiles like a Cheshire, her eyes narrowed victoriously. Spidery digits creep along your thighs. Her thumbs dip into your pussy, spreading it wide for her viewing pleasure. “Don’t think of him. Tonight, it’s just you and me. I’ll give you what you’re owed. That and so much more.”

Like a fragile statue, you topple. Right into her, bucking against her mouth like the world is ending, and she’s there to steady you.

She always is.

iii. i’m gonna steal you from him. i could be such a gentleman. plus, you know my clothes would fit.

“Sooo… Gimme the goss. How was your night out?”

Riddle looks up from an assortment of nail polish colors, each one more red than the last, and says, “It was more enjoyable than I thought.”

“Yeah?” Cater prompts, brows raised. “Don’t be so vague! I wanna know all the juicy details. It’s rare for you to stay out so late. And to go to a party, of all things, in the city? Hello?! New Riddle, who’s this?” 

“I was only meeting an old friend.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The technician asks her to pick a color. “This one,” she says, pointing. “The one named Sanguine Sunrise.” 

“You’re totes keeping me in the dark!” Cater whines, dramatic. “At least give Cay-Cay some hints! Something! Anything! Spare change, please?”

Riddle smiles smugly. Pride drips from every syllable when she speaks next. “My friend will be spending this Valentine’s Day alone.”

“Bummer.”

“Not quite. She’ll have me and half-priced chocolates. A rather charming combination, no?”

Cater laughs. “GL. I’m rooting for you.”

You don’t need to, she thinks, tracing the love bite stamped into her skin, hidden under the soft fabric of her blouse. Because I’m already winning.

Her phone buzzes with a text: about last night… if i did anything weird, i’m so sorry. i was way too drunk. 

Riddle turns it over, dips her feet in the heated water, and settles into the massage chair, pleased as a peach. “It was one bad decision. Four years of bad decisions, but it’s forgiven. We all make silly mistakes when we’re lovestruck. Hopefully her silly mistake disappears for good and we never have to speak of him again.”

“You’re so scary, Riddle. Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

Another message arrives: i think we might’ve kissed last night. i’m really super sorry.

There’s a brief delay.

ok this is gonna sound weird coming from me but maybe we can do it again??? floyd’s kisses are sorta… :/ 

Her phone vibrates for the final time that afternoon.

actually i’m just gonna stop talking omg i’m crazy. i have a bf and everything. sorry riddle please ignore all of this kk tysm ttyl <3

wait one more text before i forget,, if you wanna meet up for tea i wouldn’t mind. we should definitely catch up when i’m not hungover. kk bye fr this time <3

A start is a start. You can’t grow a rose tree without first planting a seed.

𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖇𝖔𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖋𝖆𝖎𝖗/𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖑𝖊 [Yandere Prince!Scaramouche/Reader]

A/n: After reading so many tyrant otome isekai manhwas, I thought I should give writing one a try... This story ended up being a bit more “real”(?) than OI. And I forgot the isekai part LOL. Love this fic a lot because the (L/n) family says the most banger lines. They spitting facts. Anyways, welcome to another throwaway-thursday, enjoy this one, @vennnnn-diagram because... lol.

Unreliable Synopsis: Exiled in Watatsumi island after publishing two anti-colonial novels outside their homeland, the famous reformist writer and physician (L/n) (Y/n) faces several familial deaths— and it all leads back to one man...

Content Warnings/Tags: Yandere themes, mentions of miscarriage (note: this is because this is very loosely based on a real life hero's biography), "lovers" to enemies, angst, character deaths, church corruption, politics, etc. Prioritize your mental health. The fic is meant to be a bit dark. You can listen to this song for the vibes 💖

"Are you going to Watatsumi Fair, Niwa?"

"Well, of course! The Lector works hard to make sure it's grander each year."

"Our Lector… I hope (L/n) is doing alright. It must be incredibly heartbreaking to lose a newborn son under three hours…"

"Indeed…"

It’s the 19th century and the streets chatter on about the upcoming festival. Seri, mitsuba, yomogi, and shiso— murmurs of food and spices exchanged at the Watatsumi Fair circulated. However, these four wonderful things wouldn't be there without a certain exile transforming the island into a thriving island: Lector (Y/n) (L/n).

Prince Kunikuzushi's most esteemed “rival”.

You were an exemplary philosopher and ophthalmologist who published two novels abroad that reflected Inazuma's social issues and military abuses. Of course, you were born in a noble clan. Only the wealthy can study outside Ritou and attain higher education beyond the basic arithmetic and religion Inazuman Colonizers gatekept your people with. You were slaves.

But these colonizers feared educated colonies would demand rights; hence, after publishing those eye-opening novels, you became Public Enemy #1. Charges against you were not absolved, but Inazumans could not execute you upon arrival. You were not a revolutionary, but a pacifist reformist. You made the government and clergy's behavior known worldwide, hence the military banished you to Watatsumi— another Inazuman colony and barren land. 

Assured that you've done nothing wrong, you stayed in Watatsumi. With nothing but your firm beliefs, your days of exile were your most productive. Using your skills as a physician and some wits on land surveying, you've improved Watatsumi’s quality of life in under 6 months. 

You're far from home with little spare change, yet you provided medicina gratis. With you, you’ve helped open the people’s eyes. 

You lived under the scrutinizing eyes of the Queen, yet you erected streetlights in each dark street. With you, you’ve helped the people see in this dark age. 

And most importantly, you have established Watatsumi's first school.

With you, the people understood the truth of their situation: they had been living under a tyrant’s rule for the past few decades.

And all you asked in return was for the people to help you in your ventures to improve the island's agriculture and spices.

How can the people of Watatsumi not love you for this martyrdom?

“(L/n) is organizing a secret rebellion association planning to overthrow the government”. That was the Queen’s grounds for exile, including false testimonial and documentary evidence. It was obvious that your books were in strong opposition to the current Inazuman Government.

Hence, Archbishop Sangonomiya Umiko was incredibly fond of you.

"I still believe I am innocent of the crime of rebellion, illegal association, and sedition. All I did was publish two novels!" You hummed. "When the Shogun calls for my execution— and she will— do immediately ask for my body. They will likely throw it wherever they please. Worse, Kunikuzushi might use me as his doormat." 

The Archbishop laughed. "I can see that. His Highness does fit that character."

You and Umiko sat far from the festivities. Sangonomiya Umiko was neither friend nor foe. She is the current leader of Watatsumi Island, but she is restricted by the commands of the Queen and her children. Umiko cannot even preach about her true faith, hiding her birthright as the Divine Priestess and instead donning the title foreign title of Archbishop. Even with friendly demeanors, there’s an unmistakable grim air on both your faces.

No passerby would mistake this meeting as a romantic date. You have a wonderful spouse waiting home, appearing as crest-fallen as you do now. 

… But "Spouse" is a rather loose term. You and your partner were forbidden to have a wedding. Prince Kunikuzushi would not allow an exile to marry and no priest would disobey him. Hence, you and your lover decided to merely promise to the God you believe in that you'll remain loyal to one another. That faith and loyalty brought about a prematurely birthed child— who only had three hours to live until his breath was cruelly stripped away…

And historians would attribute your son’s death as a cause for your morbid obsession with your own future execution.

"Kunikuzushi is a personification of what's wrong with the Inazuman Empire," you said casually. "He will be the core of what causes the revolution, not I."

Umiko did not miss the way you addressed the Prince. You spoke without honorifics, an aspect in both Watatsumi and Inazuma's language that is evident in everyday conversations. Most revolutionists emphasize his high station with hatred. You emit those titles and call him by name.

As though it was a habit.

As though you were once friends and more.

"Lector (Y/n), do watch your tongue," she shook her head. "The walls have ears."

"And what if the walls have eyes and ears? They shall see and hear my innocence." You sipped your tea before you snapped your fingers with a grin. "Oh, and do me one last favor. When they'll let me face my executioners, armed with polished guns and a shoveled ground:"

"Only the guilty are shot in the back. Let me face the firing squad and spare my head so that I may die facing the heavens."

A glimpse of (h/c) hair ran past in the streets of Inazuma City, carrying a child in his arms. The child was injured but otherwise “fine”— as fine as children could be amidst the rains of ashy woods and turbulent fires. The city capital reeked of gunpowder and a nauseating metallic scent. The (h/c) haired man may not have any blood relations to the person whom they’re protecting, nor does he know her name, but he held onto the 8-year-old dearly. 

Despite the chaos that surrounded him, your older brother cannot help but think of one hopeful thought:

With the recent loss of (Y/n)’s son, maybe they’d be willing to adopt this little girl as my new niece? 

But all that ended abruptly when a loud voice resonated throughout the streets.

“DON’T LET A SINGLE ONE OF THEM ESCAPE. NO SURVIVORS!”

Prince Kunikuzushi stood proud in the middle of it all. With calm finesse, he ordered the generals to order their soldiers to kill without a hint of remorse. His eyes were dull. All he knew was that his mother wished for the death of revolutionaries hiding in the capital. Whether these rumors were falsehoods or not, the Queen did not care. Fear is the family’s greatest weapon, bloodshed is nothing to them.

Death is nothing for a mother's puppet like him.

The Prince truly didn't have any care for this war. He's only following orders under the reward that he'll be able to have you. It was the Queen's promise, and she had always been relentless in any pursuit of honor and glory.

In return for his familial services, Queen Ei might consider his proposal. The royal family dreaded the death of their former matriarch, Makoto, and the prince showed no attraction to any of his valid consorts. Should he show loyalty to the end, the Queen will allow him to marry anyone to his liking.

That's why he's putting up with this.

He looked at the horizon, seeing nothing but fire instead of the deep ocean.

Why did Watatsumi have to be so far away?

Why did you have to be a sea away?

As fate would have it, a young soldier spotted the two. A hunt between two red-tagged innocent civilians and a greenhorn murderer commenced. Limping slightly, your brother attempted to push down restaurant chairs and other outside furniture in hopes he’d lose track of them.

The soldier did not know that the person he was tracking was your older brother.

Had he known, he would’ve left him alone.

And as much as fortune favors the bold, it was not on your sibling’s side.

The soldier fired his first reckless shot and hit its target.

Your brother stumbled, holding his stomach. He gasped, coughing as he subconsciously let the child go. But he did not fear for his life, but hers. He knew that the child was asleep on a park bench when the horns rang for danger. She was homeless with nothing but bedclothes and a short makeshift blanket, and now she’ll be forced to witness a traumatizing scene.

Poor child… You must be frightened…

I hope…

Your brother remains adamant that the child must live, even as the barrel of the enemy's rifle is pointed at his chest. A look of stern determination, mixed with fear, can be seen in his eyes as he stands his ground despite the threat of death.

That (Y/n) will raise you right…

“S-Scaramouche’s crown's resplendent band shows no natural light. The ocean's glimmer elucidates more hope than your vile scarlet battalions could ever hope for!!!” Your older brother yelled, weakly hiding the child behind him.

The soldier cocked the barrel against his forehead.

“There is no emprise to plundering, to murder and genocide—” he continued, coughing blood at the corner of his lips. “You will all be remembered in history as those who had foolishly paraded without genius. Death has a more ambrosial scent than a life of servitude under your heels.”

SHOT!!!

…

…

“M-Mister?... M-Mister?! MISTER!!!”

The child screamed as your brother fell to the ground. With the remaining humanity the young soldier clung to, he turned a blind eye towards the little one crying silvery tears. Truth be told, the new soldier himself had forgotten what it was he was fighting for. What was the point in this death, this pain, if not to harm both sides? But a good soldier does not question his orders and he leaves the child without a word.

She did not know his name. She did not know his status as a (L/n). She did not know he was the older brother of the famous physician (Y/n) (L/n). She did not know he was a martyr way before his true death.

But she still held his corpse with abandon. His body heat was slowly growing cold. Though her stature was short and small, her tears were heavier than her heart could manage.

(L/n)s may meet horrid ends, but Fate grants you all one last wish.

You all have the privilege of dying whilst facing the heavens, and that is the final honor your brother can carry with him in his passing. 

“My dear, a letter arrived,” your spouse spoke. “It came from your mother…”

It was deep into the night and you had just fixed yourself up for bed, but you’re not one to turn down letters. Perhaps your old friend from Opera Epiclese had sent you a reply? Igniting the nearby lamp, you lovingly kissed their hand before taking the letter.

“Thank you, love,” you cooed. “I’ll surely be writing a letter back, so why don’t you rest before me? I shall accompany you later.”

Leaving them with a blush, you shut the door behind you. Despite the struggles in your relationship, your love for your gorgeous spouse will never disappear over the unplanned loss of your first child.

Unlike Kunikuzushi’s…

You entered the living room and closed the door behind you. A wise decision, given the contents that were about to crush the little mental stability you had left.

“My Dearest (Y/n), It is with a heavy heart and trembling hand that I take quill to convey news that no mother should ever have to write down. As I write these words, tears splotch the paper, and each stroke of the pen is a painful reminder of the sorrow that has befallen our clan. My dearest child, it grieves me beyond measure to inform you that your beloved older brother, (B/n), has departed from this world. The weight of this solemn news rests heavily upon my shoulders, and the burden is almost too much to bear. The tragedy unfolded in the heart of the capital, where (B/n), in an act of unparalleled heroics, sacrificed his own life to save that of a young girl during a merciless ambush. His valor shone through, but the cost is another pain you must bear after the death of your own child. Oh, my (Y/n), the pain is unbearable. I wish I could shield you from this heart-wrenching truth, but I believe in your resilience. The thought that you are in exile, far from my comforting embrace, only adds bitterness to my heart. The cruel hand of fate has robbed you of the chance to bid a final farewell to your dear brother, to stand beside his resting place and pay tribute to his funeral. The distance that separates Ritou and Watatsumi feels insurmountable, and I ache at the thought of your solitary grief. I hope your spouse shall accompany you in these troubled times. In these dark hours, know that you are not alone in grief. Though separated, we mourn the loss of a beloved son and brother, the heir of the (L/n) clan. May time and the tender embrace of cherished memories bring some measure of peace to your soul. With all the love a grieving heart can muster, Mother”

As the ink on your mother's heartbreaking letter crumpled with sorrow in your heavy trembling grip, a weighted silence filled the room. The words she penned— each a painful jab to your psyche— threatened to spill tears you've fought so desperately to hold back for weeks since you didn’t want your spouse to worry.

Before you can succumb to weeping on the floor with a contorted expression and writhing body, the door opens, disrupting your peace. 

Prince Kunikuzushi, adorned with his mother’s feather and opulent regalia, strode into your humble abode with an irritating aura of entitlement. His presence, a stark contrast to the mourning atmosphere, successfully transformed your grief into weaponized spite.

"Still holding another Watatsumi Fair, are we?" he sneered, disdain dripping in every word. The callousness in his eyes and “indifference” to your mourning made the air all the more sharper.

“Why are you here, Your Highness?” You spat out. “Had your clow— soldiers failed to entertain you?”

“They are nearly as boring as your spouse in bed.” He snarled. “And I wager that their lives last longer than they do.”

You bit your tongue. Your spouse had made an effort to teach you not to reply to any insult he had towards them, and you had done decently enough to honor their wishes by merely scowling at the royal instead of equipping any nearby blunt weapon.

“Allow me to ask again,” you forced yourself to be cordial. “What are you doing here, Kunikuzushi?”

The prince clicked his tongue.

“Do I not have the authority to visit you?”

“You do,” you said. “But you do not have the right to barge in as you please, much like how Lord Hiroshi shouldn’t have decided to conquer my homeland Ritou and decide to claim it as Inazuman property for your mother’s ever-so-eternal happiness.”

“He was only claiming what is rightfully ours.”

Prince Kunikuzushi looked over at your bedroom door. You took large steps forward, blocking his way. You won’t allow him to disturb your lover’s good night’s rest.

He frowned.

"You should have been mine," he muttered softly. 

You hated this about Kunikuzushi the most. He speaks with audacity that knows no bounds as he criticizes your spouse, but would sound the most pure when addressing his own emotions. “You should’ve said yes. You should’ve ruled these nations with me, and more. But you threw it all away and for what? Fragile patriotism? You are defending an island that will suffer the same fate as your beloved Ritou.” 

In the eye of this tempest, your mother’s burning words fuels a fire that burns brighter than any royal decree. 

"You speak of love and marriages," you seethed, voice cutting through the tension, "but you know nothing of the bonds that truly matter."

…

…

…

As the realization dawns upon him, his arrogance wavered. 

He had not realized early on that news about your brother’s death had reached you already.

"An accident," he stammered, attempting to deflect blame. "If I knew, I would have spared him in that ambush. I’m not an All-Knowing God, so it’s genuinely just an accident."

With a chilling calmness, you locked eyes with him. "That wasn't an accident— our previous affairs were an accident. What you've done was murder." 

Your words hung in the air, leaving no room for denial.

“I love you,” the prince spoke in near-whisper. “You know better than anyone that I would never do anything to hurt you this bad. You know that I am the voice that called for your exile instead of execution. I never would’ve asked for his death.”

His claim was also true. 

You knew you were the only person who he had fallen for his whole life. You knew because when you were studying abroad, you had strange chance encounters with him. You knew because he was mildly stalking you and would’ve for a long time had you not offered a seat in the library. You knew because he had been a difficult person to court, always bottling his own emotions and lashing out in retorts you had dubbed “adorable” at a time. You knew because he had told you himself years ago that…

"You are insufferable. And yet, I find myself inexplicably drawn to your company. It's horridly vexing. Your presence lingers in my thoughts long after you've departed, like an annoying insect. I must confess, despite my best efforts, I find myself rather fond of you too— ridiculously enough."

... But what you didn’t know during your studies in Fontaine was that Kunikuzushi was the son of the Queen you despised and wrote articles against in editorial jobs to earn not only spare cash but the enlightenment of your people back home. What you didn’t know was that the prince had been sent by his mother to monitor your actions.

What you did not know came to haunt you on your way back home. 

So you rid yourself of these memories and cornered him into a wall, a hand just behind his head. The sound of your hand slamming made the intimidating prince flinch, and he trembled at the dullness of your eyes.

“And yet whose orders was it? Whose order was it to ensure there would be no survivors in that location? WHOSE WAS IT, KUNIKUZUSHI?! ANSWER ME!!!”

Your spouse called your name from the other room. “(Y/n), is everything alright?”

With their voice, your anger faded slightly, yet your breathing remains loud and manic. “I’m alright! Do not leave the room, dear!”

“Scaramouche” took that as an opportunity to digress.

“I saved you from death before. Do not forget that.” His face hardened. “In case you've forgotten, I'm no saint. Many people will want to seek me out and settle the grudges they've built against me, and what better way to avoid that than to route those future seeds of rebellion?” 

The prince took your hand off the wall.

“Mother had enough, she sees no reason to hold back against those who rebel and she had filed an order to reopen your case. And if my blood and hers are the same, I guarantee you that she will only provide you with the worst defense attorney possible. You will surely receive the death sentence.”

He placed your hand on his chest, gripping it so desperately tight to the point of it hurting.

“So choose me,” Kunikuzushi mumbled. “Choose me, and save yourself. Do not follow your brother’s path. Choose me. I’m your only option.”

And heavens above, does he take delight in that.

You met his gaze with a resolute determination. 

"I appreciate your offer," you replied, your voice steady, "but I refuse. My brother's legacy, as tarnished as it may be, deserves justice, and so do I."

A flicker of frustration passed across Kunikuzushi's face. 

"You're being naive," he retorted, the desperation in his voice taking a sharper edge. "An arraignment is on its way. The military court will not deliver justice. It will devour you. I’m offering you a fucking lifeline, a chance to escape the inevitable."

“I won't tarnish my brother's memory by succumbing to the same shadows that claimed him."

Kunikuzushi's eyes, once filled with a glimmer of hope, darkened with frustration. "You're condemning yourself—" he argued, "—for an idealistic notion of justice that doesn't exist. You're a fool."

"Perhaps I am a fool," you admitted, "But I am a fool who is sure of their innocence. I am not a revolutionary, I only spoke and wrote of the truth. I will not compromise my integrity for the sake of expedience."

As you spoke, the defeat in Kunikuzushi's eyes began to settle. 

"You're determined," he snarled. "So stubbornly determined to die!"

"Perhaps," you acknowledged, "Choosing you would be an escape, but it would also be a betrayal of everything I stand for. And I…"

You smiled.

“I love my spouse,” you said. “And the child we made that was taken from me all so suddenly. Hence, I do not need your love, Prince Scaramouche.”

Kunikuzushi tensed up.

Your child was baptized by the Inazuman priests. 

And Inazuman priests serve the royal family and their constituents.

History’s eyes will speculate that Prince Kunikuzushi was the reason your child had died, that he had ordered your son's immediate poison upon birth.

And Kunikuzushi knows it to be true.

But you will never know that.

You will never know the full extent of what this man had taken from you.

With those words, you turned away from Kunikuzushi, leaving him and his offer behind. You opened the door and gestured for him to leave. Neither of you knew at the time that this would be the last night you’d spend in the comfort of your own home.

Before you knew it, you were writing your final farewells.

(Y/n) (L/n) was subjected by the military court on ████████ ██, ████ and was sentenced to death at six in the morning.

The people saw no justice for their hero, and your body was buried in Inazuma City. If it were not for all you and your clan had given, there would be no freedom in Watatsumi Island and Ritou. Had your brother not saved the young girl, she would not become the matriarch of the Yuna Clan, who led the first Navy in the revolution.

And had you not died in Inazuma City, there would be no Resistance.

But that was centuries ago. 

Divine Priestess Sangonomiya Kokomi sat on her desk, examining previous preliminary investigations. She racked her brain over the testimonies of the seven members of the military court, the judge advocate, the defense counsel, and the prosecuting attorney. The prince was right when he stated the trial would not be fair for you were forced to employ a Lt. Arataki as your defense. It was a prejudged trial. Despite the obvious assertion of innocence, you were still acquitted of your allegations of treachery.

It never fails to make the current Head Priestess feel sour over a 5 centuries-year-old case.

"In their last moments, (L/n) penned Watatsumi Fair and Canticle, two sonnets kept hidden in an alcohol burner." Kokomi murmured as she read. "Although the prince barred their spouse entry, several other family members and friends came to visit (L/n) with the Orobashi coral statue provided by the townsfolk. The sculpture was created for them during the aforementioned fair."

Are you going to Watatsumi Fair?

"In their Fontainian black suit, hat, shoes, and white vest, (L/n) walked calmly outside their prison cell to the execution site in Inazuma City. They've even checked (L/n)'s pulse and felt no irregularities. (L/n) were tied elbow-to-elbow despite their visible acceptance of fate."

"It was speculated that Prince Kunikuzushi was the last person whom they talked to, looking rather somberly with disdain. He spoke in a foreign language so only (L/n) and he knew of their conversation."

Seri, mitsuba, yomogi, shiso.

"But Archbishop Sangonomiya Umiko understood what he had said. Je t'aime, mon grand amour… ma première trahison. Roughly translated as I love you, my grand love… my first betrayal."

"Lector (Y/n) (L/n) was commanded to face the ground when the firing squad pulled the trigger, but they still tried to face their executioners. They fell to the shoveled ground, looking at the gray morning skies. They were buried at seven."

“From then on, the name Kunikuzushi changed its meaning to Country Destroyer— for he had successfully demolished the Inazuman Empire upon sitting on the throne through violent means. When asked about this, the King responded with:”

Remember me to one who lives there.

“I didn't desire the Empire that took away my (Y/n). I didn't crave any of it. As soon as I was coronated, my heart stopped beating. And so, I enticed the neighboring King Morax to crumble the very essence of the Inazuman Empire. What purpose do these soldiers have in life, when all they've done is obediently follow ruthless commands and snuff out the ones who hold my heart?

When it’s said and done, I will be empty— a blank slate, destined to wander the desolate corridors of a nation bygone.

Only to honor these filthy human emotions called “love” that never came to be.”

He once was a true love of mine.

Taglist (pls notify if you wish to be on the taglist &lt;3): @pix-stuff @sagekun @vennnnn-diagram , @dilucragnidvr @tnsophiaonly @lsleepysimpl @kitkareen

fluff, apologising and making up after a 'fight' kind of drabble bc i miss suna <3

suna rintarou shows up to your university on the third day of the silent treatment.

the sight is a surprise, to say the least. your pro-volleyball player boyfriend standing outside your faculty’s building with his hands in his pockets, blending in with baggy jeans, a hoodie, and a cap. he looks the part of a university student, but you could never be fooled, not when he's 6'3 with an equally admirable stature from exercising.

amongst the crowd of outflowing students, the dark-haired spots you, olive eyes widening upon seeing you. he pushes himself onto two feet before walking over to where you stay rooted, dodging the students who just came out of the same lecture.

“hi,” suna greets, stopping just a few feet away from you. the sight of his lopsided smile is enough to get your heart racing again. you've missed him so much.

regardless, you cross your arms to keep up an angry front, not wanting to give in to his charms just yet no matter how good he may he at using them. 

“what are you doing here?” you ask bluntly, betraying the butterflies in your stomach.

his expression doesn’t falter at your iciness. “not happy to see me?”

you are happy to see him, very much so, especially when he has taken the initiative of literally showing up at your campus and waiting for your classes to be over to see you. he must be tired from practice as well and you know too well that mondays were never kind to him. 

so the fact that suna came all this way for you makes you feel a little special. 

he’s even wearing some of that cologne that you really like and unless it’s for special occasions, you know that your boyfriend is never bothered enough to wear any fragrance. he is so sly that you could kiss him.

“not particularly, suna.” you say in response, lying through your teeth.

suna clutches his chest like he’s been shot, making a gasp of offence at your statement. “babe, after i came all the way to campus? i thought i’d never want to come back here but i made some exceptions for the love of my life and this is what i get in return?” 

“suck it up, i guess.”

“-and who on earth is suna? never heard of him. can’t believe you’ve already forgotten my name after three days, i’m losing sight of reality, babe hold me, i might faint.”

“whatever,” you chuckle a little at his antics, eyes softening with a certain fondness that suna doesn’t miss. his lips twitch upwards at the sight of it.

this is his chance to win you back. he throws his line in in hopes of catching you hook and sinker. 

“let’s go to dinner tonight,” he offers, recovering from his previously downed position, voice contrastingly soft and gentle to smoothen his proposal. 

“what, so you can stand me up again?” you quip, instantly slicing the atmosphere to turn tense as the line snaps in half.

suna’s grin falls, morphing into a guilty frown. “c’mon pretty, that’s mean. you know how sorry i am, i didn’t mean to forget about our plans.”

you huff, letting your arms fall back to your sides. “i know, i know, but you standing me up just stung. it was frustrating because i made time for us that i could have used to study with instead,” you confess. “you know how stressed i’ve been with finals.”

the athlete stuffs his hands into his pockets awkwardly. “but i’m trying to make up for it.” 

“i know and i appreciate it, but now’s not a good time. i’m sorry but i can’t go to dinner tonight or any time soon, i have a bunch of practice tests to do that i can’t keep putting off.”

“then can i come over?” asks suna, a hopeful lilt to his voice.

“and watch me study? do you really want that?”

“i just want to be with you, i can order us takeout or something- on me.”

“guess i’m just irresistible, huh?”

“duh, do you know how much i suffered during the weekend? missed you so much, practically died from boredom.”

“oh so i’m just another person for you to bother? is that how it is?” you ask, unable to contain your smile. 

the dark-haired scoffs. “c’mon babes, you know you’re better than that. you’re the only person i can bother.”

“oh fuck off,” you whack his shoulder teasingly. “also for your information, you’re not coming between me and my education.”

“ambitious people are a turn-on,” he mutters with a shrug before pulling you in to kiss your cheek.

“ew get off me, freak,” you joke whilst shoving him, not rough enough to actually create distance but suna still stands his ground from the force. his hand goes to hold your other cheek as he smothers you with over-exaggerated affection. 

you laugh in his hold, holding on to his wrists for balance. “suna!” you yelp when he pushes too much weight onto you, causing the two of you to stumble sideways. “actually get off me.”

“can’t. won’t. don’t want to. this is what you get for not responding to me all weekend- what does  a man need to do to get a text back from the love of his life?” 

“easy. be a man.” you step out of his grasp with a satisfied smirk, beginning to walk away from your boyfriend who stares at you with his mouth hung open in disbelief. inevitably, suna runs up to you.

and as he encases you with his arms in the middle of the empty gardens of your university faculty, you know that the two of you will be okay. even if suna is the bane of your existence, there is no one else for you like him. 

Wound Dressings (Yandere Idol!Xiao/Reader)

a/n: happy lantern rite, everyone!!! here's xiao, hope anyone that wants to pull for him gets him <3 (CW: yandere, implied ptsd, mild violence, scaramouche is fricking foul as hell.)

unreliable synopsis: As the producer of 5wirl's beloved rapper, you found yourself stuck between Xiao and the nefarious fashion stylist/designer- Scaramouche-'s wars.

Alice's note: Producer Starlight, we need to talk. Right now. The CEO is waiting.

Yandere Idol Match-Up Masterlist

------

“Xiao, your face, it's burnt–”

“Don’t.” Xiao huffed. “Don’t come any closer. I’m fine.”

Anyone can tell 5wirl's rapper has a hard time getting close to people and you find that rather tragic. It’s a shame that Xiao chose to be distant when you find his rap music enthralling like no other, and you can tell he pours his soul into each lyric he writes. He sings desperately as though it's his last strip of breath left with voice cracks so raw and heartbreaking. While Venti sounds theatrical and clear, his will always be raspy and hauntingly unique. Every project he’s involved with sheds light on his authenticity, and you yearned for an opportunity to have him talk to you just as honestly.

However, you paid more heed to his need for emotional distance, not wanting to be nosy in this instance. You concentrated on advancing his career without meddling in his personal affairs, staying strictly business. It was not your place to know more and be some uneducated therapist.

At least, you had faith that you could maintain that belief until you noticed his sloppy bandaged cheek. Xiao stumbled forward, his hair untidy. You clenched your jaw. You grasped for his arm, feeling somewhat enraged. Instead of reacting, he simply awaited your inevitable worry.

“Who did this to you, Xiao?” You whispered angrily.

“A firework accident,” Xiao grunted. “My cousin can vouch for me. Yesterday’s lantern rite. Do not worry about me.”

“Is that so…”

You can’t muster the courage to question ADDICKTZ's Mister Zhongli, and that’s precisely why you know Xiao’s hiding a secret. Lying between his molars was not something he could do without a hitch.

Especially not to someone as observant as you.

“Does this have something to do with the stylist?”

While you technically shouldn’t risk your neck for a theory…

… It's better to route the problem immediately.

Xiao shamelessly ignored your question. In any case, you already knew the answer. This was just for confirmation’s sake. He would have stayed as stoic as always had you two been in a space that was any less secluded than the backrooms. No fan was aware of how much Xiao detested 5wirl's main stylist because none of his musings were made public.

Scaramouche, “The Wanderer.”

He’s a big name with a larger-than-life ego. Giving credit where it is due, Scaramouche is a fantastic model, but a patient stylist? He was not. He has an incurable habit of pushing everyone’s buttons that it's almost impressive. You've seen the way he yanked and pulled 5wirl like ragdolls, the only exception was Kazuha and Venti, but the latter to a lesser extent.

To no one’s surprise, Xiao does not like him.

Just a week ago, you've watched him perform “Fallen Leaves” uncomfortably on a Mondstadt Television (MTV) award show. An untrained eye is unlikely to notice how little footwork he displayed considering his constricted jeans. After the song ended, Xiao irritably loosened his belt and rolled his eyes. He didn't bow like the rest of 5wirl, instead, he left immediately without a word— that was something the fans certainly did not miss. To the common stan, it was "hot", to the wiser folks, it was a sign that something was amiss.

—

“He did it on purpose. The Wanderer wanted to prove a point,” these were the only words Xiao told you with bated breaths as he wrenched the buttons off his suffocating attire, popping and dropping them to the ground. He has little consideration for who might enter his room— not when he couldn’t breathe— not when he trusts that you’ll guard the door.

Once his chest was out and he could inhale with ease, a small smile was sighted adorning his face. He favored you with a victorious grin. 

“And he failed.”

You’ve known that whenever he’s down, he tends to focus more on his skills. Thus you mistakenly thought this was just a matter of work. You didn’t realize at the time that he was fighting for something else.

It was a gorgeous smile. A rare eye candy enticing enough to make you wish he considered you a companion. But the frown that followed as you heard Scaramouche screeching outside erased whatever joy you felt as you stumbled to lock the door.

You scowled.

“Did he really fail when he still has you wrapped around his fingers?”

Xiao didn't answer. Instead, he pried your hand off and unlocked the door.

“As long as it’s not you, it doesn’t matter how far he takes his tantrums.”

—

You believe otherwise.

That incident stirred a cold war between Xiao and 5wirl’s lead stylist. Scaramouche used to just pepper vulgar phrases but now it appears in every other sentence. None of the fans knew thanks to the AKASHA Device Policy System of disabling screenshots on employee devices. What happens in Teyvat Productions, stays in Teyvat Productions. Scaramouche would have been fired from the company with a hollow public apology from the CEO if they had known even a glimpse of the snark he spews at every 5wirl employee. 

”Did he do this?”

You cupped his cheek. Xiao didn't wince from the pain. It's all due to his extended Military Service training, you're sure of it. Thankfully, it doesn't look too bad. Curable, most definitely, but it doesn't change the fact someone attempted to hurt your employer.

“It’s… This is my burden to carry. It has nothing to do with you—”

“But I’m here for you, Xiao. You know I have a strong sixth sense, and something is wrong. You can tell me anything.”

Xiao leaned onto your palm, putting a hand above yours. He felt his chest tighten, but his face did not mark his anguish.

He may not show it visibly, but your touch broke him. On the souls of all his friends and the lives of his family, he can swear with every fiber of his being that this is as honest as he could be.

“He doesn't understand that I lost everything.” He did not look at you, but his sudden grip begged you to stay.

“–that I felt EVERYTHING.”

You stiffened, your spine shook at how concise but oddly oppressive those words were. His words were nothing to write home about, but the way his husky voice and slight growl loomed after a moment of silence was unforgettable.

Instinctively, you knew what this was about.

Bosacius.

You didn't want to pry so you knew little about him other than he accidentally died when he and Xiao were reservists. There is a mandatory Liyue and Inazuman law that stipulates that men must serve their country for about a year or two, no idol is exempted from that. According to speculations and a few hints in the lyrics Xiao composed, the idol likely watched his friend cover up a faulty grenade to save everyone in the vicinity. You did attempt to console him once, but Xiao is adamant that such comments would be an insult to Bosacius' Heroics. He “accepted” his death long before you became his producer. His soul is likely in a better place.

See where this is headed? It's not rocket science. Put “Scaramouche” and “fireworks” together and you’d get something foul. That damn multi-talented designer did something and now Xiao’s uncharacteristically more emotive.

Scaramouche likely used fireworks to reignite Xiao’s trauma.

Perhaps this line of thinking is uncouth, but this would serve as a great opening to finally get to know the person you work for on a deeper level. But for Scaramouche to unearth those memories for the sake of arguing… What a petty man.

“He wanted to “share” something that’s mine to protect,” Xiao muttered. "He insisted that giving them up to him will be a way to absolve my sins. But… I…”

He grunted.

“I don’t want to share them.” Xiao sneered. "Having them around is the last joy I have."

You feel as though the thing or person they’re fighting over is someone related to 5wirl, but you were too tired to listen to your muted intuition.

“Who is “them”?” You asked. “Would you be willing to tell me?”

He shook his head.

“I… can’t.”

“I see, that’s okay. It takes time to open up— Xiao?”

Xiao remained silent. He quickly seized the water bottle you were holding and chugged it down. As Xiao drank, you both moved in the direction of the fans while giving him your famous mask to cover the burn. His followers don't need to be aware of this.

But damn it. You’re tired of this back-and-forth pettiness.

You’ll have to step in.

——

However, your colleagues do not favor that idea. 

“Are you certain you wanna approach him?” Venti’s producer frowned. “Knowing Scaramouche’s past… instability, I’m not sure if that’s the brightest idea you’ve come up with.”

It usually takes a long time for you to naturally get close to others but after careful observation, you've deduced that none of your fellow producers were unsavory people. In truth, they were simple to read, particularly Venti and Heizou's producers. As a result, you already knew this was going to happen; you just want to let them know out of respect.

“We never know unless we try,” Heizou’s producer spoke up, somewhat optimistic but with a twinge of demur. “You’re too depressed. Who knows? Maybe you can persuade him to stop. You’re Scara’s favorite, after all.”

Favorite is a bit of a stretch, but that man does tolerate your presence.

Kazuha’s producer chortled, “that kind of hypothetical is next to impossible.”

Heizou’s producer hummed the bridge to 5wirl’s song “Sweet Dream.” You knew your coworker didn't want to prove them right, but the lyrics to that song referred to failed plans– and that's enough information for you to infer that even they think deep down that the idea was stupid.

You closed your eyes. It truly wasn't your best plan— it's straight up walking to the lion’s den, but you have to try….

“… (Y/n)? Hello?”

You blinked. Ah, you've zoned out again.

“It's better than nothing,” you said. “I can't just let everyone here be constantly berated by that narcissist.”

“Even his assistant can be a pain in the neck too, you know?” Venti’s producer chimed in. “Ya better hope you're not dealing with both of them once you get there. You might start a house fire or something.”

There's no point in this conversation. Sighing, you reached for your bag, ready to leave.

“Hmm? Now, where are you going, my ge qin'ai de?”

Baizhu— 5wirl’s creative director— stood, leaning by the door frame. Based on his lax demeanor, you assumed he had just recently taken his medicine. The rest of the producers laughed awkwardly, not knowing whether they should let him in on your plans or not. He usually accepts all forms of communion, no matter how chaotic or personal it is. But this instance urged everyone that omitting some truths was the best option.

“(Y/n)’s on their way to buy some fabric,” Venti’s producer lied. “Scaramouche had been such a pain in the neck lately so, eh, we decided to be more proactive to avoid his stupid wrath.”

“Ahhh, I see! How lovely.” Baizhu laughed, but just as you were about to walk past him, he weakly grasped your arm.

"Far be it from me to pry into my producers’ personal affairs, but once you get there,” he bent down and whispered to your ear.

“Tell that charlatan and his assistant that this will be the last time they hurt one of my kids, understood?”

As you looked up at the creative director's snake eyes, a chill went up your spine. He didn't express it as a threat; rather, he said it as a certain truth. It seemed as though Director Baizhu was determined that this was Scaramouche's final transgression. You made a mental note of that.

Director Baizhu must’ve known something that you didn't.

“Yes, Director.”

“Wonderful,” Baizhu smiled, but his gaze looked distant.

“Be sure to buy wound dressings along the way.”

——

“No way. Nu-uh.”

“Please, I seriously need to talk to him—”

“Do you wanna get stabbed? Just trust me, bro, he doesn’t want to see anyone right now. He’s too busy dressing up that haunted doll of his.” Scaramouche’s assistant trembled burlesquely, putting more pressure on the door that separates you two. “Like, he’s so unhinged right now that– high-key? Working at KFC ain't sounding so bad.”

His assistant sighed, rolling their eyes. They appeared different compared to when you last saw them. Their hair’s significantly shorter and their fingers are red from sewing– and if your eyes weren't fooling you, they're a bit burnt…?

You squinted.

“Those marks… He overworked you last night, right? Forced you to use lighters to cut threads over scissors, didn’t he?”

They glared. Struck a nerve there.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe I am just reaching for straws here–” you admitted rather plainly. “But that doesn't change the fact that you don't like your boss, and I don't like him enough that I drove all the way to confront him. What say you to letting me give him a piece of my mind?”

That seemed to work. At least, for a second.

“No… No, I seriously can't.” His assistant shook their head, with more conviction this time. “I don't want a repeat of last time.”

“(Y/n), you’re here as well.”

You both turned to look behind you.

A man wearing a mask and sunglasses— clearly Xiao— stood just a breath away from touching your shoulder. You jolted.

How didn’t you notice that he was right behind you?

“Oh, he’s here too…” the assistant said. They didn’t sound particularly hostile when addressing Xiao. “Sir, you can’t just enter if it isn't urgent.”

“But it is urgent,” You lied. “Just let us in or at least have me go inside alone—”

Xiao gently squeezed your shoulder. The mulish look in his visage beckoned you that he didn't like that idea. You didn’t have time to question what he’s doing here. His opaque stubbornness made you completely forget that he was holding you longer than he usually does.

Time and time again, he’ll remind you that he didn’t want you near Scaramouche.

“Oh my God— bitch. How many times do I have to fucking— HE'S NOT ENTERTAINING GUESTS.” The assistant growled. “Please, just listen to me. I'm honestly saving you both the trouble of talking to that edgelord.”

“Please, this seriously wouldn't take long–”

“Are you deaf or just stupid? What part of not entertaining guests did you not understand?”

Speak of the devil.

The pretentious prick arrived– him and his damn ostentatiously designed hat. He shared your gaze immediately and you swore his face lit up. It was as if he was waiting for you for quite some time now, but you’re not confident in that hunch.

“Ah, it's you.”

You cleared your throat. “Good evening, sir Wanderer–”

He smirked.

“Long time no see, starlight,” Scaramouche said. “Your dog here sure kept dragging us apart from each other.”

Xiao raised an eyebrow. It was the first time he had heard someone call you by that nickname, and while it doesn’t show in his features, he was rather unnerved at how you casually let him call you by such an endearing nickname.

This only matters because Scaramouche rarely addresses anyone beneath him with respect, much less affection.

Xiao glared at him.

Scaramouche continued, “here to give me an answer?”

“No.” You didn't waste a second. “The answer is no. I don't want to be your model.”

Xiao’s eyes widened. He immediately shielded you, but Scara merely tilted his head to maintain his gaze.

“Model?” Xiao spat coldly. “So that’s the card you're playing, Kunikuzushi.”

Scaramouche’s grin widened, “move your head away, insect.”

He doesn’t deserve to see you.

Without much thought, you bit your lip. You weren’t expecting much of a reaction if you told Xiao that Scaramouche wanted to hire you before. He tried scouting you months before he started harassing Xiao. Telling him about it slipped past your mind.

Scaramouche frowned, his eyes gauging his assistant’s reaction, “still, what a shame… With your face, you would've been a fine addition to my runway, Mx. (Y/n).”

“… Huh, so you do know my name.”

“Course I do. Xiao follows anyone who says (Y/n) around like a damn shit-for-brains dog. I’m not stupid enough to miss his owner’s name.”

Xiao made a sound you couldn't quite describe. It bordered on both a whimper and a threat.

You scrunched at the title, “that’s not true.”

“Then that only speaks volumes to how good of a stalker he is,” He clapped. "Bravo, I'm impressed. For once."

Scaramouche scoffed yet there was a genuine smile on his face. Swiftly, he approached you and had his assistant not held Xiao back, the famous designer wouldn’t have had the opportunity to grab your hand and gently kiss it out of nowhere.

You felt absolutely nothing from this gesture. Instead, you unconsciously fixed your eyes on Xiao.

And he’s most certainly pissed.

“You deserve to be working for me instead, puppet,” he muttered. “Honestly, I can’t see why you’re working for him— he's barely aesthetically pleasing. A lower-rate beauty. Do you even give a damn about your skin-care routine, worm? You look like shit. Go back to the fucking military. Muscles are required there, but looks? Not expected.”

Out of the blue, the designer gently cupped your face– your faces now an inch apart as he fixes stray strands of your hair. Strangely enough, you can't feel his breath. His face may be close, but his attention did not belong to you. You can tell from a mile away you’re being used.

As to what you’re being used for? You can’t tell.

Suddenly, Scaramouche’s assistant cleared their throat.

“Hey starlight, can you come outside with me for a sec?” They said.

The assistant held up their phone. You heard Xiao shakily exhale as you pulled away from the stylist.

“Director Baizhu’s calling.”

—-

“Director? Is something the matter?”

“Ah yes, did you buy the wound dressings?”

You did your best to hide your scoff.

Seriously, right now?

“Yes, right now.”

Oh. You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Scaramouche’s assistant— whom you were borrowing a phone from— laughed softly, bemused. They led you to The Wanderer’s garden for some “privacy”, and yet their ears seemed cleaner than most. You didn’t mind them listening to some "tea." It’s better than being alone in unfamiliar territory.

“Trust me, dear. You’ll need it later.” Baizhu’s laughter echoed.

…

“What do you mean by that, sir?”

“Answer me first, did you buy some?”

“No.”

“Poor choice. You’ll never know when there’s an emergency that calls for it.”

Your eyebrows furrowed.

Something is off.

Baizhu sighed, “nevermind. So, how was your shopping trip? What fabric have you brought, send me the hex code.”

“Sir.”

“Yes, qin'ai de?”

“You called because you wanted to distract me, didn’t you?”

…

You were hoping that you wouldn’t hear his laughter from the other line.

“Oh, Xiao. I’ve tried.”

Slowly, you hung up and lowered the phone down to your thigh.

No… It can’t be.

You started sprinting back to where you came from.

“H-Hey, wait! You still have my phone!—”

You need to go.

NOW.

You already knew what was happening, but at that moment you slipped out a prayer to any Archon that might listen.

Please… Please don’t be right…

—-

… But then again, when has your sixth sense ever failed you?

Xiao’s stony expression crumbled and his more livid countenance shone through. You were too far to cinch his right arm from throwing a punch in the designer’s direction–

But he managed to surprise you by using his left fist instead.

“You will sooner die than lay a hand on them— not even their fucking hair.”

“Y-You—!!!”

Scaramouche was already littered with bruises when you got there, his hanfu torn and his hate discarded and stomped on with abandon.

You trembled at the sight, knees nearly buckling down.

You were too late.

They both appeared unaware of your ghostly presence behind. In a single fast motion, you witnessed your beloved idol punch Scaramouche in the ribs. You winced as a crack reverberated throughout the room before Scaramouche inhaled sharply. The thing that most alarmed you, though, was the sound of Xiao's curt yet stern chuckle, which was a dead giveaway that he wasn't going to stop until the designer was rendered immobilized. Scaramouche made an effort to stand up from the ground using his fist as support, but Xiao quickly grabbed him by the collar like a mother cat would a difficult child.

“Weak,” Xiao spoke. “Why did you even dare to provoke me when you can barely defend yourself? You’re not worthy of calling (Y/n) by any other name.”

“Y-You fucking jealous dumbass. Your career is over once I’m through with you!” Scaramouche coughed up, blood spitting out from his mouth and onto Xiao’s clenched hand. “You fucking worm— I could just release the CCTV recordings and—”

“You won’t be able to retrieve any recordings,” Xiao said in an as-a-matter-of-fact tone.

He dropped Scaramouche and knelt to his level.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to beg Xiao to stop.

But you can’t recognize him, and the words died in your throat.

“You won’t find a single clip.”

Scaramouche’s face softened into a look of dismissive defeat. However, his stony yet smug expression resurfaced.

“Ah, so Tighnari’s in on this too,” Scaramouche laughed, slowly devolving into a mildly hysterical fit. “Of course, of course! You already have Baizhu’s go signal so it’s not surprising you got that genius’ approval too. Only natural that a weak person like you have so many accomplices to back up your obsession—”

“And you?”

“H-hah. And what?”

Xiao dragged him closer.

“Where are YOUR friends, Kunikuzushi?”

…

Xiao breathed in, closing his eyes.

“I am not like you. I am not an easy target simply because I often act alone.”

In a stroke of luck, Scaramouche turned his gaze away— and saw you at the door instead.

Positively mortified.

“D-Don’t—” Scaramouche coughed. “—talk big… H-Ha… Look behind you, insect.”

Once he did, Xiao stiffened.

No, no, no— why are you here?

… Why did you get back inside?

That wasn’t part of the plan— didn’t Baizhu call you?

“(Y-Y/n), I…”

You weren’t supposed to see this.

He took a step forward, you instinctively took two steps back. You cursed yourself internally for letting your fear get the best of you when you knew that despite Scaramouche’s broken nose and bloody lips, it was Xiao who needed your help the most.

His heart dropped.

“Producer, this is…”

His throat dried up.

Why is it so draining for him to open himself up to you?

“D-Did you see that, starlight?” Scaramouche droned. Even when he's losing blood, his silver tongue quips a retort.

“Did you see the monster you were working for?”

“Xiao” pivoted his heels, frowning even now as the mutilated man lost consciousness below him. You could barely recognize Scaramouche from all that blood. “Xiao” took a step closer to you. You couldn't move. Your feet were rooted to your spot.

Fortunately, he moved on auto-pilot, grabbing you by the arm and carefully swerving past Scaramouche’s assistant to head outside.

He didn’t give you a chance to ponder over Scaramouche’s words.

For a moment, neither of you said a thing as you stood at the front gate. It felt like an eternity before you mustered the courage to speak up.

“… You’re bleeding.”

Why aren't you comforting his hand? Please hold his hand gently. Please hold him.  

Another voice screamed inside his head, one that sounded similar to Scaramouche.

Can't you see that expression on their face? That's fear. That's betrayal. The person you love thinks you're a monster, Xiao.

“... I bought some wound dressings. They’re inside my car.”

—

“Be sure to buy wound dressings along the way.”

—

Instead of feeling relief, you shivered at how convenient it was for him to keep some in his vehicle. Director Baizhu’s mind echoed in your head almost like an apparition.

In other words: this was premeditated.

And you don’t know what to make of that information.

“(Y/n).”

“Y-Yes?”

You zoned out that you didn’t realize you were already in front of “Xiao”’s car, still holding the assistant’s phone.

He squeezed your hand lightly.

“Don’t leave me.”

His voice cracked.

“Please.”

After a moment of brief silence, you gave him a hesitant frown.

… Your intuition tells you that no matter what you answer, the outcome won’t change.

You squeezed his hand back. If you didn’t, Archons know he would’ve fallen apart. 

“I’m staying.”

In a sense, you think you finally understood Xiao better. It’s just as he said yesterday: he lost everything and he felt everything. This overprotective and downright possessive nature must’ve stemmed from what had happened when he was a reservist. He can’t bear to lose another person. While it may sound nice to know he does think of you as someone important, you wish you realized this about him sooner.

Xiao has a crush on you.

He smiled.

It was a gorgeous smile. A rare eye candy enticing enough to make you glad he considered you a companion.

… But why do you feel terrified?

“Thank you. Allow me to protect you from him— from anyone from now on. Just call out my name.”

You could only fake a laugh in response.

‘Xiao, what an awful liar you are. Lying between your molars was still not something you could do without a hitch.

So do not speak as if you haven't been doing that since the very beginning.’

ANSYTEA: Thank you for joining the 1k idol event, starlight anon!!!!

Bound to You | Blade x Reader

Howdy! So, I don't have a real reason for writing this, other than I felt like it. I've been heavily debating doing more fantasy type fics, but I just don't have a proper idea. This might just help me a little! I think this should have 3 parts just to finish up the story, so I may most likely add two more to this. Word count: 4516 Extras: Fantasy AU

Blade's red orange eyes practically glared at you as you flipped through the third book in your possession. He watched the frantic look in your eyes only get worse as this book was yet another dead end. The previously darkened room was illuminated by the large sigil Blade was sitting on. It was bright yellow, with every symbol pulsating with enough power to keep Blade prisoner. Golden cuffs with long, ghost-like chains held onto his wrists, refraining him from leaving the sigil that he'd been summoned with.

"Could you at least let me go?" He asked, his tone of voice indicating his clear frustration. His head was propped up on his closed fist, while his elbow rested on his knee. It had been so long, at this point, he was just bored.

"No!" You yelled as you looked over at him with a frown. "You've been doing nothing but yelling at me and hurling insults." Blade sat up a little, that fighting fire lit within him once more.

"Oh? What the hell else am I supposed to say? Only an idiot confuses a binding spell for a summoning one." Your frown only deepened at his sarcastic words as you placed a hand on your hip.

"It was an accident! It was really just a test to see if it was even going to work!" You argued, but it only irritated the demon before you.

"Who reads an incantation out loud as a test? You really are an idiot." He scoffed, making you groan out loud. For the last hour and a half, he'd done nothing but call you dumb and stupid for what you did. Which was fair. You certainly didn't mean to bind a demon of his worth to you, you just wanted to practice summoning a demon for future fights! However, you were so engrossed in reading, you accidentally read aloud the incantation... which wasn't even the right one, you came to find out. As for the sigil… well, you just decided to set it up to see how much work it would require. You did intend to use it but at a later date since none of the items were perishables.

"Hey, I'm still really new at this mage thing, ok?"

"You're new to using magic, but not new to reading right? It literally states on the page before that it's meant to bind demons to your own soul. You know, even we don't use spells like that." He explained as he adjusted his legs that were beginning to get sore.

"What? But don't demons make that whole pact binding thing?" He rolled his eyes, as if he wasn't surprised that you would even ask such a question.

"No. We create contracts that are called pacts. Both parties list their terms and conditions and once those terms are fulfilled, the pact comes to an end. The connection between demon and mortal is held by the signed contract, which is why they're kept safe and hidden. As you know- or at least I hope you know- the easiest way to break a contract with a demon is to destroy the actual tome it's written on. Soul binding is nearly unbreakable. It actually binds the souls together and there are no conditions required for it. There is no tome to break and it's an extremely powerful spell that’s almost forbidden." He explained, doing his best to stay calm since he had been furious the entire night and it was exhausting.

With every word that spilled from his lips, you realized just how grave your situation was. You... really didn't mean to do this. You wanted to practice summoning a demon which is why you set up the circle exactly as stated in the old grimoire you found. Blade had a point... the instructions and sigil were on one page but the page before had all the warnings including the title. Somehow when you were flipping through the book, you skipped over that. Mainly because the next page explained which color candles to use for what demon. So, you figured it was just a regular old summoning spell.

"There... is a way to break it, right?" You asked, your eyes flickering to the demon.

"Of course there's a way to break it. Every spell can be broken, but the more powerful the spell, the more limitations appear. This particular spell is avoided by many precisely because of how difficult it is to break it. Even your death wouldn't break it, you'd just be resurrected because you're attached to my soul. And vice versa."

"Aren't you already dead?" Blade's eyes widened at the audacity you had to ask the dumbest question he'd ever heard in the centuries he'd been alive.

"Are you serious? No, demons aren't dead, in fact, we can't die permanently. We just get resurrected in hell, which is probably where you're going after this dumbass stunt." Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn't help the words just escaping your lips.

"Does that mean I'm stuck with you for eternity?"

"No. I'm stuck with you for eternity." Blade corrected, with an irritated smile ghosting his lips as he looked away, shaking his head in disappointment. He was far from the most powerful demon in the hellish realms, but he was up there and to be stuck to such a weak mage was practically insulting. Not to mention your lack of understanding in apparently everything.

Though… you did succeed in the spell which felt like the biggest shot of luck ever; but spells like this didn’t ride on luck. 

"Why would anyone have a soul binding spell for demons?" You asked with a pout, your eyes glancing at the torn, leathery binding of the grimoire you'd used earlier.

"It's a grimoire right, and not a scroll?” Grimoires, as opposed to single use spell scrolls, were written by high level magic users. Mages- and often witches- usually created their own. There were a multitude of reasons from convenience to secrecy, if they’re confident enough, they could create their own spells. “Chances are whoever owned that grimoire was probably close enough with a demon to bind their souls together. It's an easy way to gain immortality.” Blade replied, his own red-orange eyes flickering to the grimoire that sat on the small pedestal.

"Isn't using magic to make yourself immortal punishable by an eternity in the prison of torment?" You questioned as you walked over and grabbed the grimoire.

"Only if you're found out." Blade answered, leaning back on his hands and staring up at your ceiling. "It's not easy to recognize a bound soul when they're both powerful. Our magic will intertwine and you can use my own soul energy for yourself. To those who aren't like the High Mages, you'll just look like a strong magic user."

You opened the grimoire, walking back over to Blade who looked at you. Kneeling beside the sigil, you placed the grimoire in between you two and slowly moved through the pages.

"Honestly, it just has simple spells. Here's one to make plants grow faster, then there's a minor healing spell, one to help wash dishes, then the spell I used to summon you, but then there's this orb spell which preserves whatever you put inside of it, this one helps dig tunnels- I mean this is a total beginner friendly grimoire." You said as you looked up at him. However, Blade was still staring down at the grimoire.

"Give it here, I wanna look at it."

"Sure." You slid the grimoire into the circle allowing Blade to grab it, picking it up and flipping through the pages. He was silent for a moment as he read through each of them before turning the book back to you.

"I knew it. It's been modified." It was the spell to create a preservation orb.

"How do you know?" You asked, tilting your head a bit as your eyes glanced over the text. Nothing looked weird.

"Magic is second nature to us. I know this spell and the original's orb lasts at most three days before it expires. This one doesn't- it's a permanent orb."

"Ok, so they improved upon it? What's the issue?" You countered as Blade placed the book back in his lap. “Didn’t you just say magic users can make their own spells?”

"There's a bunch of beginner friendly spells, then a nearly impossible spell to cast and a modified preservation orb spell? Nothing seems out of the ordinary? Who did this book belong to?"

"I don't know, I found it in a ruined house." You said with a shrug, making Blade's eyes widen.

"You just picked up some random person's grimoire and started to play with it?"

"Well, I wasn't worried because it had a bunch of beginner friendly spells and it let me touch it. So, I just thought it was a grimoire made for newbies like me!" Why wasn't Blade surprised you would do something like that?

"Well, for one, it didn’t react negatively with you because it's made for us. Whoever created this was obviously a magic user- that's you... somehow. And it's meant to help bind a demon's soul, which is me. I don't think the author expected anyone to find it, though it’ll blast anyone else who tries." The lack of hesitation in his words made you flinch a little.

"So, other than immortality, why would someone bind their soul to a demon?" You asked, making Blade sigh as he fell in thought. That piqued his curiosity as well, why would someone go to these lengths and not just make a contract?

"I don't know. Power, control, the ability to traverse the hells, maybe even love? Though, the weird orb situation is the most confusing. Whatever this person was doing, they needed a preservation orb that lasted... forever."

"Think if we find the orb, we'll know more?"

"Probably, but you still need to let me out of here." Blade said, referring to the sigil he was sitting on. A frown crossed your lips and you were silent for a moment. You may not have meant to summon him, but you could tell he was a powerful demon. You needed one in combat because you weren't the best fighter and were still a novice. However, you knew he'd leave the first chance he got and... you didn't want that.

Blade stared at you before reaching forward, still within the boundaries of the sigil, and snapped in front of your face. It was enough to pull you out of your thoughts.

"Hello? Let me out."

"What if you run away?" You asked in a small voice, your tone wavering as if you weren't sure whether those words should escape your lips or not.

"Go where? You'll know exactly where I am 24/7, which is one of the perks of soul binding. I can't go anywhere without you knowing. Not only that, as the creator of the bond and me being a demon, you have some level of control over me."

So, he'd stay if you commanded him to? Not only that, but he'd protect you in battle if you commanded him? So far, this soul binding thing didn't seem so bad. You couldn't die, this powerful demon was gonna be with you all the time, and he would do whatever you asked. You weren't entirely sure of your specialization... but conjuration didn't seem so bad with him.

"Ok." You replied, sitting on your legs and touching the edge of the symbol with both palms. According to the book, it was quite easy to make it go away- which was the opposite of setting it up and drawing it. The symbol's bright light began to dim, little by little before it dissipated completely.

Blade inhaled sharply, exhaling slowly and he stood up. The ghostly chains that held him to the sigil were gone, but the cuffs remained on his wrists. He raised his arm to get a better look at it. There were symbols on the cuffs themselves, which he recognized as protection spells. Multiple of them.

For him or for you?

His red orange eyes flickered to you before he roughly reached out and grabbed your throat. A scream escaped your lips as he yanked you forward, giving you little time to fight back. You felt his sharp nails digging into the sides of your neck as he squeezed tightly. His grip was strong, cutting off your breathing in seconds. Against his brute strength, you could do nothing except attempt to pry his hand off. 

"Th-the hell?!" You choked out, weakly looking up at him. However, he released you as quickly as he grabbed you, staring down at his cuffs again. You instantly took a step back, gaining distance from him. After a brief coughing fit, you spoke up. "What was that for?!"

"It's not for you..." he mumbled, entranced by the spell writing on his cuffs. He didn’t even seem the least worried about your current state as he began to examine the cuffs once more. Why would a demon get a protection spell? Not one, but multiple.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, making him look over at you. He held his arm up, the cuff glowing a dim gold. You could feel the power radiating off of the bands, even making you look away for a moment. He was really stuck, there was no way he could ever break out of those.

"There are protection spells on this thing, but they aren't for you. In fact, I could've killed you right there, which is bizarre. I've never heard of a mage putting a protection spell on a demon. Especially in this situation, where it would be more beneficial for you to have safety from me."

Usually, demons had no reason to harm or kill those they made contracts with. The end goal was to acquire the soul, which could easily be done through granting their wishes. But soul binding was different, there were no end goals. At the end of the day, Blade owed you nothing, not even his mercy.

"So, you choke me to find out?" You yelled, glaring at him a little. Your heart was still pounding in your chest and you weren’t sure if you could trust him considering he just admitted to being able to kill you. Even if you wouldn’t stay dead for long, you didn’t want to die! 

"If I told you, you would've expected it. Whatever spell is meant to protect you, wouldn't kick in if you don't truly believe I'm going to harm you. So, I didn't say anything. But I released you by choice, nothing actually stopped me. Meaning... this mage trusted the demon they bonded with. I'm starting to think it was a friends or lovers situation." You rubbed your throat while he spoke, turning away from him a little.

"Can demons even be trusted?"

"Only as far as their contracts are concerned. No demon will ever break a contract. Otherwise, not really." Well, at least he was honest.

Eventually, Blade walked closer to you, stopping only a couple feet away. Your hand briefly flew up to your neck but he made no sudden movements. Instead, holding his hand out, he met your gaze with his own. This time, you saw no anger or hatred, which brought an inkling of comfort to your mind. 

"I am Blade. For the time being, I will be your personal demon. You may use my services as you wish, and I will do my best to protect you from any harm. I only ask that in return you help me break this soul bond."

Your eyes slowly fell to the outstretched hand as his words rang in your ears. You didn't expect him to say something like that, but at the same time, your soul bond was a type of contract, right? So, he was just abiding by it.

Hesitantly, you reached out and grabbed his hand, your fingers tightening around it. Raising your eyes, you nodded to his terms.

"Ok. I will help you break the bond. Thank you for serving me." Yet, the words felt like sandpaper in your mouth. You weren’t entirely certain why, but you knew your words weren’t genuine.

Once that was done and over with, Blade retracted his hand and walked back to the grimoire. His eyes slid across the old pages, searching for any clue. As far as he was concerned, he could only sense a weak protection spell on it, nothing else. That meant the pages hadn’t been altered with magic. 

“Where did you find this? We should go back there to see if we find any more clues.” With little hesitation, you found yourself nodding to his words.

“Sure, but it’s a bit of a trek. I found it on a trip I just recently went on.” You explained as he walked to your desk and grabbed your bag, putting the grimoire inside of it.

“Doesn’t matter to me. By the way, until we figure out who made this book, try not to use it. Even if the spells are simple, they’re not meant for you. Best to leave them alone.” Understanding what he meant, you agreed. That book clearly had a purpose which you didn’t know of. Trying to use it could cause issues like with Blade. The last thing you wanted to do was cause more problems that you didn’t even know how to solve. 

“I’ll need to get another grimoire then.” You said with a sigh. Those things didn’t come cheap and you were still a novice mage. Being able to buy one… well, it was gonna take a while.

“Why bother? Don’t you have scrolls or something?” Blade asked, looking over at you.

“Scrolls aren’t as informative as grimoires. Not to mention they take up a lot of space and some vanish once the spell is cast.” You replied with a slight sigh as you began to clean up your mess.

Blade’s emotionless eyes watched you for a moment before he began to help. For any magic user, having their very own grimoire was proof of their abilities. Not only were they great sources of power and knowledge, if a mage ever managed to climb to greatness, their grimoires would get preserved in the Library of Novis, which was the biggest library the entire region, said to contain every single spell known to man.

Novice grimoires were often given to young students just beginning their journey into the arcane, but were usually loans and needed to be returned. Blade couldn’t begin to understand why you didn’t have one. There were plenty of grimoires handed down within families for young mages, yet not only did you not have one, but you chose that dingy book that clearly had its own ulterior motives.

A bit pathetic… but admirable. Though the spell you casted was powerful and unstable, you did it. No destruction came to you, this small space, or him. In fact, Blade felt great, technically speaking. The sigil also subdued his powers and kept him there and that’s something he expected from a high level mage.

Blade stopped for a moment and looked at you as you kept picking up the candles you’d laid out. The space around you two was dark, but Blade could make out the rundown walls and floorboards with his sharp eyes. The room was barren except for a small desk on the side, an old looking bed on the other, and what seemed to be a dresser beside the bed. The scent of dust lingered in the air and tickled his nose- it was almost enough to give him allergies. Turning his head, he saw two training dummies against the wall behind him, both covered in a thick layer of dust with cobwebs to boot.

Looking back at you, he noted a frown on your face which was expected. But with your newly created bond… he also felt your resolve. In fact, if he focused hard enough, he felt your desperation to be a great Mage.

An Archmage. Like the legendary celestial, Alessia. Noting that you were distracted, Blade decided this was the best time to peek inside your mind. Inhaling softly, the demon closed his eyes and focused on you. Your presence was heavy in his mind and heart.

He could feel your breathing, gentle and soft. Your heartbeat was strong, yet hastened. He felt your muscles moving as you picked up each item and threw it into a nearby box. Every curl of your fingers made his own tingle. Soul binding was scary, even he wouldn’t attempt something so stupid. But, he had to admit- it was fascinating to be here like this with you. You felt like an extension of himself yet he couldn’t control you.

Pushing past the physical aspects, he delved into your mind. Other than you scolding yourself over and over for making this mistake, he felt that resolve again. To be better, to be stronger, to be more mindful. There was a lingering sadness that he couldn’t decipher. He wanted to push past it, to see what you were thinking but stopped himself.

A gasp escaped his lips as his eyes shot open, feeling the sensation fade away. His eyes landed on you once more, who hadn’t realized what had just occurred. He could just peak into your mind like that? You couldn’t ever hide a secret from him. Yet, the idea of pushing through your defenses to peer into your mind felt unfair. You wouldn’t appreciate that, right? Being you and all.

There is one thing he wanted to hear you say.

“Hey, (y/n).” He called, making you look over at him, your hand abruptly stopping. It felt weird hearing him say your name and not call you an idiot or something.

“What?”

“Are you allied with a college? For your magical training, I mean.” At his words, you shook your head.

“If I was, I wouldn’t have summoned you the way I did. I actually can’t afford attending a college right now. I wasn’t born with the gift so I never prepared. Now, I’m so much worse off because of it that I can’t even attend a college if I wanted to. I’d just humiliate myself and make life harder.” Your words weren’t burdened with sorrow or anger, as if you were just stating pure fact. Even in his own heart, he didn’t feel any particular emotion stir. What? You just internalized your failure and called it a day? This was the worst way to learn magic in his expert opinion.

Plenty of thoughts filled Blade’s mind. With how dumb you were, it would be so easy to just manipulate you to do what he wanted. Hiding his emotions from you was an easy job, it’s not like you even knew you could look into his mind. Not only that, but you were so naive and clearly alone. But, that weird resolve of yours made him waver. You may have thought you were a failure, but you didn’t just live with it. You were still trying to learn and do better. He wasn’t sure if he was pitying you or not, but another thought flashed in his mind. One that seemed to yield a better outcome than just manipulating you. Standing up, he let out a sigh as he gestured for you to approach him.

“Come here.”

“Why?” You asked as you dropped the items in your hand into the box and walked over. Grabbing your shoulder, Blade positioned you in front of him with your back toward him. “What?”

“Like this.” Intending to put those neglected training dummies to use, he pushed one of your arms out straight, and  your palm to one of them. Reaching out, he positioned your hand in a more relaxed form. Using his foot, he pushed your feet a short distance apart and forced you to bend your knees a little. “Make sure you’re in a steady stance or you’ll fall over. From here, push your energy into your fingertips. Don’t force it, or it’ll explode.”

Deciding not to question him, you breathed and followed his instructions. It wasn’t necessarily easy to understand what he meant by energy, but you tried it anyway. For a moment, you felt a warmth at your fingertips. It was the slightest sensation that you could’ve almost missed.

“It tingles.”

“Good. It’s easy to aim since you’re pointing your hand. Be careful and try not to aim this attack recklessly. Also try to avoid heads.” He pushed your hand downward a little so you weren’t pointing at the training dummy’s head. “Once it feels like a good build up, release the energy. Literally, think in your mind that you’re letting it go.”

Giving it a moment to build up some more of that energy, you did as he said. You let go of the energy. Suddenly, a blast escaped your hand and fired straight at the dummy, hitting it right in the chest. You were knocked back a little too, but Blade kept you steady.

“What the- what was that!?”

“A blast. Good.” The demon commented as he stepped away, inspecting the dummy. Because it was a training dummy, it wasn’t destroyed but Blade could see the point of impact. That would certainly kill… as long as you didn’t fly away.

“How did you know I couldn’t do that?” You inquired, your eyes flickering to him. Even now, you felt the tingling at the tips of your fingers. It was that easy?

“Because that’s one of my attacks. You definitely don’t know it.” He replied, walking past you to finish up your attempt to clean up. “But make sure to plant your feet firmly or you’ll fall over like you almost did just now.”

He… taught you a personal spell? After all that name calling and stuff, he was actually willing to help you? That was kinda nice of him. You watched as he quickly cleaned up with his magic. He made it look so easy, flicking his fingers and making all the excess items fly into the box you’d used earlier. You hadn’t even figured that out, no wonder he kept judging you. He wasn’t entirely wrong, you were as weak as they came and he was the opposite. He grabbed the bag with the grimoire, making sure the book was secure.

This was the demon you were expected to just let go? He was powerful, smart, and handsome. You knew it was the right thing to do, but at the same time this was a good chance. A good opportunity to learn magic and have a powerful companion at your side.

“Stop staring, idiot.” He said as he looked back at you, holding the bag out to you. “Come on, we need to get going.”

“Right, thanks for the help.” You said as you took the bag from him, slinging it around your shoulder.

“Just keep your word and I’ll consider it even.” 

₊˚ෆ 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃, 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄! | sagau lyney, neuvillette, wriothesley x gn!reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ cw: theme of obsessiveness, yandere (big surprise!!) lyney + wrio's part mentions past abuse, all the stuff that comes as a side to this au !! ngl neuvillette's part is pretty tame he's literally. just a guy (otter)

⤷ [ you, the heavenly being who created celestia itself, has descended upon teyvat in an earthly form. a god, or at least, theirs. ]

— sagau!lyney has always lived to be beheld by the eye.

Displays of extravagance, bouquets of flowers and pairs of white doves fluttering from his finger tips. Yes, that was where he belonged, standing on his place at the center of the stage, bright lights fixed on his form as he swept in his arm in a wide bow towards his beloved audience. Listening to their adoring cheers and drinking it all in - their support, the fame, their fanatic attention.

Attention was always something he had yearned for. Cold days exist in his memory, where he wandered the street aimlessly, pale skin littered with growing purple bruises, his only refuge the light tug of Lynette's soot-stained hands clinging onto what rags he wore. In those times, he remembers, a faint voice from above, angelic and holy, soft and compassionate.

A voice that was, in fact, yours. You had stared with wide eyes at your device as the cutscene began, instantly overcome with emotion. "Lyney, Lynette... was this how you had been living? Goddamn, I know every character in this game has a tragic backstory, but look at them!! They're... they're precious!! Wahhh, I want to take you in... Lyney, you better come home..." They were merely throwaway comments that you had blurted out in the shelter of your room, absolutely fixated on their pretty character designs and the dwindling number of primogems your inventory held. Not only had you lost the 50/50 to Qiqi herself, you were now nearing hard pity, and the charming magician was still nowhere in sight. You shut your eyes "Ah... Lyney, how come you-"

Light flickered before your closed eyelids, and you felt the wind tug at your body. Your stomach lurched, oh shit, were you falling..?

"-won't..."

Someone caught you with ease, swift and capable arms holding you, one supporting your back and the other hefting both your legs. Twinkling purple eyes met yours. "Ah, are you alright?" You quickly shook your head, too shaken to speak words at the moment. Surveying your surroundings only brought another wave of confusion - strange buildings, glittering blue lakes and trees, an unfamiliar landscape... Your gaze shifted, and you caught the sight of uncanny ash blond hair, and the hat that sat atop it. Lyney?

He hummed in acknowledgement. "So, you've just fallen from the sky." There was no way in mistaking his voice. "Is there an explanation behind that, or...?"

"I...I- I don't know why I'm here...!" You stuttered, and he visibly flinched at your voice, eyes widening. Shit, had you done something wrong? You trembled in his arms, attempting to stand by yourself, but he wouldn't let you move from his grasp.

"I see." His voice was quiet, now, and came in a single breath. His pupils shook as he closed his eyes in a smile. "Then, shall I bring you somewhere where you'll be safe?"

His heart was racing, pounding against his chest, and he could hardly breath, instead taking in short, desperate little gasps that did little to keep him standing. You.

It was a voice he swore he'd never let escape his recollection, and now there was a face, and touch to pair it with. He smile widened, and his eyes shined with pure ecstasy. It was you, in the flesh, his archon, his god, the highest being. Your body was holy, and he longed to praise it, his dark heart being cleansed just by bathing in your presence. Yet you seemed so fragile in his arms, how cute... it wouldn't be fair to keep you to himself, but being selfish is what allowed him to get this far. Like a songbird in a cage, he'd trap you, admire you, worship you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you could feel his smile's sweet grow more sickening every beat of silence that passed. "No, What? I-"

His hand struck the back of your neck. Your voice died as your eyes fluttered shut. And in that moment Lyney pressed a kiss to both of your closed lids, a tender touch that one might describe as "loving", but what truly lie beneath it was far more twisted. His heart beat only for you, and red flushed across his cheeks.

"There's no need to worry, my eminence. I'll put on a show, just for your delight." ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!neuvillette has always yearned for warmth.

A warmth is not present in the courts of Fontaine. There, it is cold, sharp, the biting frigidness numbing the hearts of people - those who stand before him in trial, and those who watch with glee in the crowd, awaiting his final verdict with bated breaths.

Neuvillette was most renowned for his judgement. But it was his own that was a critical flaw. For what truly was judgement? Had he been justified in casting a murderer, in some eyes, but a hero in others, into the Fortress of Meropide? A mere child, who just sought for warmth, just as he had? He fears his heart has also grown cold and indifferent to the world, and he despises himself for it.

Was it not your warm hand that stroked him lovingly so back then, a quiet, soothing touch that swept away the tears and the salt that clung to his cheeks? Was it not your voice who called out to him on those ever so lonely nights, humming an otherworldly tune as your ghostly visage wiped the sorrow that flowed his downcast eyes? Yes, truly. It was your warmth that caused his eyes to glow anew, your warmth that allowed his cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears to flush with contentment.

"Oh, wise ludex! This man is a murder! He stole not only my mother's assets, but my mother's life!" The crowd gasped at the dramatic declaration, their gazes shifting back and forth, from the perpetrator to the "witness." "I will dearly miss her... this man, no, this monster, took my mother away by hitting her over the head with none other than a bludgeon!"

Neuvillette's eyes widened. "Mr... Lucas."

"Y-Yes, ludex?"

"It was never disclosed to the public of what weapon the killer used."

The crowd erupted into a series of sharp inhales, surprised noises muffled by a hand over the mouth, round eyes as large as dinner plates, and frantic head turning. Journalists scribbled frantically in their notebooks, sweat pouring from their faces as they stumbled upon their newest cash cow.

"The verdict. Mr. Lucas is found to be guilty."

And they cheered. For what? Neuvillette narrowed his eyes just a fraction, his displeasure rising. They knew nothing. They were just mindless puppets, willing themselves to follow the sway of the crowd, praising and applauding something that naught needed its praise.

A sensation came over him, like the soft caress and flutter of an angel's wings or a soft, sweet sigh escaping from pouting, half-opened lips. The man snapped his head up, hearing the glass behind him shatter and plummet downwards like crystal raindrops, but what verily sent his heart apounding was the sight of a figure, dressed in heavenly silks, bathed in golden light, and descending into the courtroom. He drank it all in with a bated breath, hearing that for once, the crowd was silence.

You landed in his arms. Beautiful. He almost didn't dare move with you in his arms, in fear of his legs giving way underneath him. Your head lulled into his chest, eyes shut, and your pure, unbridled warmth finally met him, finally doused him in its prescence.

"Your... your eminence..." His voice was a mere echo, quiet, containing little sound at all. "I..."

"To you who has granted me such the blessing of warmth, I shall repay with all of my heart." ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!wriothesley has always wanted... someone to hold him.

It's a selfish thing to long for, and a silent one. Who would pay any heed to a duke's ramblings? Love's a thought that he's never quite fully digested, almost as if he can't truly believe it exists. Of course, he's seen Fontaine's couples, strolling up and down the street, hand-in-hand, yet questions himself in what makes them able to love each other. Perhaps it wasn't his problem with them, but more so a problem with himself.

Ah, that was it.

His heart already belonged to someone, someone he had heard once and never witnessed again. Like the softest breath of the wind, or a joyful child's laughter, it brushed through his soul and soothed it, held it in its arms, and fussed over his messy hair and bruised skin. At times, Wriothesley wondered if it was all a dream, for only something that angelic, mesmerizing could not stem from reality. However, as young as he was in those years, he cannot deny the fact that in his dark days - it was your mysterious voice that carried him into the life, your presence that gave him the wings to continue living.

Yes, since that day, his every breath, every flutter of his eyes and every pump of blood that rushed anew into his veins from his heart was solely for the purpose of meeting you once more.

Another typical day at the Fortress of Meropide - paperwork strewn all over his once-organized desk, a cooled cup of tea sitting next to where his hand lie, the other furiously writing away on the said paper. He ran a hand through his hair, grumbling into his palm as he briefly shut his eyes... only to shoot them back upon in a start as he heard the sound of something crashing against the walls, and the sound of paper, flying everywhere akin to a bird.

There was someone, lying, or rather, sprawled across his desk. Dizzy-eyed and muttering something intelligible, a growing red spot on their forehead gradually becoming increasingly more visible. "How did you get in here?" He's immediately put up his defenses, readying his gloves as he steps over - with quiet remorse - the papers that now blanket the ground.

"...Wh...Where am I?"

That. That voice.

Has he stopped breathing? He can feel all the blood rush to his head, and he can hardly think a single coherent thought, only focusing on the rush in his ears, the shaking of his hands, and the sight of you before him, dressed simply in sleepware and glancing around frantically. Gorgeous. Ethereal. The mere sight of you before him had spurred his heart into an erratic, fanatic pace, beating within his body like he'd die if it slowed down.

"Is... Is something wrong?" He was taken aback at the hand waving over his eyes, before settling back into position, realizing that you had been trying to speak with him for the past half-minute in his zoned-out state. Could you see it? The sin that was clearly displayed in his every breath, in his every inch of being?

"No, nothing's wrong." You seemed to have calmed down somewhat, and while your eyes were still filled with confusion, you tilted your head at his words. How come he was smiling...?

"Ah, then about that question-"

"Home. You're home. And this is where you'll be staying, forever." ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) ugh i swear to god i hate every single thing ive ever written for wriothesley he seems so yucky and out of character WJODJKFLJDSMF>

REBLOGS APPRECIATED!! please consider following me as i amm soosososoo close to a follower goal ive been wanting to reach and itd be crazy if i could reach it before christmas!!!

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-> teehee what if yall left a message on my christmas tree 😶😶😶

Yandere! Feitan Portor General Profile

Yandere! Feitan Portor x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence, murder, mentions of torture, mentions of Feitan carving his initial into you, mentions of masturbation, stalking, jealousy, threats, Feitan tortures a man in front of you, I stand by the (semi) soft creepy yandere Feitan agenda and I will not be swayed otherwise, this got super long I'm so sorry, I'm also delirious as I'm writing it so hopefully it makes coherent sense/is consistent, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

DARLING PROFILE:

Empathetic

In general, Feitan finds his attention drawn by a darling who is almost the complete opposite of himself.

He wants someone sweet and caring, all soft and squishy and warm. He’s never found this particularly attractive before meeting his darling, but there’s something oddly endearing about the way they’re always trying to help those around them, fruitlessly asking them to vent about their feelings, to use them as a supportive shoulder. 

It makes him scoff, rolling his eyes and wondering at how impossibly naive his darling can be, but even he can’t deny how nice it is to have someone by his side, a human presence that’s steady and calm and understanding. It makes him feel good, a warm sensation bottling up in his chest and threatening to explode out, and although he’ll never really come clean with how he feels for you (at least, he never will verbally), a darling who can kind of read his rather emotionless face would be a very, very big attraction for him. 

He just wants a darling who can understand him, even if his rational brain loathes the idea. An empathetic darling is sure to draw his attention, if only because he’ll be mildly revolted and intrigued by how they can be so selfless and so foolish. 

Submissive 

Feitan doesn’t want a feisty darling. 

He doesn’t enjoy having to tame his lovers, and although he’s never really had a lover, he gravitates towards someone who is more naturally submissive and willing to follow direction. 

He already feels powerless enough in the situation, frustrated that he doesn’t really have any say in how he feels. It scares him, quite honestly, if only because he doesn’t like how easily and quickly he’s jumping to conclusions where his darling is concerned, more than willing to jump through any hoop necessary in order to get what he wants, in order to make sure his darling is safe and isolated from every other man on Earth. 

He likes knowing that his darling will do what he tells them to; it builds a layer of trust that makes Feitan go feral, and for every ounce of trust his darling gives him, he’ll try to return it as full heartedly as he can. He likes that he’s fully in control of his darling, and particularly if they were to be submissive in more… intimate aspects of the relationship, he’d be absolutely smitten.

He just wants his darling to revere him and believe his word as the word of God, and the moment that happens? 

He’s only falling deeper into obsession, his desperation for them growing with every beat of his heart, getting harder and harder to swallow until he gives up, jumping head first into every swirling, dark, lecherous desire he harbors. 

Soft

Of course, Feitan’s darling doesn’t have to have a softer body, but he can’t deny that there’s something enticing about a darling who is physically quite soft. Whether that’s rounder features, a plumper figure, or even a soft, demure voice, it all entrances Feitan. 

His darling is something of a dream to him, because he’s never really believed that someone that stereotypically weak could ever really survive in this world. He likes how his darling feels, the touches he sneaks late at night when they’re sleeping sending sparks up his spine and serving as fuel for when he’s unbearably horny, his hand around his cock not nearly enough. 

He’s prone to fantasizing about his darling, slipping into daydreams of his they’d feel in his lap, how they’d look with their ass up and face pressed into the mattress, how they’d feel so good wrapped around him. He just thinks it’s oddly endearing, and a darling who fits these characteristics would help initially draw his eye - he just thinks they’re pretty, a polar opposite to him, even going so far as to playing into some of his more protective traits. 

Of course, he’d rather die than admit any of it, but he’s interally a bit soft for his darling - they’re just alluring in an almost primal way he can’t describe, but he can’t fight it. He can’t fight anything when it comes to his darling, as it turns out, and soon Feitan will decide that he doesn’t care. 

After all, once his darling steps into his life and stays there, nothing at all matters - how can it, when he’s decided that they’re his, his woman to keep and admire and touch and fuck? 

(It will take him a very, very long time to get comfortable with either of the last two options, but the desire and sentiment is still there, if the frequent raging erections he gets as a result of his darling is any indicator.)

Talkative 

This trait is one of the things Feitan loves and hates most about his darling. 

He enjoys listening to them talk; he himself isn’t particularly fond of conversation, nor is he particularly talkative towards his darling in general. And so, a partner who is capable of filling the silence between them sometimes is something that makes Feitan grateful, if only because hearing the sound of their voice makes his breath hitch. 

And when they talk to him, all their attention aimed solely at him? 

Well, how can Feitan not be flattered, not feel a bit prideful that they’re spending their time directing all their focus and thoughts around whatever small question he prompted them with? He just likes listening to his darling go on and on, even if the topic doesn’t interest him much. However, the downside of this trait is that it creates a rather ugly combination with his tendency to grow jealous. 

If his darling is talkative with everyone, it’s sure to extend towards the men they meet, who just stare at them like they’re a slab of meat waiting to be devoured, all of them eager to get their hands on them and destroy what Feitan has claimed as his own. It’s infuriating, if only because it means that they’re interacting with others, putting themselves into a position where they could develop feelings for another man or be put into harm’s way or overhead something they shouldn’t have or any number of things. 

It becomes a massive liability, and one that Feitan is so, so very aware of. It irritates him, and as much as he loves when his darling is chatting with him, he’s not so approving when they're with others.

And so, it’s really in his darling’s best interest to reign in the conversations with anyone else - unless they want to see their blood splattered all over the walls, hear their cries, feel Feitan’s red soaked fingers grasp onto their arms and force them to see the results of their chattiness. It’s in their best interest, and they’ll learn that soon enough. Hopefully. 

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Distant 

There’s a part of Feitan that genuinely hates you for making him feel the way he does. The constant pounding of his heart when you’re merely mentioned, the throb in his chest when he’s gone too long without seeing you, the nervous twitch of his fingers when he thinks about what you’re doing, what other man you’re thinking about… 

He hates how paranoid you’ve made him, how so much of his time and energy goes into you. It’s your fault that he’s always distracted, that he’s not able to fully focus on his work anymore because he’s only able to think of you you you. It’s frustrating, and honestly it initially wards Feitan off from getting any closer to you - he doesn’t like the way he feels around you (that’s not true, but he needs it to be), so he’ll stay away and ignore you. Maybe that’ll get you to stop smiling at him so kindly, to quit asking him how his day was, to stop looking so pretty while you hum and make yourself dinner. 

As time passes, slowly this hatred diminishes (or at least dulls), instead replaced with a desperate, pathetic need to be around you; he just can’t keep himself away from you, no matter how hard he tries. It’s demoralizing, embarrassing beyond belief that someone like you could get his emotions so twisted, but it’s reality. 

He tries to fight it at first, believing himself to be above such stupid human emotion – he doesn’t need you, he’s a criminal and has never needed love or anything of the sort. And yet, each and every time he tells himself to not trail behind you as you walk to the grocery store, his resolve holds out for roughly five minutes. By then, there’s unwelcome thoughts drifting through his mind about what you’re doing, whether you’re talking to anyone, if you’ve managed to trip like you always do and scrape your knee. 

(There’s even a small, very small part of him that wonders whether you’re buying foods that are nutritious for you, or whether you’re doing your usual junk food spree. A thought pops up in the back of his head: him beside you in the store, scoffing as you place chips into the cart. He’d replace them with fruit, mumbling something about you being so stupid, only to see you smile at him and thank him, telling him how grateful you are to have him watching over you. His cheeks feel hot at that, and he buries his face deeper into his jacket, grumbling under his breath.) 

He’ll try to stop himself from circling back to you, but each and every time he finds some excuse of why he should be watching you, of how you aren’t really capable of taking care of yourself without his watchful gaze. It’s patronizing, more than anything, but eventually he’ll stop trying to fight it, submitting entirely and allowing himself the concealed pleasure of watching your horribly mundane life. 

He’ll need to be around you, constantly, but he’s still not willing to let his emotional guard down. No, you’ve done enough damage just simply existing - you absolutely cannot know how deeply he feels for you, how wrapped around your pinky finger you have him. Not only would it eliminate any semblance of leverage he holds against you (in order to stay above you, that is), it also showcases just how far the extent of his feelings for you run. 

And frankly, the thought terrifies Feitan – he’s never felt so strongly for anyone before, not even in the context of hatred or pleasure at their suffering. He’s in over his head, wading through waters he's always scoffed at and dismissed, and suddenly he’s finding himself nearly drowning, head always buried just under the surface. 

So he steels himself, grabbing onto any shred of control and power he can against you – he grabs on and clutches on, strong fingers frantically staying attached so that he doesn’t get blown away and truly drown. And even in the beginning of your captivity, Feitan won’t change the way he’s so detached. He’s purposefully putting distance between the two of you so that he can remain in control of the situation, in control of you, and – most importantly, and most concerningly – in control of himself. 

Because frankly, Feitan doesn’t trust himself around you. He doesn’t trust the way his body just does things, how any rational thought leaves his brain the moment your eyes meet, how fingers are already lifting up a bit to reach out touch you, to brush away stray pieces of your hair when you’re within a few feet of him. 

The biggest way he maintains this control is by not giving you a whole lot of attention, aside from one stark, grave exception: his dark eyes are constantly watching you. He’s always just sort of staring, his expression blank as he observes you, motionless and still. It’s unnerving, terrifying you initially and only slightly calming down as time passes, but Feitan doesn’t care much. 

He doesn’t necessarily want to interact with you, but just watching you allows him to be in your space, to be beside you, to smell you and listen to your breathing. You’re kept in one large room most of the time, and he’ll often sit in the chair in the corner and just stare. He’s not talking much, not trying to touch you or hurt you, but you almost wish he would sometimes. 

He just doesn’t understand what about you it is that attracts him so deeply, that’s morphed him into this lovesick fool, and while he initially tries to understand, eventually Feitan gives up, because does it really matter? 

Does it really matter how he became obsessed with you when you’re locked up in his spare bedroom, duct tape covering your mouth and an expressionless, frozen Feitan watching you with his heart practically bursting out of his chest? Does it really matter if he pinpoints exactly when he developed his love for you when you’re looking at him with those pretty tears in your eyes, whispering out a thanks as he sets the tray of food down in front of you? 

It really doesn’t, now that his feelings for you are formed and solidified, now that they can’t be changed or reversed. So while he’ll never be the most accessible and sympathetic to your feelings, rest assured that Feitan really does love you in some fucked up way - he’s just unorthodox, incapable of properly expressing himself to you. 

But actions speak louder than words, right? He’s always thought so.

Obsessive 

Because Feitan is relatively quiet and secretive when it comes to his feelings towards you, it’s difficult for you to really pick up on this aspect of him. You’re unlikely to ever truly understand just how much he feels for you, the sheer depth of emotions you cause him. 

He won’t ever tell you what’s going on behind that expressionless facade of his. He doesn’t tell you how oddly adorable you are when you’re sleeping in the early mornings, curled up in the corner of your room with your eyes shut and lips slightly parted, looking so soft and sweet and weak.

 He’ll never make you aware of how his breath hitches ever so slightly when you make eye contact with him, even if it’s shaky and you look away too quickly, his spine tingling because fuck, your attention feels good. 

You’ll never know why his foot is tapping lightly when you’re eating in front of him, the way those annoying nerves eat away at his stomach while he subconsciously wonders if you think he looks attractive today. (He’d trimmed his hair a bit, feeling it was too long and interfering with his work - do you like it? Did you notice? He’d hesitated a bit with the scissors earlier, brows slightly furrowing, dark eyes glancing at your sleeping form.) 

He’s very cryptic, and this tendency to keep you out of the loop of his personal thoughts and feelings can cast a shadow on his more obsessive tendencies. That is, before he’s stolen you away from the world, Feitan did an extensive amount of research into you. He does nothing on a whim - he’s a calculating man, and once he’d finally come to terms with the fact that his feelings for you weren’t going to disappear, he was scouring every resource possible to garner your information. 

He’s got access to all kinds of personal knowledge about you - your search history, for example. It’s a bit unexpected, if Feitan’s being honest - you’re much darker than he’d expected, the things you read about making him quirk a brow, his interest in you only deepening because hmm, seems the little sheep may be a bit of a wolf inside. 

He’s getting Shalnark to hack into the camera of your phone and computer, the stream of footage easy to access as he cleans his tools, blood washing away as you smile and laugh at some comedy you’re watching. 

It’s stupid and at first he pretends to find your laugh annoying. But then he sees the way your cheeks get all full and round as you smile, your eyes crinkling up, even the way you wheeze slightly when it’s really funny. 

(Briefly, he wonders whether you’d find his dry sense of humor entertaining.)

He’s got photographs of you from his time spent trailing you, and though they’re a bit blurry and not as focused as he’d like, they’re still something nice to pin to his wall, keeping his favorites beside his bed. He’s never had trouble sleeping, but something about looking at you as he drifts into slumber makes him rest more soundly, wake up more refreshed. 

Once you’ve been trapped with him for long enough, however, Feitan’s front of careful indifference to you will slowly begin cracking. You’ll never see fully through him, but you’ll catch the way the corners of his lips twitch up ever so slightly when you snuggle into the blanket he gives you one day, noticing how you’ve been shivering incessantly at night. 

(He won’t tell you the blanket was freshly stolen, that he’d made sure to take one with the softest, thickest material he could find, and even in your favorite color. It’s just a coincidence, so don’t read into it.) 

You’ll realize he’s slowly inched closer to you the longer you watch the television program Feitan turned on earlier, your spot on the couch feeling smaller and smaller as Feitan’s hip eventually brushes yours, neither of you acknowledging what’s happening. 

(You’ll never know how badly he wants to reach out and touch you, to freely run his hand up and down your thigh, so trace your collarbones, to feel just how soft your body is.)

It all makes him feel weak, pathetic, disgusting, but Feitan can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about you, and he can’t pull himself away. His pride won’t allow him to fully succumb to the thoughts and desires about you that are constantly swirling through his mind, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there, that they aren’t bothering him constantly. He’s secretive, and maybe it’s for the best that you don’t know how many nights he’s spent with his fingers wrapped around his cock, his pale cheeks rosy as he imagines the way you’d like tied up with hickeys he made spanning the insides of your thighs. 

Perhaps it’s best that you don’t know how often he’s (begrudgingly) held the extra pillow on his bed close to his chest, dark eyes staring up at the ceiling as he tightens his arms around it.

(No, he wasn’t imagining it was you – he’s a touch starved man, and everyone has urges, right? It’s just coincidence that the pillow casing is one he stole from you, that he never washes it because it smells like you, that he nearly loses his mind when he almost gets a drop of blood from a victim on it.) 

It makes it much easier to scare you into what he wants when you don’t know - you’re much more complainant this way, malleable, willing, and Feitan likes it that way. Sure, having you fall in love would be ideal, getting your obedience through a genuine desire to please him, but at least this way he can keep a piece of his pride intact. 

This way, you’ll never realize the power you have over him - how he’d be willing to wipe out entire towns for you if you so much as mention it. You’ll never understand just how he needs to have you - to have you for what, you don’t know, but you can sense the odd sort of desperation coming off of him. 

You can feel it in the way his fingers grip you just a bit too tight, the way his eyes linger on you just a tad too long, the way the smallest, most embarrassing little whimper falls from his lips when your hand touches his. 

He’s good at hiding it, but everyone makes mistakes - just don’t pry too hard, because Feitan still needs to be the one in control, and you’ll quickly find yourself learning much, much more about the short man than you’ve ever wanted to know. Namely, that the only thing worse than him staring at you is him ignoring you.

Protective  

Although, it will take you a very long time to see this side of him. Initially, Feitan’s feelings towards you are that of mild interest, mild disgust, and mild indifference. 

Mild interest because he had, of course, noticed that you were pretty, what with your soft lips and doe eyes, your figure and the lilt of your voice. Indifference, because Fietan was sure there were a thousand other people just like you on Earth. And disgust, because you were so visibly weak and unable to fend for yourself, like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.

 And yet, the more time he spends around you (maybe a long job has him centered in the same city for a few weeks, and you work at the little store he gets his meals from, or some other service job that brings you in contact regularly), the more complex these feelings become. His interest becomes peaked because you’re not just pretty, but also entertaining to talk to, handling his dry jabs well and even daring to throw back some jokes of your own. (He never laughed, of course, but a wry smile sat underneath his jacket.) 

He’s still a bit indifferent, but not when you’re helping other customers or smiling down at your phone. (Were you texting someone? Your fingers were moving, implying typing – what were they saying that was making you giggle like that? What could he say that would make you giggle? Why does he care?) 

But the starkest, quickest change of heart that Fietan experiences in how he feels about your strength and abilities. Of course, you are weak. Even if you can use nen, even if you know the basics of self defense – Feitan is sure that he could kill you in the blink of an eye, cleanly, easily. (He’s sure because he’s thought of doing it before – never seriously, just a fleeting thought, something that only briefly passed through his mind when he was still resistant to his attraction towards you – it was promptly expelled after that familiar sinking, uncomfortable feeling started up in his gut, but still.) 

You’re embarrassingly weak, really, and as much as he tries to make himself ignore it or to simply stop caring about it, he can’t get it out of his head. He can’t seem to stop imagining you getting hurt, doing something stupid or careless and tarnishing that pretty skin of yours. 

He can’t seem to stop imagining the way you’d take a corner too fast and slip on your own feet, tumbling to the ground and ending up with a sprained ankle or a scrape across your knee. 

He’ll be sharpening a blade, blood stains caked onto the metal, and suddenly a flash of what your blood would look like staining the material makes him freeze for a moment, black eyes just a tad bit wider, the muscles in his arms and legs taut because there’s something sickening about the thought, something malicious and just carnally wrong. 

He can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against someone like his coworkers, whose strength is difficult to handle even for an experienced nen user. How would someone like you fare against someone like Uvogin? Someone like Shizuku? Hell, even someone like Kortopi? 

(Upon first meeting Hisoka, a very sudden and very intrusive image of the clown slicing a card clean through your throat flashed through his mind, and he’d nearly reached forward and ripped out the taller man’s heart at the thought, a purely instinctual response that left him more shell-shocked than he’d care to admit.) 

He knows you wouldn’t stand a chance, and while he doesn’t want it to bother him, it does. It does, as much as he tries to forget the mental images or assure himself that you deserve getting injured for being so weak and helpless. But he can’t just sit still and let it pass by, if it were to ever happen - and so, Feitan’s protective tendencies begin manifesting. 

They’re small, for the most part; making sure to keep his torture tools as far away from you as possible, just so that there’s no chance of you accidentally tripping or running into one or being stupid and getting any ideas. 

He’s making sure that you’re under his watch as often as possible, becoming your second shadow and stalking you every free moment he can spare, just in case someone unsavory crosses your path. 

He’s making sure that all your locks are working every night, compulsively checking them even though he knows they’re still good. 

He keeps his protective tendencies under wraps, making sure that they’re subtle and just ambiguous enough that you won’t pick up on his intentions. Because while there’s something appealing about you knowing that he wants you to be safe, he would rather you not find out just how extensively he watches you, just how much he cares about your wellbeing, deciding that it’s yet another potential opportunity for you to manipulate him. 

And of course, he’s embarrassed - he briefly considers requesting help watching you from a Troupe member or two, only for when he’s aware for long periods of times on individual jobs, but eventually he chickens out, too scared to have to explain why he wants Pakunoda to keep an eye on you.

 He’s not embarrassed of you, per se, but rather the extent to which you affect him. And even once he’s stolen you away (an action which has roots in his paranoia for your safety), those protective tendencies are still firmly in place. He’s not a good cook, but he still tries to provide you with somewhat healthy foods, even if they’re undercooked and limp, bland and just overall unappealing. 

He’s by no means an interior designer, but he’s getting you a somewhat soft, thick blanket, making sure the one pillow you have isn’t covered in stains or lumpy. It’s all subtle, nearly unnoticeable things that you’d have to be very perceptive to catch onto - but to Feitan it’s all important, because while he may still resent you for turning him into a lovesick fool, he’ll be damned if he lets you starve or be uncomfortable.

It’s stupid and he knows it, grumbling to himself the entire time he’s doing something to prevent hurting you, but it’ll always get done - and if you were to ever notice it, to thank him? Feitan would deny your allegations, telling you to shut up and eat your food, all the while the tips of his ears turn pink and his heart flutters because you noticed. 

You noticed the way he takes extra precautions for you, the way he thinks of you and your wellbeing, even having the gall to thank him for it… 

Don’t bring it up again or he’ll grow angry, but the pride sitting in his chest at your words is enough for him. It’s enough for him to know you see him, that you’re paying attention to him, that you appreciate all he does for you - it’s enough for now, at least. 

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Feitan is, unfortunately, a bit prone to jealousy – as someone who is aware that he isn’t the best option out there for you, the acknowledgement that there is a multitude of other men that deserve you more and could likely land you never fails to get past him. 

He’s so, so aware of the fact that you likely don’t like him, that stalking you and planning to kidnap you likely doesn’t earn him any favors. He knows he’s fairly quiet, and while it’s mostly a fear of mildly embarrassing himself that bars him from actually interacting with you, it only pushes Feitan to worry that you only see him as a strange, unfamiliar man. 

It’s likely that you think of him as nothing more than an acquaintance, a man who doesn’t seem to want anything to do with you. And so, the minute that another person tries to flirt with you, to look at you and think of you and speak with you, the insecurities over how you perceive him are blooming in his chest, growing and blossoming into full blown panic, because what if you fall for another man? 

Of course, Feitan has absolutely no problem eliminating the threat, even enjoying taking the life of such a worthless man, but he can’t help the way fear grips his heart, cold and stabbing and brutal, because while he may be icy and difficult to approach, a stone face that leaves little emotion o be seen, Feitan wants you so fucking badly, to the point that it genuinely hurts. 

And while he isn’t all that soft towards the beginning of his obsession (and really, even once you’ve been ‘living’ with him for a while as well), he does honestly want for you to return the feelings, to love him and care for him, to want to be with him and enjoy your new life by his side. Ideally, he wants you to fall for him, to see him and smile, to have your soft skin pressed against his rougher, more callused skin, your hands cupped in a firm embrace, a soft hug, a kiss against the lips and short, whispered words of trust and acceptance. 

Of course, it’s makes him feel so damn pathetic each time he gets caught in a daydream where you’re smiling and laughing with him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and telling him he’s handsome, but try as he may, he just can’t allow another man to steal the opportunity to make you theirs. 

He wants to be the only one in your life, the only man you see and think of and talk to, and quite honestly Feitan will succeed – his profession is death after all, and he’s a master at stalking his prey, locating their weaknesses, seamlessly killing and annihilating his target before they even have a chance to fight back. 

And so, once his jealousy is triggered, the poor man’s fate has already been decided. Feitan’s never been particularly merciful, and where you’re concerned, this trait only grows - it feels good to kill whoever dared to speak with you, like some sort of cathartic release of all the emotions he’s been bottling up, all the anger and desperation and self-loathing and yearning trapped in his chest. 

It feels good, euphoric in a way he can’t describe, and so he’s quick to jump on any man posing a potential threat to your status as single and ripe for Feitan to claim. He’s a trained killer, after all, and who is he to waste away a perfectly good target? 

When the man in the black dress shirt approaches you in the grocery store, Feitan’s eyes narrow. The shorter man had been trailing you all day, watching you go about your weekly errands, and the tri-annual trip to the grocery store had been your last stop. You’d managed to evade any male attention today, a fact that had Feitan simultaneously sighing in relief and growling in anger. 

And yet, here you are, dressed in a rather provocative set of leggings that have Feitan’s eyes absolutely glued to your supple ass, matched with a slouchy, oversized sweatshirt. You’re cute, he begrudgingly admits, and it seems the stranger agrees. 

Feitan’s standing in the next aisle over, staring through the holes in the shelving to see the way you tap your chin and scan the aisles of bread, searching for the perfect loaf. You don’t seem to have noticed the man slowly walking up to you, his eyes visibly scanning up and down your body. Feitan scowls, black brows drawing tightly together as he debates what to do. 

On the one hand, there’s not much he can do - you’re in a public grocery store, and he doesn’t particularly want you to notice his presence. And yet, he can’t just let this man approach you, speak to you, look at you, now can he? He grits his teeth, steeling himself to just watch for now, and jump in if the time is right, if he feels the man goes too far. The man clears his throat, making you jump and look over at him, the suave smile he sends you making your own smile falter a bit. 

Which bread’s best? He’s asking you, and you answer quickly, naming your favorite brand and which style you like best - Feitan’s scowl only deepens when he realizes you’re telling him the truth. 

The man nods along, before his smirk turns smarmy, one eyebrow cocked up as he asks which rolls are best then? I’m thinking they’re yours. 

You blanch at that, disgust written across your face as you awkwardly laugh and inch away, but Feitan sees none of that - how can he, when he’s already moving, already grabbing the man by the neck and sprinting down the aisle and around the corner, all too fast for you to see with the naked eye? 

You’re confused, unsure of how the man just suddenly disappeared, but his comment left you shellshocked and lost at what to do, so you quickly grab a random loaf and anxiously push your cart away, trying to put distance between you and wherever the man had ended up. 

Meanwhile, Feitan’s got the man held against the back wall of the grocery store, fingers wrapped around his neck and a cold, menacing look in his eye. 

Bastard, he grits out, tightening his grip and feeling the way the man panics and scratches at his fingers, trying to rip them away. 

Disgusting, she is mine, didn’t your mother teach don’t touch what’s not yours? Feitan’s shocked he hasn’t just slaughtered the man yet, but there’s something in his heart telling him to prolong this out, to let the man suffer, to make this as slow and torturous as possible. He wants the man to bleed, to scream and sob and beg for his mercy, for being stupid enough to even try to seduce you. 

Feitan’s angry enough that his breathing is uneven, his muscles occasionally flexing without his permission, the rage simmering in his veins nearly potent. He can’t stop replaying the sight of your disgusted and uncomfortable look, the fact that this scum caused you to feel such an emotion making his skin feel hot, his fingers eager to steal the man’s life. 

He smiles as the man wheezes, the lack of oxygen making his face slowly take on a purple hue. What’s wrong? Can’t breath? 

He squeezes once, harshly, roughly, and the man splutters, spit dribbling down his chin and getting onto Feitan’s wrist. He scoffs. Filthy, disgusting. Die. 

And then the man is being stabbed with his sword, not once, not twice, but again and again and again, until holes and wounds decorate the planes of his chest, blood flowing down in rivers onto the dirty concrete floor. 

The man is dead within a matter of seconds, but it’s not enough for Feitan. He’s quick to throw the body to the ground, kicking and stomping and mutilating the body until its unrecognizable. He’s still breathing hard, his fingers shaking, and he finishes it off with a spit at what was once the man’s face, a scowl thrown his way. 

Pathetic, he says, dark eyes closing for a few moments as he looks to sense your familiar presence, already on your walk back towards your apartment. Feitan gives one last, firm kick, before taking off, the urge to have his eyes on you once more making him rush even quicker than normal. He’ll spend the rest of the evening watching you, like always, but this time he’ll pay more attention to your face. 

You’ve never looked at him the way you looked at that man, all scared and revolted. 

You’ve never tried to get away from Feitan, never ran or panicked or anything of the sort. Pride swells in his chest at the knowledge that you like the dark haired man more than that mangled corpse; you’d choose Fietan over him, he’s sure. 

And as you slip under your covers, a soft look on your face as you drift to sleep, Feitan can’t help but slide open the window, slipping into the bedroom and coming up to stand beside your unconscious form. 

Would you choose him over other men? 

If given the choice, would you want him? 

He’d always choose you, his heart always coming back to you no matter what he does or how he hates it - and one day, he’s hopeful you’ll feel the same. One day, you’ll be just as stupidly, pathetically, frantically in love as he is. 

He sighs, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Someday, you’ll be all his. 

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It takes Feitan a long time to resort to kidnapping you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but rather that it’s never been a priority for him. He’s reclusive, and because it takes him so long to sort out his feelings for you, stealing you away was certainly not at the forefront of his mind. 

It takes him so long to even admit to himself that he cares for you, and that process alone takes anywhere from a month to three months, and only then does the stalking begin. Only then is he allowing the feelings for really grow, to fester and brew in his chest until he’s insatiable, desperate to see you and be in your presence. It takes him so long to warm up to you that he just simply doesn’t have the time or forethought to consider taking you for himself - that is, until his protective tendencies begin coming into play. Once he starts actively caring about your safety and wellbeing, little thoughts begin springing up in the back of his mind. He’s chastising you mentally for staying up late, the hands on the clock moving past hours he’s comfortable with. 

He doesn’t like when you lay in your bed scrolling through that damn phone of yours, the bright light bad for your eyes and making you delay sleeping for as long as possible. It makes him angry (if not hypocritical, seeing as he himself only gets roughly four hours of sleep per night), and before he can even stop himself he’s thinking of how he’d make you fall asleep if he was with you, prying that phone out of your hands and telling you to sleep now. 

He doesn’t like when you walk home alone at night, as if you’re practically asking to be mugged or assaulted or killed, which is why he has to follow you, begrudgingly hiding in the shadows and trailing you as you meander back to your apartment. 

You’re stupid, is what you are, and as time passes, Feitan becomes more and more shocked at how lightly you take your own life - how can one single person be so careless? How can you be willing to eat food so close to the expiration date, or look both ways at the sidewalk just once? You’re helpless, truly, and it pisses Feitan off. 

It makes him mad, if only because he’s trying so much harder than you are to keep you safe, and isn’t it unfair to him? Isn’t it awfully inconsiderate of you to make him spend so much time looking after you, doing everything for you because you’re so damn incapable? It’s a negative view and Feitan doesn’t really blame you, only convincing himself he does in order to make him feel better. It’s an excuse to help him feel like he isn’t as attached as he really is, a way to help alleviate some of the embarrassment he has regarding his feelings for you. 

It’s pathetic, he thinks, but then something happens - something bad, something Fietan had hoped never would. Somehow, an enemy of the Troupe had discovered you. Maybe he was too preoccupied by keeping his eyes on you that he missed the stranger’s presence, unknowingly leading them directly to you. 

Sweet, weak, defenseless you. 

Time is frozen for Feitan as he returns from Troupe work, slinking to your apartment and letting himself in the front door, knowing that although it’s horribly late, you’re surely freshly asleep - except, the door is already ajar, and Feitan feels his blood run cold. There’s someone here. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend or enemy to you - why the fuck is there another person in your home at such an ungodly hour? 

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and for a moment Feitan feels pure, absolute panic - you’re incapable of warding someone off, especially if you’re asleep, and although he feel sense your presence, there’s a distinct aura coming from your bedroom that isn’t yours. He’s quick to rush in, dark eyes narrowing when he sees the figure over your bed, a man hunched over and about to touch you - 

His sword is slicing through the man’s neck before he can even blink, head dropping to the ground with a dull thud and blood pooling where it lands. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, brows pinched together and his grip on the sword hilt tight. 

His gaze flicks to where you’re still sleeping peacefully, utterly unaware of the man standing beside your bed and the lifeless corpse bleeding out onto your floor. He’s got no choice, really - there’s something ugly stirring in his chest, something big and bad and painful, and he’s reaching out and scooping you into his arms all too quickly. 

The man surely was after Feitan - he’d looked at him with recognition, and Feitan can only swallow and tighten his grip on you ever so tightly, hopping out your window and taking off into the night, the makeshift home he’d been residing in lately eventually coming upon the horizon. 

The whole event spurs Feitan to believe that relocation is really the best option - his enemies are aware of you now, and who’s to say more won’t come knocking? How does he know you won’t be targeted again, those with vendettas against the Troupe knowing that someone weak and such an Achilles Heel like you would be the perfect revenge? 

He doesn’t, and so although he’s grimacing and slightly worried to have you under the same roof, he sets you down on the hard mattress, giving you a few glances before closing the door, sighing to himself and hoping you wake up soon. 

Feitan, once you’ve been stolen away, is mostly just an enigma to you. 

He’s so painfully unexpressive, so difficult to interact with that you’ll be left to wonder just why he stole you away, why he even bothered to take you when he seems so utterly disinterested in you. He doesn’t talk to you - outside of a few clipped, short commands, he’ll hardly ever let you hear his voice. 

Particularly in the beginning of your captivity, he would listen to your crying and begging to be released silently, his eyes slightly narrowed before a small, curt stop filled the room. 

He’s never given you any sort of an explanation for why you woke up in his home one day, even when you ask him over and over again. He’ll only look at you, dark eyes fixed on your face, before telling you to go to sleep, you need sleep and promptly shutting and locking the bedroom door. He’s entirely unwilling to really interact with you in any meaningful way - except, it’s not because he hates you, or because he’s simply biding his time to kill you. 

You may think that, fear swimming through your veins every time you see him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth - he’s not interacting with you much because there’s a part of Feitan that’s honestly afraid to. It makes him feel stupid and pitiful, but every time he tries to ask you a question or tell you something, the words just sort of die in his throat, his tongue frozen in his mouth even as he tries to move, tries to interact and get you to just look at him, dammit. 

Honestly, he’s embarrassed to speak to you - he’s been watching you for so long, acting as your shadow and seeing you so natural and perfect and raw, and he’s grown used to having a front row seat without having to do anything. He’s not used to you being able to see him or hear him or even know he’s there at all. It’s scary to have you be aware of him, placing him in an uncomfortable position where he can no longer simply watch you or long for you from afar - no, now, as much as he hates to admit it, he cares about your opinion. 

He cares about how you view him, how you perceive him, what you think about him. He wants you to think he’s funny when he tells cutting jokes, and generous when he gives you bowls of semi-cold soup. He wants you to find him attractive, catching your eyes settling on his body or your fingers running through his ebony locks. 

He wants your opinion to be favorable, but despite how strong this desire is, the fear that you’ll find him weird outweighs it. He knows it’s stupid, but he’s terrified that you’ll think he’s strange, a freak, some sort of monster if he talks with you. He’s scared he’ll say something wrong, something to scare you or offend you, and while he may be a mass murderer and an atrocious man, there’s something about the way your eyes would get all glassy and teary, face contorting into disgust as you physically recoil from him that makes his gut wrench, a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He’s too awkward and nervous to speak with you - and so, he resorts instead to the staring, to the watching, to the observing. It’s what he knows best, after all, considering that was how most of his time was spent before kidnapping you. This is better; he has control in this situation, and he won’t accidentally slip and say something that bears too much truth, that lets you in on too much of what’s going on in his head. 

There’s less room for error if he relegates himself to minimal verbal and physical interaction, and while he aches to reach out and touch you, to feel the softness of your cheeks or the texture of your hair, he’s restraining himself. Just the mere thought of your skin against his gets him shivering, but it’s quite easy to overwhelm him; he’s not used to being the recipient of your attention, and while it feels good to have you looking at him and attempting to start conversations, it can get to be too much for him very quickly. 

It’s easy enough to answer trivial questions; things like what the food is that he placed in front of you (doesn’t matter, it’s good is all he’ll answer with) or inquiries into why he wears that same massive coat all the time (warm and my favorite color). 

Those are easy enough, not breaching too close to anything personal or anything that you could use against him. But the more complex questions, or - once the Stockholm Syndrome eventually kicks in and you’re so lonely you’ll happily converse with your kidnapper - compliments? 

As soon as the words slip from your lips, a simple your eyes are pretty or a I hope you sleep well makes him stiffen up a bit, lips parting ever so slightly under that cowl of his, before he’s quickly darting out the door and slamming it shut behind him. He has to take a few moments to collect himself, his ears and cheeks feeling hot because god, you were looking right at him, and you’d even said his name. 

(He spends the rest of the night in the basement, compulsively cleaning and recleaning his torture tools over and over, trying to distract himself from replaying your compliments over and over in his head, ingraining the sound of your voice and the tingling warmth he felt into his brain. Everything is sparkling clean by the time he’s done, a few hours having passed, and yet he’s spent the whole time thinking of you, letting you plague his thoughts like you always do.) 

He just can’t handle having all of your attention on him like that, and although he gets better at it and more used to it as time goes on, he’ll still be very skittish. He’s like a feral cat; he’ll stalk and watch, staring at you with beady eyes from the corner of the room while you try and act natural, only to scamper away when you try to reach out and pet. 

You’ll be starved for human contact as his captee, but aside from the lack of any sort of touch, you’ll find that being stuck with him is actually not too bad - he feeds you a decent diet, and lets you live in the spare bedroom of his home. He’d even cleaned everything up before you arrived, a preemptive measure he underwent one night when he couldn’t sleep, both his dreams and thoughts revolving around you. 

(There’s still bits of dust and a spider or two in the corner of the ceiling, but everything smells not terribly musty, and you don’t notice any mysterious stains on the sheets, so it could be worse, right?) 

He leaves you to your own devices more often than not, just on the condition that he can be present, whether you’re reading a book or sleeping or doodling with some art supplies he stole for you a while back. He’s not too demanding, but eventually the Stockholm Syndrome will get to you - you will eventually start wishing he’d do more than just look, even when he comes home with blood speckling his jacket.

You’ll grow to wish he would sit just a bit closer to you, so that you could feel his body warmth or a brush of his skin against your own. You’ll hate yourself for endearing your captor, but you don’t have much of a choice - Feitan, while terrifying and absolutely capable of killing you in more ways than you can count, is strangely sweet in his own way, even if it takes you a while to notice it. 

He’s not buying you flowers or declaring his undying love to you, but he is leaving small, insignificant gifts on your nightstand, maybe a small pastry that you love, or even a small, pretty little jewel he managed to snatch away from the goods Chrollo said were communal among the Troupe from the latest heist. He won’t ever say anything about them, and if you bring it up to him he’ll either ignore you or deny their existence, but he likes leaving them there as a token, as some way of quelling the intense desire to please you that wells in his chest.

It’s the only route he can allow himself to take, because that way he doesn’t have to confront you, only looking at your sleeping face. You always look so peaceful and pretty this way, all the lines of stress and worry smoothing away - you look how you used to, before he stole you away, back when his infatuation first started. 

And as he gently, carefully, hesitantly sits down beside your sleeping form on the mattress, he can’t help but gulp harshly and slowly, ever so slowly, reach out and rest his palm on your leg, the sheets separating your skin. He’ll keep his hand there for a while, dark eyes appraising your form under the covers, before exhaling shakily and standing back up, making sure the jade he’d brought back for you was securely on the bedside table, right in your view when you wake up. He’s not a bad captor by any means; he just has trouble expressing himself, walls built up too highly and too thickly to ever really knock them down. 

And you’ll get close - as close as you can, at least, as time passes. Feitan will eventually warm up to you, but he’ll never be particularly loving, particularly obvious with his feelings for you - he’ll always be a lovesick fool, but he’ll be damned if he lets another soul know that. 

PUNISHMENTS:

As a general rule, Feitan doesn’t particularly like hurting you. Of course, his career rides on his ability to harm, torture, mutilate and extract information out of even the worst criminals and agents, and for the most part he enjoys it. 

There’s something about the way he can elicit screams and tears out of others that gets him giddy, the smile stretching across the part of his face covered by his jacket as wide as can be. And yet, for all the enjoyment he derives out of hurting others, seeing you harmed, bruised, crying and begging isn’t nearly as fun as Feitan had expected. 

He’s not really sure why, but for some reason seeing you looking at him with so much fear dancing in your pretty eyes makes his gut wrench, an uncomfortable feeling sitting at the base of his throat while he mutters something demanding you to stop looking at him like that. It makes him feel weak, frankly, that you have this effect on him, but he can’t help it – early on into your captivity with him, he tried to settle your disobedience by physically harming you, but he got as far as leaving a rather large carved ‘F’ right over your heart before your crying got to him. 

He couldn’t lift his hand as you sobbed below him that day, your wrists bound by leather cording stained with his previous victims’ blood. Your eyes were puffy and glassy, snot dripping from your nose and pathetic little cries and begs for him to stop tumbling past your quivering lips. 

Frankly, Feitan was embarrassed for you. But more than anything, he was pissed – his hands were trembling, the switch knife grasped between his fingers frozen, his dark eyes wide as they stared down at you, guilt flashing through them the longer you sniffled and shook, the sight of you in pain with your pretty red blood dribbling down your collarbone simply too much. 

That day, he cleaned your wound, packed up his torture gear and locked you into your designated bedroom, all without a single word, mostly because his tongue didn’t seem to be working. But the shaky gasps stumbling from his lips as he stared at his own two hands later that night were enough to make him realize he hates to see you in pain, particularly when he’s the cause.

It’s confusing, irritating, scary, even, that you have this effect on him, but try as he might, any thought of physically harming you from that point on makes his stomach twist, bile rising up his throat and nausea hitting him square in the chest. 

But trouble, of course, arises; he refuses to physically harm you in most cases, but he still will only tolerate absolute obedience from you. You can’t simply walk all over him, he won’t let you – you need to listen to his instructions, follow his rules, eat the food he gives you, smile at him all pretty and warm, and let him sneak into your room and hold you when you’re fast asleep in the middle of the night, just as he starts craving. 

Feitan needs you to be obedient and submissive to him, and so how can he mold you into the perfect, obedient partner without laying harm to you?

The solution, as it turns out, lies in making you absolutely believe that he will hurt you, despite it not being true. 

You don’t need to know that the thought of making you wince or scrunch up your face in pain makes him physically hurl; no, you’re much better off thinking that he’s simply playing nice, waiting for the right moment to strike and leave you broken and bleeding. He’ll allow you to believe that he’s constantly ready to punish you, because then you’ll have some incentive to follow his words and rules, and to do what he believes you should do. 

And why wouldn’t you believe it? 

You know what Feitan does – he makes no effort to hide the torture tools scattered across his basement, and while you’ve only been down there once (the initial carving of the F), your imagination can conjure up plenty of scenarios of what goes on in that damp, dark basement. 

The fact that he has hurt you leads to you staying mostly in line – you’re more than aware of what he’s capable of, and although it slightly pains Feitan that you think of him as a monster, it’s for the best. It’s better for everyone when you’re well behaved – when you simply follow his orders and do what he wants you to, no matter how strange it makes you feel. 

You probably aren’t particularly fond of eating in front of him, but he’ll be sitting at the other end of the table as you carefully, hesitantly, twist the strands of pasta around your fork, your gaze flickering from the slightly undercooked noodles to your captor and back again. 

You probably don’t really like sleeping while he sits in the corner of the room, that stupid jacket pulled up over his mouth, making the only part of him visible to your drowsy self those damn eyes – and his hands, of course, with just the slightest touch of dried blood under his nails. You’re probably not particularly a fan of any aspect of being his captive – and Feitan carefully controls this. 

However, on the off chance that you do act up, that liquid courage flows through your veins and you cross him, you’ll quickly grow to regret it. Feitan still won’t hurt you – not physically, at least. 

But others? 

Well, it’s not hard to get Chrollo to give him someone who needs to give up some information, to set up the basement and make sure you get a front row seat as he makes the knots tight around the man’s wrist. It hurts him, really, to see the way your face contorts into horror as you watch him break bone after bone in the man’s body, but Feitan can’t stop looking at you. He needs you to be watching – you have to see what he’s capable of, even if he doesn’t really want you to know. 

You have to know that he’s serious when he tells you that you can’t leave, that there’s nowhere in the world you can run to where he won’t find you. He rips the man’s nails off, a finger at a time, just to make sure you understand that his touch can hurt – but maybe, some part of him hopes, you’ll realize that when he touches you, his touch is only ever gentle. Or at least as gentle as he can be. 

It’s all to make sure you understand that he’s utterly, absolutely in charge – his word is law, and while he craves for you to love him, he’s willing to compromise with just your respect and undivided attention. 

It’s not ideal, but as he watches the way tears stream down your cheeks and your body heaves and shudders with your sobs, he can’t help but slice the knife into the man’s thigh deeper, send the punch to his jaw harder. 

He has to keep you in line – this complicated, doomed relationship he’s forced you into is the only thing that makes him feel that strange, fluttering feeling in his chest, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go. He’ll be damned if he lets you go – even if you think of him as a monstrous, sadistic freak. 

Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t; it doesn’t matter, because you’re never getting away.

OVERALL DANGER:

8/10

The danger that lies with being Feitan’s darling is much more mental than physical. By all means, he’s not the ideal captor – he’s a criminal and mass murderer, torturing people for a living and liking it. And yet, there’s something about you that tones down the more deranged, violent aspects of his personality - he’s by no means soft, but he’s rounder at the edges, less rough and bitter and cold. 

He hates himself for falling in love with you, for having allowed you to worm your way into his heart and settle there, plaguing his every thought and dream with your face, your voice and laugh and smile and god, your body - 

He blames you, initially, but as time goes on and his feelings only grow stronger, harder to suppress, he finds that it doesn’t matter. You’ve already staked your claim on his heart, and there’s simply nothing he can do to stop what’s inevitable. 

Kidnapping is imminent with him, but it really does take him a long while to actually go through with it; you’ll have a long period of freedom from his clutches where you’re living your own life, with him only controlling it from the shadows rather than blatantly, like when he’s stolen you away. He’s not particularly needy, only demanding that you stay in his line of sight, but there’s something more terrifying about the way he’s always watching you like a hawk watches its prey than simple touching would be. 

You’re thankful he hasn’t forced himself on you or even forced any kind of affection, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that you miss human touch, that you almost wish he would reach out and hold your hand, press a kiss to your lips, slip the ratty old t-shirt he’d given you over your chest.

You’ll find yourself growing stir crazy under Feitan’s rule, growing desperate but still too scared to confront him, because his intentions with you will remain ambiguous at best - he hasn’t killed you yet, so you must be important to him somehow. You’re not sure, but the longer you spend with him, the less you’ll care until eventually you’re actively dreaming of the day when he finally, finally touches you with those cold fingers and lets you out of that bedroom you’re locked up in. 

Feitan loves you, in his own sick, twisted way, and the sooner you realize that the better - maybe you never will, but Feitan will always, always be there waiting, his gaze never faltering once from your figure. 

You’re just too mesmerizing, after all - and Feitan’s never been particularly good at denying himself what’s his. 

A Linnet on a Bough [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: A Linnet on a Bough [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: Isolation takes its toll, and you begin to sleepwalk out of the gilded manor Scaramouche has procured for you. Commissioned piece.

Word count: 3300ish

notes: yandere, married reader, sleepwalking, isolation, unhealthy/controlling behavior 

Being the spouse of a Harbringer is no simple matter, and you are no simple spouse. 

If you had married someone from  your village, your life would be simple. You would do what your parents had done, and their parents had done, and their parents had done. Cooking and mending and minding the children, and living out your days without ever venturing very far, except on rare occasions that would be something you would treasure forever.

You would grow old within the confines of the village and die surrounded by your children, who would bury you near your own parents and go on to live out their lives much as you had done.

But you didn’t marry someone from your village, and your life is not so simple. Instead, you were wed to Scaramouche. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real, even now, and you pinch yourself to make sure you’re not nursing some long standing fever-dream. 

Who would have thought? Certainly not you. Sometimes you wonder if even he expected to ever make such a match. But he told you that he intended to marry you, and let the words hang in the air, to be caught or cut down with your decision.

You said yes. Really, you couldn’t say no… but part of you wanted it. Yes, you can admit that much. It was flattering, and isn’t it nice to be flattered? Especially when you were nobody. Just someone who trudged to the town well to fetch water for your elderly parents, someone who helped a stranger (Scaramouche, it turns out, was not the helpless waif you’d assumed) and got a husband for their troubles. 

So, no, life is not simple. Both in the figurative and literal meaning of the word. 

And now, wife of a Harbringer as you are, you have grown acquainted with--and acquainted is the only term for it, for you could never say you were accustomed to any of it--certain luxuries. Food, to your liking, whenever you would like it. Sometimes it is even brought to you out of season, the greatest luxury of all. Clothing made with rich materials; ribbons, jewels, the softest of slippers to adorn your feet. Servants and pampering the likes of which you had only heard about in your old life. 

But there is one luxury that you are routinely denied, no matter how much you pout your lips, no matter how prettily you ask, no matter how many tears blur your vision and wet your eyelashes: the outside world.

You’re not meant to go outside, Scaramouche had told you, the first time it became clear that you were not going to waltz out of the stately manor he’d brought you to for the wedding in order to take in the scenery. 

And so… you don’t go outside anymore. Not in the traditional sense. You rest in covered litters with the windows tacked shut and he’s not above smacking your hand if you try to lift up the corners to catch a glimpse of whatever (or whoever) waits outside. Of course, when he’s not accompanying you, your pitiful looks sometimes convince one of the guards to let you keep one flap untouched so that you can take a peek.

But seeing flashes of the world you used to live in are not the same as truly being within it. The ghost of a breeze against your half-hidden face is not the same as basking in the sunshine. Hearing the sounds of life from a village as you’re carried through it is not the same as stopping at a market stall to buy a treat, asking someone how their day is going, and absorbing the hustle and bustle of everyone around you.

There is no substitute for living out in the world. 

You just don’t know how to convince Scaramouche of that fact.

--

There is a fine line between gratitude and ingratitude, between obedience and surliness, and Scaramouche finds that you walk it all too well. 

It doesn’t matter how much he takes away; how much he removes the temptation by tacking up screens or keeping you within interior apartments, free from all the noise and sights and smells of the outside. You still want to go outside. Something about it calls to you, pulling on your sleeves, no matter what he does.

He loves to hear your voice, nightingale that you are, but sometimes he is so gravely tempted to press a finger to your lips and tell you to hush. 

No matter how much he tries to occupy your mind with something different. Better. Himself, most often (for you should be grateful for that) but things that no one else could say he gave them. Gifts. Trinkets. Things that suited your interests, which he knew very well, because he hangs onto every word that comes from your mouth.

Even the ones that drive him mad. 

At least until you learn to stop saying things that grate his ears and the space where his heart should be. 

The pleadings that come so softly and sweetly--but if that was all, he could manage. It’s the way that you weave your thoughts into every conversation like a pattern in a tapestry--remarking on the weather conditions in regions that the two of you might be traveling in, asking if the retinue had encountered certain flora or animals during the journey. You want to know about the world; you want to be in the world. 

Little things, little threads, connecting you to a world that isn’t exclusively him… why has nothing successfully cut them from your grasping fingers? 

--

“They only blossom under certain conditions, you know.” Your voice is soft and lilting, carrying on the one-sided conversation over a shared table of delicate foods. You take bites in between your verbal fascination with the local flora, a subject you’re all too keen to share with him. “The flowers are said to be so lovely that people have wept at the sight of them. And the fragrance…” You sigh a little, and pick a piece of fruit to nibble on. “There’s nothing like it. Or so I’m told.” 

A pause. You glance at him, eyelashes practically fluttering, then look back at your dishes. 

“And… I’ve never seen one in person,” you add as you reach for another helping of fruit. “I wonder what they’re like.” 

Do you think he doesn’t know what you’re trying to do? Looking at him so sweetly, asking how he finds the food, interspersing dinner with notions of flowers blooming right outside the borrowed manor the two of you have been living in for this current assignment.

But he won’t give in. He won’t be manipulated, not even by you. 

Still… that doesn’t mean he can’t try to fulfill this hunger of yours. Much like filling a better, a taste should be enough to keep you from grumbling. 

Within the week, he has some unlucky Fatui tasked with the mission of cutting a fresh bouquet of the very flowers that you were waxing on about so prettily. And you wake up one morning to find them on the nightstand next to your bed, set in a clear vase.

He thinks that you’ll smile, and thank him, and if all goes well, he won’t have to hear any more not-so-subtle hints about your desire to go outside.

But you don’t smile and fling yourself at his feet, thanking him for such a thoughtful, fine gift. You don’t tell him that this is all you need--the flowers he gifts you, the clothes he has painstakingly crafted to suit our form and above all, him. 

Instead your hand goes to your mouth, covering the smallest of gasps. 

And, well, he thinks--you’re surprised. That’s all. That’s to be expected., if anything. You did often complain about the monotony of your days, so a little surprise was bound to get a reaction from you. 

But instead of breaking into a grin and thanking him, your hand reaches out to touch the delicate blossoms. Like they’re going to break. More than that--like there’s something wrong. 

“How much prettier they would be in nature…” Your lips curve downward, a soft frown that feels aimed right at him. “I’m sorry that you cut them…”

“What is it?” And if there is a snap in his voice,  you surely couldn’t blame him.  You are so difficult to please, and hiding the fact that he wants to please you at all is a tiring chore all on its own. You exhaust him as much as you fill him.

Sometimes, you make him want to scream.

He’ll take out his pent-up irritation on someone else. Irritation that is not at you, but with you. Yet not with you as well. It’s all a jumbled mess that he doesn’t want to untangle, and he won’t. He’ll shove it down deep into some cavernous hole, perhaps the one that exists inside of him no matter how hard he tries, and move on with his day.

If only you would stop looking at those flowers like they were broken glass.

--

You’re gone. The space that you occupy (the left half of the shared bed, all wrapped in blankets and often clutching a pillow instead of him, a trait he does not find endearing but does not wish to push on) is empty, bereft of anything but cool rumpled sheets.

There’s fear, at first. Fear that something has happened. Someone has taken you. Perhaps it was Her… perhaps She, of all the unholy things, has slithered past his defenses and snatched you up just to snap another piece from his broken patchwork body. 

It doesn’t have to be Her, though. He has many enemies. And enemies will target your weakest point, and you, you, you. You are exactly that to him. 

So there is fear, yes, that you have been snatched away and perhaps you are already dead, and they took you not for blackmail but for some kind of revenge. To see him wither. 

But then he retrieves the lantern from the dresser and lights it, the warm glow illuminating the silent, heavy room. He can feel his breath quickening, his chest tightening, and he doesn’t know why or what to do with any of it.

It only gets worse when he realizes that there is no sign of forced entry. No broken door-locks, no sprinkles of glass on the rugs, no drops of blood on the windowsill to mark where you might have been dragged through.

The fear ebbs away, replaced by a sour, sickly feeling of betrayal. 

You’ve left him. After all he’s given you. All he’s done for you. 

Yes, he’s taken away your freedom, but you didn’t have the capacity to understand why that was not something to begrudge him for. Freedom was not for delicate things that needed to be kept alive, protected, harbored from the rest of the world. 

He clutches the lantern in one hand and storms out of the room, still wearing his night-clothes. The hallways are dim, barely light by small windows that let in a trickle of moonlight. He listens. 

You couldn’t have gone far, and you’d better hope he catches you himself before morning, because if he has to engage a search party on  your behalf, no one (least of all the Fatui stationed with him) will be enjoying it.

He dismisses one of the guards who spots him. He doesn’t want them involved, not yet. He pushes out one of the side doors and begins to walk the perimeter of the grounds. You might have gone off into the forest, or perhaps you went down the paved path, hoping to find a traveler who might help you.

He is about to decide which option to take when he hears something from behind him, near a half-broken brick enclosure that had seen better days. Were you hiding in there? Trying to trick him? He couldn’t put it past you. 

He braces himself, feeling something thrum through him that made him want to turn away and rush forward all at once, and walks through the open gate of the enclosure. 

And… you’re there.

Sitting in the midst of a garden, some untended thing that was left here by the previous tenants, before it was abandoned and absorbed into the network of buildings useful to the Fatui. And to him, for keeping you in one secure location for months on end.

It was wild and overgrown, and some of the rocks creating the garden path were moss-covered. It’s a wonder you didn’t slip on them, he thinks, and there’s a flash of fear mingled with his irritation. How could you do something as stupid as sneak outside at night, in the dark, and walk into some unknown, overgrown eyesore? 

You haven’t heard his footsteps, evidently, because you go on standing. You’re swaying a little, and your hands brush the flowers. He can hear you talking to yourself, something low and sweet. He can’t see your face but it’s easy enough to imagine that you’re smiling. 

“What are you doing?” There was an attempt, in his mind, to keep his voice level. But it quakes anyway, with fury and irritation and that still-sour worry that you betrayed him in the night.

He waits. You don’t turn around. He thought that, when you heard his voice, you were going to jump like a scared little animal and apologize and try to smooth things over with your teary lashes and pouting lips.

But you don’t turn around. And when you answer him, it’s not a word, really. It’s mumbling. Low. Almost a groan.

He’s had enough. He walks forward until he can grip your upper arm, and moves to turn you around. But you don’t pout or jerk away or tell him that you just wanted to go outside. You’re looking straight at him but he can tell right away that you don’t truly see him at all.

You’re… asleep. 

Standing up, eyes blinking rapidly as if in the throes of some waking dream, in the middle of a garden.

But asleep, all the same. 

He presses his lips together. You were a nuisance. Truly. He should leave you here, let you wake up in the morning cold and shivering and covered in slick green moss.

Instead, he lifts you up. You flail a little, arms jerking this way and that, but it’s easy enough to grip you close and carry you bridal-style back down the hallway (the Fatui stationed in the hall is wise enough to say absolutely nothing as he sees him returning) and continues until he can lay you gently down onto your side of the bed.

You gasp, then, perhaps half-waking. But it’s eased enough when your hands instinctively grab your pillow and curl up with it. 

Before heading back into bed, he grabs a fire poker and slides it through the handles of your bedroom doorway. You wouldn’t be getting out, not in your sleep, anyway.

His dreams that night are fitful.

--

The first thing you realize upon awakening is that you’d really rather go back to sleep, because your dream was lovely. You were in a garden, fragrant and lovely. There was cool fresh air on your face and grass under your toes and sounds, real sounds. Birds and insects buzzing and everything that is forever kept on the other side of walls and windows now.

Over breakfast, you smile, and serve your husband his dishes before you tuck into your own. And is it wrong that you want to tell him about your dream? Is it wrong that you hope it will make him finally let you go outside, even just for a little while?

“I had a lovely dream last night,” you say, smiling with what you hope is sweetness and not desperation. “I was in a garden…”

You don’t see the goosebumps that run up his arms at your words.

--

You sleepwalk the next night. And the next. And the next. He doesn’t know how you manage to get the bar off the door every time, how you evade the guards, how you don’t wake him up… but you do. 

Always going to the same place, the damned garden, with its stubborn flowers and broken paths.

Well. If one vase of flowers is not enough to keep you satisfied (and more importantly, inside) perhaps he needs to take it a few steps further. 

He gifts you more flowers. Bundles of them, baskets of them, stuffed into vases and pots and cracked pans his underlings found in the kitchen storage room. 

And while the rooms of the manor are soon a garden, filled with cloying blossoms and greenery that brings its fair share of insects lurking about, it doesn’t make you stop talking about the world that you’re supposedly “missing” out there. 

Not just the flowers, but the animals. The people. The markets. 

The life, teeming with every little thing, good and bad, that makes up this world. 

Most disturbingly of all: The sleepwalking continues.

What more can he give you without giving you the freedom that would break him apart?

--

It’s not that the sound of a bird in the morning is unusual. It’s just that they are normally muffled, as there are no trees near the window of the bedroom.

But the chirping that you hear now is so close that it might as well be in your ear. Groggy, rubbing away the dust of sleep in your eyes, you sit up…

And find that there is a silver bird cage sitting on top of your dresser, next to a wilting vase of flowers from a few days before. 

It’s a pretty thing. Small and  yellow. A pretty thing in a pretty cage. Another gift from your husband, after the mountains of flowers, the wreaths of blooming vines, the meals, the clothes, the comfort…

--

He can never get used to waking up without you beside him. No matter how many times he easily finds you and brings you back, mumbling and bleary, there is always those terrible, agonizing moments of panic when he thinks: you’ve left him.

But you’re not alone in the garden. 

You’re holding the cage, clutching it to your chest. He wonders what will happen if your sleeping muscles dream of something else; will you drop the cage and let it clatter to the ground? Will the delicate bird inside be jostled so terribly that it dies? And what would he do, then, to ensure that this doesn’t make you even less satisfied with your isolated life?

But you don’t drop it. One thing he has learned from watching you sleepwalk is that you are surprisingly nimble about it. 

He watches, lips pressed into a frown, as you slowly lower the cage to one of the formerly ornate pedestal tables in the garden. It must have been pretty once. Now, it’s mossy and gray and damp. 

It doesn’t surprise him, what you do next. Your fingers, shaking but surprisingly deft, undo the latch on the door and swing it open. The bird inside hops around for a few moments, tilting its head to and fro, before it launches itself into the air and flies away.

You mumble something, sweet and slurry. A farewell, perhaps. Who knows what really goes on in your pretty head when you sleep? 

And it’s his cue to take you back inside. You still fight, just a little, when he picks you up. Flail your arms and legs, until he’s held you tight enough that your muscles seem to accept the hold and relax.

He looks down at your bleary, half-awake face. Your eyes tend to close when he carries you. Perhaps your body knows that it’s okay to let them rest, now that someone else is carrying you. Holding you. Protecting you.

A pity that your mind couldn’t understand that fact. 

Sometimes he considers chaining you up at night. It would be the most practical solution. It might even ease his fears every time he wakes to find you gone, and he’s forced to track you down to this nighttime garden that no one else would bother entering.

But there’s something in him, hard and sick, that wonders. If he chains you up, he might just free you in his sleep, like you’ve freed the bird in the cage. 

It’s easier to pretend you aren’t his prisoner when your chains are invisible, after all. 

ART OF THE BEDCHAMBER | part 1

"Dual cultivation with you wouldn't be very useful. You might have extraordinary qi as a Vidyadhara, but it's sealed when you're in your human form."  Dan Heng stares at your fingers, deliberates as you trace the invisible paths of his meridians.  "Then," he says, "what about my dragon form?"  (Or: Dan Heng dreads the thought of outliving you and will do anything to help you achieve immortality. If that means fucking you in his dragon form, then so be it.)

6.5k words. smut, fluff, established relationship, xianxia elements. semi-explicit sexual content (only with dan heng in his human form in this chapter, sorry). reader is gender neutral, afab — they have breasts and bomb pussy game. cultural notes: "yinyue jun" is the chinese equivalent for "imbibitor lunae". please see the end notes for information on cultivation. other notes: this is set pre-1.2. 风月 was based on this fic so some things may feel very familiar! network: @trailblazernet. MDNI.

When Dan Heng—in a rather unexpected move—fell in love with you, he didn’t foresee all the agony that would come with it.

Shockingly, you aren’t the direct cause of this agony: a remarkable fact, given your routine of pestering him for as many hours as the day will allow. Dan Heng often complains about your many inconvenient behaviours (e.g., trying to cuddle with him in the archives, trying to kiss him in the archives, trying to have sex with him in the archives), but to the amazement of his fellow trailblazers, he never actually does anything about it. After getting over his initial embarrassment at such public displays of affection (this took quite some time), he’s come to tolerate it.

You often like to tease him for his leniency, all playful smiles and lilting tones: You don’t have to act so shy, Dan Heng—I know you enjoy the attention. My Heng'er likes to be spoiled, huh?

He always rolls his eyes in response. Consider it a miracle that I haven’t kicked you out yet, he’ll usually say, flicking you on the forehead. He never tells you if he means kicking you out of the archives or if he means throwing you out of the Astral Express itself, right into the vacuum of space. (Most bystanders are astonished that the latter hasn’t happened yet. So are you.)

He also doesn’t tell you how wrong it feels when he isn’t listening to the background noise of your shameless flirting. Or how wrong it feels when he doesn’t get to humour you with a kiss every once in a while.

Which brings him to the root of the problem: the wrongness that he’s feeling right now. The emptiness of the archives without your laughter, the tasteless quality of his food when you’re not there to dine with him, the restlessness of trying to sleep without you—it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong enough for it to be a little agonizing, now that he’s nearing one hundred and twenty days of this.

You often have to leave the Express for many months in a row, so Dan Heng is no stranger to these unsettling feelings. Neither are you. If I could spend more time with you, I would, you’d said before leaving last time—and the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before that. But I can’t avoid going into seclusion. It’s part of the whole Cultivator gig, y'know—gotta go to a mountain somewhere and meditate for a few months. That’s just the price of immortality if you’re a measly human. Then you’d given him a little smile, pecked him on the lips. Most people do it for years at a time, but I wouldn’t be able to leave you alone for so long.

The first time you’d pointed this out, Dan Heng was startled by the relief that flooded him. Vidyadharas have an intuitively different sense of time compared to human beings, and two or three years should feel like nothing to him: relative to the centuries he’d lived as his previous incarnation—or the decades as his current one—it would be only a fleeting moment.

But in your absence, it would feel like an eternity.

It surprises him how much he hates the crawl of time without you. Dan Heng had never before been a needy person: solitude and isolation had always been the norm for him, in a lifetime absent of human touch—first imprisoned from birth, then exiled from the first moment he got to see the sun. Even after leaving the Alliance, he hadn’t allowed himself to become particularly close with anyone: it would have been too complicated because of the sensitive matter of his past, and he simply didn’t feel deserving of it anyway. Nor was he in need of it.

Then he met you.

Then he met you, and he became accustomed to the sound of your laughter, and then your offhanded, warm touches, and then your smile as you sat in the blue glow of the archive floor and poured baijiu into everyone’s cups. (Scalding, bitter; you had laughed as he made a face and warmed up huangjiu specifically for him next time, and it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.) And then he became accustomed to talking to you—to letting you unearth things he’d buried for decades, to revealing his suffering and receiving your compassion, to the gentle feeling of your hand on his shoulder. Then the tender, nervous look in your eyes, then the silky press of your lips, then the closeness of your unclothed body, and then the breathless warble of your voice—Dan Heng, I’m close, I’m so close, please—and then the euphoria of having you arch and fall apart so beautifully in his arms.

And then the afterglow. He hadn’t only grown used to that: he’d become addicted to it. Warmer and headier than huangjiu, something that he’d have never been able to imagine while growing up in the night-dark prison of his childhood.

Even the memory of his first taste of sunlight aboard the Luofu pales in comparison to the feeling of having you in his arms. The first time he’d had the privilege of holding you, he caught himself thinking: If paradise is but a dream, then I wish to sleep forever.

And now, each time he lies awake on his futon, alone except for the glow of artificial stars, Dan Heng becomes acutely aware of the emptiness left by your missing form.

He isn’t exactly deserving of your companionship. He knows that.

But he is in need of it.

After one hundred and twenty one days of seclusion, you are ready to return to the Astral Express.

Time moves differently when you cultivate behind closed doors. The act of such intense meditation and training distorts the flow of the world for you, makes entire months feel like days. Emerging from seclusion always comes with a certain anxiety: Are your friends well? Have they forgotten you? Has the Express continued its journey across the galactic railroad, or has some terrible event happened to your home—a supernova, a meteor shower, the destructive force of a stellaron?

And, most importantly: Did anyone murder your boyfriend while you were away?

There is at least one intergalactically wanted criminal who's tried to kill Dan Heng a number of times, and an entire alliance consisting solely of his haters. Half the reason you take your cultivation so seriously is to prepare for the inevitable day that someone is going to seriously attempt to murder him in front of you (probably the aforementioned criminal). You want to be strong enough to one-hit KO Arbiter-General Jing Yuan himself, if it ever comes down to it.

Of course, the downside is that the murder attempt might happen while you're off training, but you're hoping that March 7th and Caelus can cover for you in that case.

Still—while you have nothing in confidence in Caelus’ abilities (you adore March, but will not comment on hers), you sigh in relief when your phone begins to buzz.

> Are you out yet? We're on our way. > Get something to eat if you haven't yet. I'll make sure something is ready for you on the Express too. > I know you can practice inedia, but you're still a human at the end of the day. Please get something to eat as soon as possible.

No hello, no I missed yous, just plain, practical concern—as always.

You are not a practical person.

> GEGE! > GEGE GEGE GEGE > DAN HENG GEGE > come fast i want to kiss u > i'll die if u don't kiss me soon > i missed you!!!!!! > did you miss me??????

You can more or less imagine the expression on your (hopefully unharmed) boyfriend's face: deadpan exasperation. The first time you came out of seclusion during your relationship, you texted him no less than twenty times in a row from a new number, and he reflexively flagged it all as spam. He's since told you to tone down the double texting (and triple texting, and quintuple texting, and dectuple texting…), but always replies anyway.

> The Express is about to warp. We'll be there soon. > I'll do whatever you like, please just eat.

You watch as an ellipsis appears at the bottom of your chat window, then disappears, then appears again. When he finally sends his text, a smile stretches wide across your face.

> And yes, I thought of you the whole time you were gone.

With your return to the Express, you make Dan Heng engage in all your usual couple activities. Which is to say: you act disgustingly sweet with him and the other passengers experience varying degrees of shock and entertainment at his complacent behaviour.

You surprise him as he works in the archives, looping your arms around his waist and pressing against his back so you can whisper things into his ear: Gege, pay attention to me! or Dan Heng, can't you take a break now? or Heng'er, are you really going to ignore your lover like this? So cruel!

Dan Heng doesn't react during these moments, but he also doesn't push you away. Sometimes he'll shove a stack of books into your hands and say, If you have time to mess around like this, then you can work on digitizing these for me. You always agree, but wheedle a kiss out of him in exchange for your hard labour.

(Welt Yang walks in on one such kiss, coughs loudly, and walks back out. Dan Heng pulls away from your lips to stare at the door in abject horror.)

You give Dan Heng a number of books and films from your travels, and keep him company as he dives into them. He always gravitates toward the latest Xianzhou novels first, especially the ones that give mention to everyday life on the Luofu. You suppose that he's never been able to rid himself of his curiosity about the life that he'd been denied, enthralled by visions of night markets and starskiffs, teahouses and cross-talkers. You can see his longing in the crease of his brow, the softening of his eyes as he reads.

Seeing his wistful expressions, it is impossible to stop yourself from keeping him company. You press into his side, resting your head on his shoulder—something that will comfort him, you hope—and read alongside him. Sometimes the two of you fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other on the archive floor.

(March 7th stumbles into one of these moments and can't help but snap a picture of the two of you. Dan Heng later pales when he sees your lock screen, where your slumbering, entwined forms are clearly visible.)

You often convince Dan Heng to have a proper, sit-down dinner with you in the dining car. He won't ever do it for food from the kitchens, preferring to eat in the archives instead, but he'll do it for food you cook together. The two of you enjoy your meals while watching the interstellar scenery roll by outside, stargazing at distant galaxies. Sometimes you savour the tangy-sweetness of tomato-egg stir fry (your handiwork); sometimes you enjoy the rich broth of delicately steamed xiaolongbao (your boyfriend's handiwork); sometimes the both of you sweat over the punishing numbing-spice of malaxiangguo (a combined effort and favoured couple's activity—right up there with building furniture).

The other passengers wave whenever they see you, impressed that Dan Heng has emerged from the archives. They joke as they greet you: I guess you're the only one that can pull him out of his cave!

(The older ones—Himeko especially—laugh and talk fondly about young love when they spot you. Dan Heng's expression stays as stoic as ever, but the tips of his ears go red and he accidentally burns his tongue trying to eat his own bao.)

You address Dan Heng with an astonishing number of pet names at an alarming frequency; your excuse is that you need to make up for the four months you couldn't call him anything. Mostly you call him 'Gege' in public, which he usually doesn't mind as it saves him considerable face relative to all the alternatives, but this changes when Caelus starts teasing him about it.

Morning, Gege, he starts saying at breakfast, drawing a long stare from Dan Heng. Gege, can you help me with finding these records? he asks whenever he strolls into the archives. Before expeditions, he starts turning to Dan Heng and using his most sugary voice: You'll protect me, right, Gege? And Dan Heng turns to Himeko to flatly state, I will not be held responsible if he dies.

Eventually, Caelus grows bold enough to join you both for dinner: Gege, he asks, do you want me to hand-feed you these noodles too?

Dan Heng replies by rising from his seat and walking straight out of the dining car.

(Your long-suffering boyfriend eventually says, during one of your reading sessions, that Caelus is quickly becoming unbearable with this new habit of his.

Well, you muse, since he’s just teasing you about the way I talk to you, I could stop calling you ‘Gege’.

Dan Heng stops. He looks almost hesitant, like he wants to protest, but his expression flattens into a deadpan when you continue: I could always call you 'baobei' instead. What, you don't like that? But Heng'er, you're my baobei, my xingan baobei, my little little apple and beloved husb—whoa!

You laugh hysterically as you dodge the book he chucks at you.)

Sometimes you do get him to reciprocate your actions. Shockingly—despite his reserved and conscientious disposition—you have the greatest success with this whenever you tease him while he's working. You find it works best to crawl into his lap and kiss at his jawline, whispering into his ear while he tries to focus on his screen.

I’m so pent up, Gege, you often start with. I've been trying to take care of myself, but my fingers aren't enough. You like to straddle his hips as you talk, grind a little if you think you can get away with it. You whine if you do, pressing your face into his neck—right beneath his clenched jaw. Won't you give me some attention? Just ten minutes on this desk is all we need.

Dan Heng can only ever endure about fifteen minutes of this before throwing you over his shoulder. You inevitably find yourself being flipped over in a fireman's carry, being lectured in a flat tone. I don't know where you get off lying like that, he usually comments as he makes his way to your room, ignoring your yelping and kicking. 'Ten minutes'? Every time you act like this, you end up taking up my whole evening.

(He does, in fact, spend the rest of his night in bed with you, making it clear that there is no need for you to ‘take care of yourself’ so long as he’s around.)

But despite all the grief you give Dan Heng with your public, grand displays of affection, your favourite moments with him are the private ones. The ones where you sit next to him on his futon, sharing a pair of earbuds and listening to the latest hits from the various worlds to which you’ve travelled. The ones where you make dumpling skins together during the quiet hours of the kitchen, flour dusting your fingers as you roll out the dough that Dan Heng has kneaded. The ones where you spend lazy mornings in bed together, Dan Heng holding you as you talk at length about nothing at all.

The ones where you pause in your long-winded ramble to find him staring at you, his gaze fond and fully attentive. Met with such tenderness, you have no choice but to lean in and kiss him, long and deep and smiling—and in the privacy of your room, your boyfriend is more than happy to return it.

Some weeks after you return to the Express, Dan Heng gives you a long look after one such moment and says, "You should spend more time with me."

You raise a brow. "Eh? I already spend plenty of time with you, Heng'er. I've been bothering you 24/7 now that I'm back on the Express… It's a wonder you aren't sick of me yet."

"Of course I'm not sick of you," he replies plainly. "I could never be."

The admission makes you blink. Heat prickles the back of your neck. It's not often that Dan Heng is so straightforward with his feelings.

"And I mean"—he looks away, the red paint along his waterline hidden by his lashes—"that it'd be nice if you didn't have to leave the Express so often. If you could stay here all year round."

You can't stop yourself from frowning. "You know I don't like leaving you, but I really don't want to compromise my training." Your fingers sweep gently at his brow, brushing away his hair. "I wanna be strong enough to protect you, Gege. After I get to that level, I promise I'll be around more often." Then you smile a little. "And if I'm lucky, I might even get a long life out of it!"

Dan Heng's brow dips. "A 'long life'? The whole point of cultivation is to achieve immortality, isn't it?"

"Sure, in theory. In practice, almost no human ever becomes immortal by these means. If cultivation were so easy, then people wouldn't turn to shortcuts like magical elixirs or blessings from Aeon Yaoshi." You purse your lips, voice starting to colour with derision. "Not that I'd ever be shortsighted enough to chase either of those things, mind you. I'd rather work hard, have a long and healthy life, and die and reincarnate properly if it comes to that. Immortality isn't worth the strife caused by any other method."

Dan Heng studies you closely, his eyes steadfast on yours. "Then… what do you consider a 'long life'?"

You hum, thinking. "If I don't slack off with my training, I have maybe eighty to a hundred years of youth before I kick the bucket."

"Eighty years?" Dan Heng's eyes go a little wide. You aren't used to seeing it.

"Yes?" You shift, fidgeting. "But that's only if I'm lucky. Pushing for anything more would be tough. I could undergo a qi deviation and die… or I might just not be talented enough to reach that stage of cultivation and pass away from natural causes… someone could also just kill me at any time, given my lifestyle. I've got a lot of options for dying, you know."

Dan Heng doesn't reply, nor does he look at you. It occurs to you that this whole conversation might be unsettling for him, given everything that's happened with the Xianzhou Alliance, with the matter of his past life and that vengeful monster he seems unable to kill. The mere thought of immortality must be painful for Dan Heng.

"I'm sorry, Gege," you say. "It's insensitive of me to talk about these things with you. Anyway—I'm not seriously trying to become an immortal, so you don't have to worry about me. I'm not looking to break any taboos."

Your lover gives you a long, unreadable stare before replying, "Right. Of course. Nothing good can come from the pursuit of immortality." Cinnabar paint flickers as he looks away. "Human life should be as morning dew—fleeting and ephemeral."

Dan Heng starts to behave strangely, after that. Quieter and withdrawn. Not just subdued in his affection, but absent in it.

When you bother him in the archives, he no longer scolds you or distracts you with any work—merely continuing with his tasks, completely immersed in them. When March 7th and Caelus tease him about his many pet names, he doesn't get flustered—only rolls his eyes and ignores them. When the other passengers catch sight of the two of you dining together and fondly comment on your relationship, he hardly reacts. He only continues eating, staring absently at his dish—usually something you've made, because he seems uninterested in eating anything else these days.

(Are you sure you don't want actual food from the kitchens instead? you ask once, studying what's supposed to be dough for fried breakfast buns. For whatever reason, you can't get the consistency right. The Express chefs are way better than me, you know.

No, he insists. You made it, so I want to eat it.

You don't need to be so polite!

I'm not being polite. He looks down at your fingers, dusted snow-white with flour. It's just what I want.)

You wrongly assume, for a little bit, that he's somehow lost interest in everything but your cooking. It only feels like the logical conclusion, especially when Dan Heng gets into the habit of ignoring you for most of the day despite your use of every trick in your arsenal—from kissing him to teasing him to begging him for sex. He simply tells you that he'll entertain you later, and is otherwise too deeply absorbed in his work to pay attention to you.

"Is something wrong, Dan Heng?" you eventually ask, voice small. "Is it that you don't feel the same way about me anymore? Do you want to break up?"

Dan Heng goes stock still when he hears this. Without saying a word, he puts down his tablet, locks the door, and kisses you long and hard. And then—for the first time in your relationship—he proceeds to actually fuck you in the archives. He rails you next to the terminal for the better part of an hour, forces an earth-shattering orgasm out of you that ruins the carbon-fibre surface you're laid out on, and then he fills you up to the point that his spend starts trickling down your thigh.

Hazy and fucked out, you wonder idly if it's dripping down onto the phosphorescent tiles below. Dan Heng will probably make a fuss about it, especially since this is technically a public space, and the terminal is its most high-traffic area. He'd have a stroke if anyone ever saw this mess.

When he stands up, you assume that he's getting right to cleaning, like usual. The guy can hardly ever relax.

You don't expect it when he gets onto his knees and puts his head between your thighs.

"Gege?" you say, solidly confused, but before you can ask him what he's doing, you feel the press of his tongue against your dripping entrance and then all you can do is moan.

By the time Dan Heng is done with you, the two of you are messy and breathless, collapsed and tangled up in each other on his makeshift bed.

You stare at the ceiling, mind whirring even in your exhaustion. It had been hard to process the situation while your boyfriend was railing every thought imaginable out of you—but now that he’s finally done, the shock is settling in.

Holy shit, you think, Dan Heng never gets this nasty. Something really is wrong!

You think of broaching the matter, but Dan Heng beats you to it. He turns to you, says, "I don't want to break up," and then gets back on top of you for another round.

You decide to put your foot down.

The next night, you invite Dan Heng into your bedroom. You're all business this time. There's no whining, no teasing, no Heng'er, you don't want to touch me? There are no desperate and indirect plays to get his attention while you simmer in anxiety about what he's hiding from you. (This change is not because of your own strength of mind—of which you have none, when it comes to your boyfriend—but because you're now sure you won't break up, whatever happens.) Instead, you seat him at your table and regard him with a firm expression.

You're careful to keep your voice gentle, but you still don't hesitate: "I know something's been bothering you, Dan Heng. Can we please talk about it?"

Dan Heng is prepared for the question. "I'm sorry I've been neglecting you," he says instantly. "It won't happen anymore. I'm very serious about our relationship, and I have no wish for it to end."

You know he's being earnest. After spending the rest of his night fucking you—slow and sweet in your bed, rather than the desperate way he'd done it in the archives—he'd woken up this morning and gone back to normal. Paid attention to you, paid attention to others, humoured your public displays of affection and initiated his own in private. Acted like the past two weeks never happened, and that nothing’s been weighing on his mind.

Were he anyone else, you'd assume that you're simply being strung along for sex, or perhaps being distracted by it. But Dan Heng isn't anyone else: he has absolutely no interest in physical intimacy without the emotional kind. He'd slept with you as an affirmation of his feelings for you. (He probably also did it because you kept begging to be fucked, but that's neither here nor there.)

Still, as much as you liked having your back blown out in the archives, semi-public sex isn't exactly a healthy way to deal with relationship problems.

"I know you'll be more mindful of my feelings now," you reply, "but I'd still like you to tell me what's been bothering you. I won't force it out of you, but if you did tell me, we could maybe fix it?"

"It is unfixable," he replies, "and not a problem to begin with. Simply the nature of things that I must accept."

His tone is neutral. Factual. Certain of the insignificance of whatever the issue is, even though you know that he's not the type to be bothered by insignificant things.

You frown, confused. "If it's the nature of things, then it won't hurt for me to know."

Dan Heng isn't looking at you anymore, instead fixated on the view beyond your window. Peering at the many moons of this galaxy, he finally relents: "'The night-blooming cereus flowers only once.' This is how Vidyadharas describe human life."

You consider his words, contemplating the bittersweet air of the idiom.

"Because human life feels ephemeral to you?" you discern.

"Yes. The lifespan of a human is but a fraction of ours. It's never bothered me before, but"—he's finally looking at you now, and his expression guts you—"four months without you feels unbearable. I can't imagine four centuries."

You go quiet.

Dan Heng is right: this is the nature of things. Skilled as you might be, you aren't likely to be one of those rare few humans who can ascend to immortality without Yaoshi's fruit. He’ll likely need to spend the better part of his life without you, and then every lifetime thereafter. Such is the reality for a Vidyadhara choosing to love a short-life species.

“...I’m sorry, Dan Heng,” is all you can bring yourself to say, but he shakes his head.

“There is no need for you to apologize," he says plainly. "I should have prepared myself for this eventuality when I chose to commit myself to you. It cannot be helped."

Dan Heng loves this phrase, you think to yourself. It cannot be helped that I had to live alone for so many years. It cannot be helped that I was exiled from my home. It cannot be helped that I was punished for the sins of Yinyue Jun.

It cannot be helped that you will someday leave me.

A splinter digs into your heart. You reach out, squeeze his hand, and wish that you could do more.

"It cannot be helped," you agree, "but that doesn't make it any less painful."

Dan Heng does not speak, but the way that he closes his eyes is enough of a reply. No matter how unfeeling he makes his voice, his pain is evident.

You wait for him to collect himself. Listen to his breaths—deeper than usual, meditative, reflective. There is hesitation in his eyes when he finally looks at you. A weakness that he only ever shows at night, after waking from a terrible dream.

"...I know it's a cruel thing to ask of you," Dan Heng eventually says, and the bitter edge to his words surprises you, "and perhaps a sign that this soul of mine will never change in its sins, no matter how many times it is reborn—but is there no way for us to spend a life together?"

You forget how to breathe.

What he's asking you is not just heretical for him—it's traumatic. An echo of the crime he'd committed in his past life, the tragedy that marked him for suffering in this one. He must be desperate for an answer if he's voicing the question at all.

You struggle as you think through your options.

"Seeking out the Peaches of Immortality is out of the question," you start. "And Sanctus Medicus is just a bunch of nutjobs—no way could they make me immortal. Demonic cultivation is another Path, but I don't think you'd like the thing I'd become by the end of it."

A brilliant river of stars streams past the window, like the one in that ancient folktale about the bridge of magpies. You can see the reflection of your lover's face in the window: muted, sorrowful, already mourning you. And of course he's mourning you long before your death, with how much he'd lost long before his birth.

Oh, Heng'er, you think, even if I drank from Meng Po's bowl and lost every memory of you, I'd still find my way back to you in my next life.

It would be too cruel to say aloud, so you remain quiet—merely staring at the galaxy before you, hoping quietly to see some kind of bridge.

Then a nearby sun flickers, and you remember something.

"...I guess there is another option," you say slowly, "but I can't imagine you being happy with it."

He straightens up. "What is it?"

"Well…" You take a deep breath. "Sometimes people practice dual cultivation as a way to extend their life. It's quite safe, but would be difficult given our relationship."

Dan Heng stares. "What exactly does it entail?"

"Well… it's basically cultivating by having sex. If I slept regularly with an immortal being with highly refined qi, I could probably exchange energy with them and achieve longevity that way." You make a face at the thought. "But it's not exactly easy to find an immortal who'd want a lifelong friend with benefits… and I'd really rather not have sex with anyone other than you, anyway."

It would probably make him miserable.

You're surprised when Dan Heng looks thoughtful, rather than disturbed. He studies you for a long moment, considering.

"Vidyadharas are immortal," he says, "and the qi of a High Elder is much more powerful than that of any other species. Is it not helping that we're already coupling so often?"

"Not really." You reach out across the table, hold out your palm, and he knows to give you his hand. You turn it over, tracing a finger along the length of his wrist. "Dual cultivation with you wouldn't be very useful. You might have extraordinary qi as a Vidyadhara, but it's sealed when you're in your human form."

You feel for the warm glow of his meridians, even though you already know what you'll find—an ordinary, unremarkable life force coursing through his body.

Dan Heng doesn't seem discouraged, though, when you look back up at him. Only curious.

"Then," he says, "what about my dragon form?"

It doesn't end up being very straightforward.

For a full ninety minutes, Dan Heng sits in your room and listens to you discuss the mechanics of dual cultivation, also known traditionally as the 'art of the bedchamber'. As its name would suggest, there are quite a few nuances and technical considerations involved: different positions enhance your qi in different ways; certain acts are more useful than others; mutual pleasure must be attained for the greatest possible benefit.

It isn't just a lecture that you give him. You take out one of your cultivation manuals and show him various diagrams and poses. You whip out your tablet and visit "questionable websites" for "video demonstrations". You quiz him intensively at the end of each unit.

At around the seventy-minute mark, you catalogue Dan Heng's expression—thousand yard stare, stiff posture, red ears—and decide that you're overwhelming him. So you tell him the most important takeaway, which is that one thing he must absolutely do is—

"—finish inside you?"

"Mhm." You sound completely unbothered. "As much as possible. And as many times as possible."

He gives you a long, blank stare, and then crosses his arms. "...all of this is just a ploy to get me to do one of your favourite things in bed, isn't it."

"What? No! I wouldn't lie to you about something like this, Gege!" You're being truthful. Though your sex drive can sometimes drive you to try insane things, it never drives you to be cruel. "I'm being dead serious right now. This really will extend my life. Those cultivation manuals were proof!"

Dan Heng considers you. "You're right. You wouldn't lie about something like this."

"Thank you."

"You're already so shameless about begging for it—I don't think you'd see the need to come up with an excuse."

Wow.

"...okay, yes, but you're also pretty shameless about giving in."

Dan Heng clears his throat, and you try not to laugh. "Well, I've never had a reason not to, since we don't need to worry about pregnancy…" He tries very, very hard to assume some semblance of dignity as he deflects: "Anyway. I think I understand the gist of it. You more or less want me to do the usual things."

"Yes—but while you're in your original form, of course."

"Right." His eyes narrow, and his expression becomes uncertain: something you've only seen a handful of times. "...I do need you to know that taking that shape… complicates things. There is a reason why my powers are usually sealed."

You nod. You've known for a while now that Dan Heng hates invoking his Vidyadhara powers—he considers it as taboo as much as a Xianzhou native would. Truthfully, it did occur to you some time ago that exchanging qi with a dragon would make your cultivation progress leaps and bounds, but after learning about how much he despises that form of his, you'd scrapped the whole idea and put it out of mind.

You're surprised that he's even consenting to this, all things considered.

Noticing the tension in his body, you leave your teaching set-up (tablet, an annotated cultivation manual, and smartboard with various stick figures you've drawn) to rest a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know if we have to worry about that. The Alliance only sealed Vidyadhara powers due to historical reasons relating to the Sedition, right?" you try to console him. "Rather than anything to do with your nature in this lifetime, I mean. You aren't inherently dangerous."

You can see the conflict in his eyes; your words run exactly counter to everything he must have heard while imprisoned on the Luofu.

"I don't know," Dan Heng finally says, "but for better or worse, things are still different when I take my true shape. I'm no longer used to it." He frowns a little. "The amount of power feels overwhelming to me now. It's fine in normal circumstances, but—" He struggles for a moment. "...I don't know how I'll behave in… these circumstances with you."

"Ah, I see. You're worried that you won't be able to control yourself while fucking you're me, huh?"

He gives you a disgruntled look. "Do you have to use such crass language?"

"Sorry, Gege. I'll try to speak eloquently like you: Yinyue Jun may fall to his base instincts once he's crossed the threshold of the chrysanthemum gate, right?"

His expression turns from disgruntled to disdainful. Evidently, he's not a fan of your erotica novel slang.

"Please be serious for once. We need to be careful if we do this. I might behave impulsively—do something rash. Accidentally hurt you."

You hum, considering his words. "That's surprising. I thought dragons were generally supposed to be pretty calm and wise…" Then you think about how you couldn't walk this morning. "Though I guess you weren't particularly calm yesterday."

He snorts. "Well, I usually am. Unfortunately, I find it exceptionally hard to control myself around you, with how much you like to provoke me," he says plainly. "It'll just get worse if I switch forms."

You try not to stare at him, shocked at how unbothered he is by these admissions. You suppose that multiple rounds of semi-public sex might have forced him to cross an event horizon of shame, and now his face is finally getting thicker.

"It isn't just my behaviour I'm worried about," he continues. His arms cross again, and his brow furrows. "You might find my form… unattractive. You probably won't like it."

You frown. "I can't imagine that. I bet the real Cold Dragon Young is super handsome."

It's a testament to his anxiety that he hardly reacts to your stupid comment. He just studies you carefully, uncertain. Apprehensive.

"I guess we'll find out."

END PART 1

notes: for those unfamiliar, this fic is set in the same universe as fengyue. fengyue was actually based on this fic, but due to my inability to manage deadlines, it came out way ahead of this LOL

i'm sorry there was no dragonfucking in this part when i have been promising dragonfucking for ages on this blog. but i am 12.5k words into part 2 and i can assure you that there is an excessive amount of incredibly nasty dragonfucking in it, so please look forward to that

this was written way before 1.2 came out (and in fact, before I had even caught up to 1.1 content). hopefully the characterization still holds up ok!

big, big thank you to @petrichorium for helping me navigate canon lore and riffing w me on this piece. please go check out their works, they have banger star rail content!

cultural notes:

cultivation is the practice of using martial and spiritual arts to cultivate one’s qi, gain spiritual powers, and attain immortality

dual cultivation is the act of refining your qi through having sex

I will be honest. I cannot remember the other cultural refs I dropped because I just kind of blindly write them in so please let me know if you have any questions about things LOL

translation notes:

gege is a term meaning "older brother", though it is often used for non-familial relationships that are very close; it can come off as either flirty or childish. heng'er is a diminutive of dan heng's name.

“If paradise is but a dream, then I wish to sleep forever” - this was a reference to the chinese version of dan heng’s ult line. in english, he says “this sanctuary is but a vision”. however, in chinese, he says “洞天幻化，长梦一觉” which is closer to something like “paradise is an illusion, reveals itself to be a long dream”

"The night-blooming cereus flowers only once" - this is how I rendered the idiom "曇花一現", which describes thing that are short-lived

"Human life should be as morning dew" - this is how I rendered the idiom "人生如朝露", which describes the ephemeral nature of human life

yes I really made dan-gege break out the chengyu and poetic speech... I'm not sure how he sounds in english but my man has his super literary moments in chinese haha

go on and kiss the girl

[ modern!scaramouche x gn!reader ]

summary: you should've kissed him sooner, you dumb fuck.

notes: belated happy birthday my skrunkly babygirl, i spent days thinking of what prompt to write when i came upon this god sent tiktok vid

words: 1032 | warnings: gettin a little hands but all is sfw, first kith is a lil messy but it's safe istg

"what?"

"i—don't make me say it again!" flustered, your voice muffles over the speaker, possibly because you smothered your face over your pillow from embarrassment. he could even imagine you rolling over your bed just from the shuffles that made through the mic.

but scaramouche wants—no, needs to hear it again.

"no, no, say it again," he waits in bated breath, anticipation coursing through his veins that pumped the erratic flow of his blood.

now that he thinks of it, his heart seems to be beating a little too fast.

"i," you pause from the other side of the phone, the sound of your shaky breath unknowingly picked up by your phone, "i wanted to kiss you earlier."

"...."

"...."

scaramouche felt his heart do a round somersaults, an unbelievable warmth creeping up his face. before he could even stop himself, his mouth parted to speak.

"then why didn't you?"

another pause commenced, this time he can hear you trying to come up with a response, stuttered vowels left unsaid with sheer fluster and bashfulness.

it's a shame he couldn't see it himself.

"i didn't want to just kiss you out of the sudden!" you finally quipped, voice a tone higher.

"then you should've told me like you just did now."

"i was nervous, okay! stop pressuring me!"

he could literally see the pout on your voice, a soft thump on your side of the phone letting him know that you might have plop yourself on your pillow. "why don't you ask me, huh? bet you'd be too shy to do so too!"

that's it, that's enough talk. he needs to move his ass.

"give me twenty."

"what?"

the call ended.

and there you spent a while vibrating with anxiousness and, if you were to be completely honest, eagerness. in fact, you were pacing your living room floor in circles, staring at your screen where you can see the panicking messages you sent him after he hung up.

he can't possibly be going through all the efforts to get to you, can he? just for a kiss? shut up it's not just a kiss. he just got home after dropping you off at yours when the two of you started the call. he was, he denies it though, unable to go through a night without hearing your voice after such a fun day spending the only proper birthday celebration he had in his whole life, with you—his beloved you.

maybe you shouldn't have told him shit in the first place.

or better yet, maybe you should've just grew the balls and kissed him right after dropping you off at your door. by doing so, you could've saved yourself from this unnecessary feeling of anxiousness. perhaps the two of you might even spend the rest of the night on your couch kissing and kissing and kissing.

"eek!" you squeaked at the sudden rounds of urgent knocks on your door.

he took less than twenty minutes to get here.

standing in front of your door, your hand hesitates to turn the knobs. oh, is your palm sweating? was it just you or is it a little hot in here?

"i know you're right there, open up."

"okay okay," with a huff and a quick prayer to the lord above, you pull the door to reveal a pouty scaramouche, arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping the ground impatiently. his hair is in disarray, probably from how he haphazardly tossed on his hoodie over his head in his rush to get to you.

"you didn't have to go all the way here."

"i wanted to."

with an attitude huff, he welcomed himself to your house, kicking the door shut behind him before reaching over your waist to pull you close—the corner of his lip twitched up in a smug smile at your silent gasp.

"t—this is a little too close."

"hm?"

you couldn't stop the shiver that you felt when his breath warms your cheeks, the tips of your noses brushing against each other at close proximity and the gentle squeeze of his arms around your waist, chest pressed against yours. it's not to say that he hasn't been this close before, you've latched yourself on him a couple of times, but you've never been this intimately close to the point of kissing.

"you literally smother your face on my neck when you demand your cuddles, i don't see how this is different."

"shut up."

"make me," he grins at the flabbergasted look on your face, "i'm pretty sure you know just how to do that."

"you little shit."

with a sharp tug on his collar, your lips crashed like the rushing waves in the river against a rock. it's incredibly warm, the nerves that you felt when his lips met touched yours in a slightly clumsy pace, not just because his lips are warm but because suddenly your heartbeat started thumping against your ribcage, warm blood rushing through every fiber of your body whilst your lips melted against each other in a messy pace.

scaramouche felt no different from you. he feels too light headed to process that the both of you are still at the entrance hallway and that his hands are clawing around the back of your shirt, his nails digging a little across the fabric, eliciting a gasp from you that only excites him more.

god it felt too good to separate from you, he curses the irritating restriction of human nature to desire oxygen as he slowly pulls away from your swollen lips, warm breath mixing together.

your eyes follow the way his tongue peeks out to lick his lips.

"why didn't you do this earlier?" he groans, lips tracing warm kisses along your cheeks, jaw and neck, "could've saved us from wasting time on nothing."

"i know, i know," you sighed contentedly, brushing your hand through his hair and completely melting in his arms when his lips reached a particular spot on your neck. "but you're here now."

"yeah," he cups your cheeks in his hands, flickering back and forth your lips and your eyes. he whispers lowly before closing the gap once more.

"and i'm not going anywhere."

venlune? lunelyn? heilune? kumilune? i dont know, because atm my headcanon is that she likes aether one sidedly.. poor boys o<-<

if you ever get the chance to play an otome game like this, whose route would u pick? i cant choose tbh..

ᥫ᭡. 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫

⤷ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠.: yandere dragon!dan heng x reader

⤷ 𝐭𝐰.: yandere behavior, possessiveness, obsessiveness, isolation/imprisonment, slight blood/gore

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬.: dan heng has his draconian transformation aboard the express with you to watch over him. his desire for you had finally made him snap, and, now, there was no escape from your mate.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊

whenever trailblazing wore you out, you could count on dan heng to make sure nothing strayed too much out of order.

his constant watchfulness over you, march, and the trailblazer was nothing if not helpful and convenient should anything ever go awry, which it has, too many times in the past, but in your downtime on the express, you just wanted to be away from his scrutinizing, assessing gaze. you also didn’t want to be a burden on anyone, another person to worry for, and the thought of spending some time by yourself, without the presence of the other crew members, drew a sigh of relief from you.

you had promised yourself moments of rest after the stellaron mission in belobog, no matter how fleeting. with kafka and the stellaron hunters getting involved and sending the express crew to the xianzhou, you wanted to savor every moment you could in solidarity before you had to aid welt, march, and the trailblazer in their mission to seal the destructive core.

what you hadn’t expected, however, were the muffled sounds of pain coming from past march’s room and straight from the archives, where dan heng’s voice had echoed out in agony.

it hadn’t been long after the express was docked, and you rushed out of your room to make sure that your companion was unharmed.

after skidding to a halt at the doorway of dan heng’s makeshift room, you hurried past the open door, where himeko was bent over dan heng’s silently whimpering form, looking concerned.

when she noticed your entrance, her eyes flitted to you and she nodded, motioning for you to come over. you obliged, suspense and adrenaline racking in your system as you hunched over dan heng.

you’d thought that your eyes had deceived you when you had run through the door, but it seemed that the flash of green was indeed an extension of dan heng.

what you had glimpsed before when you were rushing in was a tail, whose fluffy tip was now pattering against the floor in obvious distress. what you hadn’t seen before, however, were his horns.

also a green hue, they extended upwards proudly, akin to branches of coral. they still seemed to be growing, as noted by his light breaths and whimpers of pain as you thought you imagined them coming up to be a little higher every time you blinked.

immediately you took charge, knowing that he would need a more comfortable place to be situated in, and you didn’t think that intruding on himeko’s space would please her all that much.

“i’ll take him back to my room,” you informed her, not realizing that you were too shaken by this whole ordeal until you heard your voice waver.

she gave you a nod of affirmation and, before you knew it, dan heng was on the edge of your bed and you were out of breath from helping himeko carry his deadweight. you tried pushing him to the middle of the bed for maximum comfort, and to minimize the risk of him falling off, but gave up when he didn’t budge and, instead, made the bedsheet wrinkle.

sighing, you turned back to him for a moment to check that everything in your room was orderly and that the door was closed after lugging him inside, which it was, but then a sudden weight came crashing down on you and you collapsed with a choked shout of surprise.

on top of you was the body of human, yet devoid of warmth, like a reptile. the pants and low growls resonating in your ear were most definitely human—the voice of an irreplaceable person in your life.

“d-dan heng!?” you exclaimed, trying to push yourself up, already in a plank and ready shake him off and book it for the door, but his weight and power pressed you down until you were flat against the ground, panting for air.

“you’re mine,” dan heng whispered, his voice husky and low and his breath hit against your ear. your breath caught in your throat at his proximity, and your struggles renewed as you pushed your back upward to try and shove him off.

a swift, unexpected bite to your throat ceased your struggling, and you lay limp on the floor at the pain that blossomed. the weight on your back was lifted off of you for a moment, but you couldn’t escape with your senses hyper-focused on the wound on the most sensitive part of your body.

dan heng was staring intently at your back, his objective dark, and, you couldn’t see it, but you could feel the desire emanating from his possessive, lustful gaze. your skin crawled with gooseflesh, and you gulped slightly, as unnoticeably as you could manage.

he dipped downward sharply soon after though, absentmindedly lapping at the blood streaming down your neck before it could reach the ground. it was too precious to waste, you were too delectable to pass up.

dan heng had thought that his feelings would be hidden from you forever, the desire to lock you away from the universe and have you safe from harm’s way. unfortunately, the life of a trailblazer was seldom easy, and you met life’s challenges with courage, even when your qualms and fears had a grip on your heart.

he always went out of his way to make that your life wasn’t being threatened, even when it seemed impossible. he was your shield, his cold, unyielding personality your preservation.

he needed to make sure that you had placed your trust in him fully, first and foremost and no one else.

if he was immovable, then what was there to threaten you? what was there to deny him from what he had kept himself from for so long? he craved you, ached for you, longed for you, but never showed an ounce of it through his words or actions, for fear of your rejection, of society’s caution around his amplified desire for you, strong enough to harbor hatred and murderous intent for anybody who so looked at you the wrong way. looked at you at all, even.

now though, he was finally discarding those frivolous thoughts of his concealment of desire for you, his draconian side emerging. after all, it was only normal to want your lover in every way, right?

his present, human, morally ambiguous but restrained side was miles away, the tsunamis of desire crashing into oceans of want and possessiveness making him realize that he wanted this so badly that he would die if he was without you for another moment. even blinking was made scarce, absorbing your ethereal, once ephemeral, form in to fully appreciate you in ways he couldn’t before.

his stone-cold, deadpan exterior had finally given way to his true self, more open to expressing his love and devotion for you, as the dragon in him coiled with the need to make sure that you were his forever.

so why were you struggling? couldn’t you tell that you were his mate? his to love and cherish forever? even if you didn’t think you loved him now, there was no way that he’d let you go, not when the both of you were finally alone, together, and safe.

carefully, gently, absurdly for the situation he had just subjected you to, he lifted you up in a bridal carry and you couldn’t tell if you wanted to curl into his strong embrace, or shimmy away from your captor.

once he settled on your bed, he bunched the covers up around you and him until you were both insulated and he could retain the warmth that you gave him. he had made sure you were comfortable, drawing the blankets up around you first and foremost and leaning over your form quite inquisitively, drinking in the most vulnerable side of you he had never gotten to appreciate properly and feeling a strange welling of wholesomeness in his heart at your figure, dwarfed by him and his twisted love for you.

after getting settled down, you couldn’t help but close your eyes sleepily, unsure as to why you were feeling so exhausted that your body would let your guard down around the beast that had possessed your friend. you would contemplate why you were allowing him such proximity, but your mind was too scrambled to discern if he was a threat or not, and it seemed as though your body had decided for you as you were his mate.

a hand from out of the blue descended upon your head and sharp nails massaged your scalp deeply, comfortingly, lovingly. they were careful not to draw blood or scratch you too hard, and your eyelids grew heavier still, and your ears gradually rose a barrier between you and the outside world, content in the embrace of someone you knew.

the wound in your neck hadn’t bothered you for a moment now, and you had half a mind to wonder why when a low croon came from above you. it seemed as though he was still watching you, with another hand descending to rub your cheek soothingly. the solace of his presence was unbearable for your rationality, and you let go all train of thought to give into him.

dan heng watched with satisfaction as you drifted off into slumber, pride welling in his chest at the level of trust you still had for him, even after his slightly unorthodox display of dominance.

after making sure that you were truly sleeping, deep inside the crevices of your mind and dreaming of him, no doubt, he lowered himself down into a space next to you, where he was able to hold you with your back to him and his arms wrapped tightly, possessively around your waist and pulled you as close to him as he possibly could.

a few seconds later though, he opted to drag his arms up higher until he was just right below your chest so that he could make way for his tail, which dipped under you and then coiled upwards to wrap around you, doubly secure and safely tucked in by his side.

although your blood had supplemented him some energy to get by for a little after his grueling transformation into a dragon, he was more than content with the prospect of regaining his full strength by resting by your side, knowing that nothing could ever take you away from him.

and afterwards, when his power was at its full glory, he’d prove to you that you’d never need to leave his side. ever.

and even if you insisted, tried clawing your way out of his embrace, tried to escape into a world with dangers lurking around every corner, ready to take you away from him, there was no way he would ever lose you, no way you would ever lose him.

your mate.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊

🎮 behind the lens!

a social media streamer au | scaramouche x gender neutral reader

synopsis - you, better known as STARDUST, and BALLADEER have always been in competition for the top streamer spot on twitch, which is especially impressive since the two of you have never shown your faces. you’ve never been on good terms, constantly one-upping each other in matches and getting into petty arguments on twitter, causing your fans to also dislike each other. that’s until BALLADEER does a face reveal that breaks the internet with his good looks…which makes you realize it’s the same guy you went on a date with last night. the type of date that made you crave to see him again. the only problem was he didn’t know you were STARDUST and he was way different behind the lens than he portrayed himself online to you. should you keep your identity a secret to salvage the relationship or just let him go?

genre - enemies/rivals to lovers, streamer and youtuber au, college setting, crack, slight angst

status completed ✔️

warnings time stamps don’t matter, characters including y/n are portrayed as young adults, mentions of alcohol, nsfw

sideships xiao x aether, kazuha x heizou

↳ playlist

STREAM IS STARTING...

featuring…

↳ stardust and friends | balladeer and friends

ACT ONE: raiding your heart!

01. kicking my feet and giggling

02. beat my ass

03. get out of my notifications

04. id donate for nudes

05. pls be ugly

06. now wait a damn minute

07. throwing up and crying

08. do you get deja vu

09. would you love me if i was bald

10. passenger princess

11. would you bark for me

12. breaking my silence

13. caught in 4k

ACT TWO: you're live!

14. he’s cheating on us?!

15. damage control

16. chat going crazy

17. breaking character

18. #JUNGKOOK

19. drowned cat core

bonus — heizou’s theory

20. twitch con

21. city of love

22. he who must not be named

23. and there’s only one bed

24. how to get akumatized 101

25. a glimpse of us

26. the ship has sunk

27. best of both worlds

28. something in the water

ACT THREE: cut the camera!

29. gatekeeping the sexy

30. show yourself

31. hold on i’m processing

32. sad quotes bot

33. please leave a message after the tone

34. were you silent or silenced

35. they don’t know about us

36. plot twist we’re dating

37. co-op irl! that’s called hanging out

38. stop asking for esex

39. out of character

40. paper rings

bonus — fuck me like i’m famous 🔞

41. truth or drink

42. epilogue; curtain call

ACT FOUR: fuck capitalism!

43. extra headcanons

44. stardust merch

45. balladeer merch

46. scarastar collab merch

STREAM HAS ENDED...

office s3x with heizou

cws: gn!reader, semi-public sex, unprotected, bondage (belt), riding, teasing, hair pulling, begging, edging, cockwarming

how did you get in this position again? yeah, that's right. you were visiting heizou at his office, knowing that he probably procrastinated some paper work and had to get them done until tomorrow to avoid pissing off kujou sara. it was getting late though so you decided to help him out then get him home.

however things did not go as you planned.

it started when heizou offered you his lap to keep him company until he finished the work. you were supposed to help him but the paper work was unbelievably boring. a devious idea in your head started all of this.

you wiggled your hips on heizou's lap as if you were readjusting yourself, deliberately grinding your ass to his groin but he already knows what you're doing. instead of pointing out immediately, he let you have your fun first, letting you think that you were succesful at your tease.

until he pulled you backwards by your hair, letting his warm breath graze your ear as he whispered

"you think you're so smart, don't you?"

and that's how you ended up in heizou's lap, his cock ramming into your hole as he grips your waist, aiding you as he thrusts up whenever you descend on his cock, your ass smacking his thighs.

heizou is without a doubt a tease but that doesn't mean he'll let you mess with him all the time, that's his job after all!

even though it's night and majority of the people have left, there are still multiple guards outside and the thought of them hearing you cry out heizou's name over and over both arouses and worries you at the same time.

heizou doesn't seem to care at all, a smirk on his face as he watches you struggle on his cock. your thighs shaky from mercilessly impaling yourself on his dick, despite the exhaustion in your legs you keep on riding him.

heizou stops all movement in his body, his hands only holding you, not helping you bounce on his cock anymore. he watches you with a shit eating grin on his face, clearly amused by your struggle.

you look down at your boyfriend and frown, his smirk widening at your annoyance. to be even more of a little shit, heizou removes his hands from your hips and crosses his arms.

"he-heizou...help me out a little."

you murmur, trying to catch your breath and continue riding him but your incoming orgasm is fading away, only irritating you more. the worst part is that your hands are tied behind your back with heizou's belt, you're not even able to use your hands for leverage.

"i don't know about that baby, you seemed so eager. what happened to all that energy now?"

the fact that his voice is too even for someone balls deep inside of you and he's mocking you frusturates you. he knows what he's doing and you know what he wants you to do.

you also know that he won't budge if you don't beg.

swallowing all of your pride and irritation, you wiggle your hips a little, circling them and give heizou the puppy dog eyes with a burning face.

"p-please heizou...make me cum. i won't tease again just please make me cum."

heizou only gives you a look that lets you know that you convinced him, after all he wants to cum too, wants to paint your insides and fill you up.

finally heizou grabs your waist with both hands, his nails forming crescent marks on your skin as he lifts you up then drops your whole weight on his cock.

he repeats the motion so quickly repeadetly, not even putting that much effort which turns you on even more. you helplessly moan as he pounds into you, the urge to wrap your arms around his neck is prevented by the restraints around your wrist.

heizou leans in as deliberately groans right into your ear, feeling your walls tighten around him. oh how much he loves how irresistable you are when you're at his mercy, it makes him want to ruin you.

and that's exactly what you want.

your orgasm hits you hard as you cum all over his lap, making a mess on his clothes. your spasming hole and loud whines of his name triggers heizou's own orgasm, he buries himself as deep as he can when he cums, shooting white ropes of his cum.

the warmth inside you makes you whimper, finally getting the relief you so desperately wanted as his cum drips down your hole. heizou carefully undoes your restraints, letting you wrap your arms around his neck and rest a little.

heizou chukles softly, returning your embrace as he buries his face in your neck, your scent flooding his nostrils. however this intimate moment is ruined by a thought that seems to occur in both of your heads as heizou pulls away to look you.

the thought being that you'll have to clean up this mess.

HIS MOM'S FAVOURITE! (≧◡≦)

Or in other words, Scaramouche resisting (and failing) the urge to fuck you while his mom is in the same house.

contains: f!afab!reader x bf!scara, pussyjob, blowjob, fingering, degradation, praise, bath sex, nipple play, cumshot, cigarette use, breeding

(* ^ ω ^) : minor writing smut !!

When you revealed your outfit to Scaramouche, like usual, he adored your sense of style. However, there was a little hiccup. "Baby, why'd you have to wear such a skimpy skirt tonight?" He pouts as he tugs at the hem, trying to lower it a bit more in hopes of covering some of your skin.

You give him a glance from over your shoulder and sigh, "It's your fault for telling me we were going to have dinner with your mom in twenty minutes. I was rushing and on top of that, I still had to do my makeup. Why don't you ever tell me these things beforehand?"

The two of you were waiting on the front porch, still recollecting yourselves as Scaramouche's mother took her time in getting the door.

Scaramouche merely narrows his eyes and smiles, "No need to get all whiny; you have plenty more dinners with her in the future to make up for tonight." At what was supposed to be a playful tease made you even more nervous. You smack him with your handbag, whisper-shouting, "Not funny!"

Finally, the door opened. Ei gasps with a smile and pinches Scaramouche's cheek, which results in him swatting her hand away. "It's so great to finally meet my son's girlfriend. I've heard a lot about you, (Name)."

You stifle a surprised noise when you feel Scaramouche's hand harshly groping at your ass. "Ah, it's nice to meet you too, Ms. Raiden," you coyly say, bowing your head. Ei exclaims, "Well, come in! The food will get cold." The second she disappears into the dining room, you give Scaramouche a reprimanding glare.

He simply gives you an innocent smile in return.

Scaramouche walks ahead of you, saying, "Mom, don't tell me you cooked..." Ei hushes his remark while setting out the plates and cutlery. You instantly rush over and offer to help out. Ei clasps her hands, muttering, "Oh, thank you, dear. If it's not too much trouble, could you get the glasses from the cupboard by the fridge?"

Already heading into the kitchen, you nod, "Of course!"

When you get there, you find your snarky boyfriend whistling to himself while leaning against the counter. Scaramouche pushes himself off of it and scoffs, "The way you act like a goody-two-shoes in front of my mom is insane. If only she knew how vulgar you are."

You roll your eyes and reach up to open the cupboard. While grabbing the glasses, it obviously didn't go unnoticed by you when Scaramouche's gaze lingered on your thighs. "As if your mind in the gutter is any better than mine," you say, walking up to him and pressing your chest against his.

Scaramouche's hands attempt to grab your waist but you pull away and laugh as you return to the dining room.

You thought wrong if the sexual tension were to get any better at the dinner table.

You tighten your smile a little more each time you feel his hands grabbing your thighs and playing with the plush skin. It wasn't long before you had to slap it away when he slipped his fingers in between your legs.

Ei places her fingertips together, asking, "Is the food good, dear? I tried to make it taste nice for my future daughter-in-law!" Her joke emits a not so hidden chuckle from Scaramouche and you glare at him. You play along and giggle, "Jokes aside, it does taste amazing, Ms-"

Ei tuts, "Please, call me mom. We can drop the honorifics as you seem to have proven yourself a nice and worthy girl of my son from his endless stories about you." You blush in pride from her comment.

"Ah, why don't you stay the night? It's getting dark out and I'm sure you and Scaramouche can stay in his old bedroom." Ei's suggestion catches you off guard. Scaramouche slyly adds, "Oh, yeah, why don't you, (Name)? I wouldn't want you to go home all alone at this time of day."

You nervously clear your throat and sigh through your nose. "Sure, I don't see why not."

The moment you and Scaramouche got off of Ei's radar, he initiated a heated makeout outside of his bedroom door. The guy must have waited for this all evening. You tightly grip onto his biceps, moaning into the kiss. He pulls away and starts sucking on your neck, making you gasp out.

"W-Wait, Kuni, we should go in your room first..." When you realized your words were doing no good to control the lust driven man, you opened the door to his room and dragged him inside anyways. You fell onto his bed when he got on top of you.

"God, you're such a fucking whore, y'know that? Acting all sweet in front of her, but she just doesn't understand how slutty you actually are." Scaramouche slides your panties down your legs, leaving your skirt on. He licks the damp spot in the fabric, causing you to whine from the lewd action.

You softly breathe out, "Please fuck me, Scara." Scaramouche tosses the undergarment aside and lowers his head to meet your cunt. He presses his calloused thumb against your clit. You throw your head back and moan, balling up the sheets in your fists.

"That food was fucking disgusting, right? Unlike you, I couldn't even eat a spoonful. I need something to get rid of my hunger, don't I?" Scaramouche licks up and down and between your folds, around your clit and finally, into your hole. You buck your hips forward and cry out, "Fuck, that's so good!"

Scaramouche's tongue repeatedly delves in and out, your walls spasming around the slippery pink muscle. He wraps his arms around your thighs to force them open since you keep on closing them from the intense pleasure. He lets out heavy pants and removes his tongue before wrapping his lips around your clit.

Two of his fingers fill the empty space inside of your needy pussy while you arch your back and let out the most lewdest noises. You instantly tense up when you hear knocking at the door.

"(Name), dear, can I come in? I brought you a towel and some old clothes of my son's so you can take a shower."

In a frenzy, you try getting Scaramouche to let you go, however his grip on you was way too strong. You stammer out, "I-I'm a bit occupied right now, can you just-" You stop to suppress a moan when your orgasm finally reaches you. You bite down on your lip, thighs shaking as Scaramouche licks up the remains of your cum.

"Can you just leave it in the bathroom, please?"

Ei curiously raises a brow but hums, "Alright. Do tell me if you have any trouble finding the bathroom itself, or you can just ask Scaramouche. Where did that boy go?..." The sound of her footsteps fade away and you sigh.

You sit up, knitting your brows together with a frown on your lips. "We could have gotten caught; just imagine if she didn't knock." You get off of the bed, on your way to the bathroom when suddenly, his arms wrap around your waist from behind you. "Hey now, it's not fair if you're the only one who gets fun, huh?"

You give him an eyeroll. "I'll deal with you later, just let me take a shower first. You made such a mess in between my legs." You turn around and kiss him, tasting your climax on his tongue. Scaramouche holds the side of your head and you grind your bare cunt against the rough material of his jeans when he highers his knee.

"C'mon, I'll shower with you." The idea he proposes makes your cunt clench. You huff, "Fine."

You suck on the head of his cock, tucking a few strands of your hair behind your ear while watching him with half-lidded eyes. Scaramouche grunts, "Don't be such a tease, f-fuck..." His voice trails off and the hot bath water the two of you are in doesn't help his condition.

The salty taste of pre-cum flooded your mouth as you figured from all of the teasing before this.

You close your eyes and finally take his entire length into your mouth, not without a few gagging noises. Scaramouche mutters, "That's it, you little slut. Take it all." His lips hung agape as he released soft groans, his hand clutching the side of the tub while his other hand nestled within your hair.

You let out muffled noises, bobbing your head up and down and running your tongue against every single vein of his cock. Your hands encase around his shaft for stability as you increase the pace. Scaramouche seethes through his clenched teeth, "Your throat is so tight, God, I'm gonna-"

He couldn't even finish his sentence, coming inside of your mouth with a long moan followed by profanities. You slowly pull yourself off of him and the rest of his semen splatters against your tits, now drenched with both water and thick, white substances.

You swallow his load and open your mouth with your tongue lolled out. Scaramouche pushes the back of your head to lean against him, pulling you into a kiss. You rub your pussy onto his toned thighs, whimpering and mewling against his lips. His hand grabs at one of your boobs, playing with the nipple and pinching it.

The water in the bath swishes with the movements and you feel his fingers prod at your entrance. He sinks three digits inside of you and you start gasping. "O-Oh, Scara... mmh, you're so needy tonight, ngh~" You start jerking off his cock that got hard again, easily slipping your hand up and down with the help of the water.

When you cum on his hand from him rapidly pumping his fingers inside you, you tightly squeeze his dick, letting him release his sperm onto the soft skin of your stomach. "You better be ready for tonight, I'm going to fuck you full... going to fuck your cute cunt and watch you squirt, yeah?"

"Then you better not disappoint."

But it's Scaramouche you're talking about. He never disappoints you in bed, ever.

He knew that you knew what you were in for, entering his room only wearing his shirt and your panties. Your tits poke through the flimsy fabric, the rest of your skin on display for him to see. "Well, aren't you going to fuck me instead of smoking those cigs all night?"

You join him on the bed and Scaramouche removes the blunt. He holds your chin and presses his lips against yours, letting the toxic air trap itself into your mouth. Scaramouche chuckles, "And you said I was needy." He places himself on top of you and you meekly spread your legs for him.

He tucks his bottom lip beneath his teeth and pulls down your panties, your strings of fluid sticking to the fabric. Scaramouche gulps, wanting to eat you out again but his cock needed you more. It's easy to plunge inside of you with one thrust and how wet you are for him.

You moan out as he starts rutting into you at a fast pace. Scaramouche groans, tightly holding your hips for leverage and fucking his cock in and out of you. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face into his shoulder.

You gasp and whine by his ear, emitting a moan from him. "Jus' love it when you make those adorable sounds, baby. F-Fuck, you like that?" Scaramouche chuckles when he feels you tighten around him. You nod, "U-Uh-huh, mngh! G-God, honey, more, please,"

Scaramouche mutters under his breath, "As you wish." He slides his cock in and out of you, making sure to leave you writhing and squirming in his hold. Your pussy releases the most vulgar noises, squelching and tightening each time his dick fucks into your womb.

The head repeatedly smashes into your cervix, causing tears of both pain and pleasure to spring to your eyes. "Oh, don't stop, Kuni! I'm so close!" You arch your back and push your clothed tits onto his bare chest, making sure to grind up against him. Scaramouche hisses in pleasure, feeling your hard nipples atop his.

You dig your nails into his back, your breaths and moans getting louder and faster. You squeal, "Oh, my God! Fuck, fuck, Kuni!" Scaramouche seals your cute noises with a messy kiss, drool seeping from his mouth and yours.

The slapping of his balls against your clit gets faster before he finally cums inside of you. You orgasm at the same time, letting out shaky sighs and mewls. Scaramouche moans, "Mmh, baby," He lays you onto the bed and continues to kiss you, all the while keeping his cock snug inside of your walls.

His cum pours from your cunt as he pulls out, but he's quick to scoop it up and finger it back inside you. You, who's still sensitive from the intense climax, clutch onto his wrist, whimpering, "K-Kuni, don't-" You're cut off with your own moan, his fingers curling inside of you.

"Gotta keep it in there, sweetheart. My mom's always telling me how her grandkids would look beautiful when you end up being my wife," Scaramouche playfully bites on your lower lip and you huff. "When? It's a promise now and you better keep it," you say, burying your hand in his hair.

Scaramouche chuckles and slides his hand up your shirt to fondle your breast while his other hand continues to pump his fingers in your soaked pussy. You quietly whine, resting your head on the pillows. He lays next to you while touching your body up, his gaze admiring your lewd expressions.

You gradually fall asleep to him fucking the energy out of you with his fingers still inside of your sopping cunt. When he notices you're unconscious, Scaramouche removes his hand from your chest and pulls up your shirt. He peppers kisses all over your plush skin before wrapping his mouth around one of your nipples.

He bites and sucks on the bud and finally takes his fingers out of you to fidget with your other nipple. You rub your thighs together in your sleep, gasping and putting one of your hands in his hair. You tightly grip a fistful of his cerulean locks, awakening from your short slumber.

With sleepy looking eyes, you release a soft moan. Scaramouche looks at you and his gaze is absolutely glazed over with a new-found lust. He releases his lips from your nipple with a string of saliva and licks on the areola around the mound. "Ready for the next round?"

Suddenly, Ei's voice calls from the room next to his.

"Scaramouche, I didn't raise you to be a horndog! Go take out the garbage!"

... "Zoopocalypse" (title idea by @/booming-boom)

SYNOPSIS. Another mishap had happend during potionology class that turned them into an animal..! You're not expecting them to do a courting ritual in this form though;;

CHARACTERS. Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar, Floyd Leech, Malleus Draconia, Lilia Vanrouge

TAGS. Fluff, pre-established relationship, mutual pinning, kind of crack(?), not proofread

WORD COUNT. 1 051

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

This tiny, spiny mammal HATED anyone who lays a finger on him. Whoever gets an inch near is enough to rise his quills and ready to poke them like its needles. Ace being the first victim, his hand was bleeding all over the place when he tried to pet the little Queen;;

Everyone thought he'll be like his usual diligent, behaving, rule-biding self and stay put in the makeshift bed made for him, but the moment their eyes is elsewhere—he ran off without anyone noticing him!

The Entire Heartslabyul dorm turned upside down trying to find their Housewarden, the panicked cries of the Queen's card soldiers as they're frantic, looking everywhere to search for the missing hedgehog

—All while the Queen-turned-mammal was found by you and living the best time of his life engulfed in the warmth of your palms, being showered in kisses and affection. You're the only one who's got the privilege to hold him. He nuzzles closer and even encourages you to pet him with no quills pointed at you

Any Heartslabyul residents who witnessed the scene sighs in relief that their Dormleader was safe,, —not Ace though, he was the only one whose hand was injured from all this mess and finds the obvious favoritism unfair

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

He's wasn't too thrilled but didn't complain vocally, though he ignores almost everyone and only follows you around the entire campus... Not even a staff or the Headmage can pry the lion prince away from you so you have no choice but to tag him along the whole day.

You'd be in class with a huge lion beside you and refusing to leave. It's embarrassing, especially how territorial he is; he growls and might possibly bite anyone he thinks is a rival for your affection.

This made everyone aware of his fondness for you. They've taken the hint and now everyone avoids you like a plague so they wouldn't be bitten by your furry bodyguard..

After a long day, you lay down in the comfort of your sofa but was tackled by a heavy feline causing you to fall off. You physically can not move at all! This cat-wannabe refuses to move up.

You love him and all,, he's cuddly, soft, warm —but too clingy..!! He doesn't move an atom and just lays on top of you like a pillow! You swore the ground is swallowing you whole since you were being pressed to the ground because of this giant, clingy lion..

FLOYD LEECH

Floyd was set inside the Dorm's pool to keep hydrated. —Due to his absence from work, Azul and Jade's work was increased, and only you were left to watch over your eel friend, which you didn't mind.

Curious and intrigued about how eel's textures feel like, You wanted to give it a little pat, you walked to the cement surface of the pool and leaned closer to the water. Eel-Floyd swam so fast to get to you, his tails motions and grabs ahold of your arm, a bit tight that it made it hard to break free,,

He doesn't sway far from you and only stays by your side. You find it cute, he sometimes does little tricks too to keep you entertained,

He's also being extra affectionate in this form, way more than usual... He kept gaping his mouth wide, and you swore his tail forms a little heart at times.. You thought nothing of it but were a bit puzzled by the exchange. When Jade passed by, he took notice and mentions how his brother was trying to court you.

—Courting?? What courting?? ...Was the gestures Floyd making a courting ritual for eels? ... I guess that explains how extra clingy he is, he doesn't even let his tail loose around your arm;;

MALLEUS DRACONIA

You were walking around the hallway with a friend when suddenly they had a petrified look that made you notice the entire hall started to loom an ominous dark shadow. You turned around to see a scarily, dark dragon looking directly at you and you froze from fear. —Maybe you should've ran away, because now its scaley hands were wrapped around you and flew away for who-knows-where...

They landed in a cave full of gold and rare artifacts. They were was showering you with gold, pieces of jewellery, and treasures.. Again, you were dumbfounded, but that wasn't the weirdest of all —This humongous dragon was all over you..! It rubs its face around you that you have no choice but to pet it like it's a dog...

Surprisingly gentle with you, like it's scared they might hurt you if they were being too pushy...

You were soon rescued by some Diasomnia members, their Vice-leader had to apologise for their Housewarden's actions, they even explain to you the whole situation and why he was acting all,, affectionate..

—Wait... What does he mean Malleus was trying to court you..?!

LILIA VANROUGE

You were in the middle of class, taking notes and paying attention —when a little bat got inside unnoticed and hovered around you that diverted your attention from the board.

At first, you ignored it, it's probably some random bat that flee from Lilia's colony of bats. But you notice this one was a bit different... You can't pinpoint what it was though...

Maybe because it was really affectionate. It nuzzles onto you, your cheeks, hands, head —anywhere it can fly into and it's disrupting you from your studies. You can't detach it away from you, especially when it's wings were wrapped around you and refusing to let go.

At some time, it flew away from you for a moment and soon returned holding a flower in its foot, handing it to you as a gift. It was a cute gesture, you even pinned it in your ears and thank the little guy; to your surprise, it gave you a little kiss on the cheeks —This bat was being all cheeky, almost like a certain Fae you know...

The more you look into it, you can notice a strand of pink streak on its head..

It kept you company the entire lesson and you were a bit sad when it flew away again, this time not returning.. Oh well, you can always ask Lilia if he can see the little bat again.

my idol : masterlist

synopsis: kunikuzushi was your loving boyfriend. while others saw a loser striving for something useless which was his dream of becoming an idol, you saw his beautiful passion in it. it wasn't long before he dropped out of school and went to pursue that passion. with his looks and talent, he quickly became one of the most famous idols under the stage name scaramouche and the idol group 6WIRL. but the climb to fame made him cut you off now that his ego grew bigger, only to regret his choice later on. what happens when he catches you on a casual walk outside when he's in an attempt to escape paparazzi?

pairing: idol!scaramouche x gn!reader

contains: modern au, idol au, angst, fluff, mentions of infidelity, lovers to exes to?

status: ongoing [started on wed.22.mar.]

taglist will always be open!

ACT l : LET'S DO SOME CATCHING UP

OO1: yearning for you

OO2: they have a what!?

OO3: scara's gossip aunties

OO4: takes one to know one

tba...

Fusillade (Wanderer/f!Reader)

written for @illusory-torrent ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡ – ✧)

---

It was a favor for a friend to let the Wanderer find himself while meandering with you. Two sets of eyes are better than one, and what's lost isn't so difficult to locate if you know where to look.

AO3 Link

Wanderer/f!Reader(not the Traveler) 4,954 Words - NSFW Vaginal sex, mild breast-play, mild dacryphilia, unrequited(?) love confession, sharin' a bed-ish.

---

When first meeting the Traveler, they’d been fresh-faced and ready to face the world. Learning their story had been a shock, but not one that you weren’t welcoming toward. Mondstadt was as good a jumping-off point as any, and after a few days together you wished them luck in all their future endeavors as you parted ways. 

In Liyue, they’d been a little more harrowed, a little more hardened. “A lot of things have happened since we’ve met up!” Paimon had explained in lieu of the Traveler’s own words, and you provided a sympathetic shoulder for the two to lean on as you made camp together in the countryside of the Land of Geo. And if they looked a little happier after spending some time talking and laughing with you, then that works just fine, you think. 

Unfortunately, in Inazuma, the two of you were only able to cross paths briefly. With the removal of the Sakoku Decree, it meant you were allowed into the country, and they were allowed out. There’s a certain air about the two - less so Paimon - that leaves you wondering exactly what happened behind the closed borders of Inazuma. 

You find out, much to your chagrin. 

It isn’t until a few months have passed and you’ve meandered your way to Sumeru that you once more meet your good friends - ones you’ve sorely missed. Of course, another catastrophe was narrowly avoided thanks to their intervention, and Paimon was more than pleased to fill in the gaps while you shared a lunch with the two of them at some cafe you can’t quite pronounce the name of. 

In the middle of laughter at something Paimon has said, a shadow casts over the table - similar to an umbrella blocking out the sun. It’s not quite so, rather the wide brim of an ornate hat as a figure approaches the three of you with a carefully neutral expression. First he looks at the Traveler, then briefly at Paimon, before looking to you. 

Before you can even think about introducing yourself, his interest turns back to the Traveler. “Lesser Lord Kusanali sent me to fetch you. Something has come up.”

“Is it urgent?” You know the Traveler is asking only because this means the two of you will part ways once again. Violet eyes dart to you, tensing for just a moment as a thought seems to cross his mind. The neutrality cracks only a little, and he almost looks interested in your presence. It must be an enigma, that you’d be important enough for the Traveler to put off meeting with the Dendro Archon for a little while longer. 

The male moves, placing one hand on his hip as he gives the Traveler an slightly admonishing look. “Maybe I should have been more specific. Something’s come up about that important information you’ve been wandering all over for? Surely that’s not something you want to put off more than necessary. Even for a… friend.”

With a jerk of his chin, he emphasizes that you are the Traveler’s friend in question. Obvious enough, but if he feels the need to make things clear, then who are you to tell him it’s unnecessary?

After a moment of deliberation, and an apologetic expression toward you, the Traveler drops enough mora for all three meals onto the table. “Sorry, this really is important, then. Will you be around the city for a little longer? I’d like to catch up some more.”

“I’m heading out tomorrow morning, but I’ll be around the country - I’m sure you could hunt me down if you really wanted. It’s not like I hide from you.” You lean on your elbows with a grin, pleased at both the prospect of meeting your friends once more, as well as having your meal so graciously paid for. 

The Traveler and Paimon leave with a wave, and the newcomer only gives you an unreadable look over his shoulder as they leave. Only when they round a corner do those eyes finally give you some peace.

---

You do end up leaving before the Traveler can seek you out again. A trip down to Port Ormos takes a few days thanks to a love of meandering, and how easily distracted you are by every little sight and sound of Sumeru. It’s a beautiful country, and you find yourself quickly enamored with it, despite the persistent heat and humidity. 

After you get your fill of Port Ormos, your trip back up to the city proper is a little longer. It’s nearly a month after your first meeting with the Traveler in Sumeru that the second one comes around. Paimon is with someone named Collei, apparently, leaving you and the Traveler to sit in the grassy hilltops surrounding the city with boxes of takeout settled between you. 

The conversation is easy at first, and then almost as if the entire purpose of this meeting was for something a little more heavy, the subject changes as quickly as you can blink. The Traveler has poor skills in segueing topics from one to another, it seems. 

Picking at the biryani in their lap, golden eyes don’t lift to meet yours as they ask, “Do you remember that guy from last time? With the big hat?”

“He’s not easy to forget, that’s for sure. What about him?”

And then it comes tumbling out. Who he is, what he is, and the biggest puzzle piece of all - why the Traveler is bringing any of this up. “You’re staying in the country for a while longer, aren’t you? Do you think it would be possible to have him tag along with you for a while?”

And there it is. Really, you have no reason to say no, beyond simply not knowing who this guy is. But the Traveler seems to trust him, and you trust the Traveler, so logically you can trust him, right? It’s not the most sound conclusion, but it’s the only one that makes sense, so you bob your head in a nod and laugh at the way the Traveler’s shoulders seem to sag in relief. 

The Traveler is leaving for the desert on an extended trip soon, and the Wanderer - Traveler’s name for him, and yours now, too - was staunchly against the idea of traipsing about in the desert despite being largely unaffected by the traits that make it harsh. 

“I’d rather take a dip in a volcano,” is what he apparently told the Traveler. And while the Wanderer was interested in taking some time for himself, away from the Dendro Archon and away from all the reminders of things you haven’t been made privy to, he doesn’t want to do so in a place he hates. That’s understandable - you plan on steering clear of the desert, yourself. 

And all of these situations are what lead you to this - following a well-worn road North out of Sumeru City, a silent Wanderer at your side as your steps fall into an odd sort of synchronization. Whether he is matching your stride on purpose, or if it’s a subconscious thing, you almost find it comforting. 

From the Traveler’s descriptions, you expect him to be sharp and barbed, but he’s been… oddly polite, if not just a little standoffish. When you explain that you have no destination in mind, he doesn’t seem put off, and when you fall into old habits of becoming distracted, he doesn’t complain when those distractions take you off the path. 

At least, at first. 

Eventually, as the day wears on, it seems as if he grows more comfortable. As you push through the afternoon, his voice grabs your attention. “You should take a break, you know.”

“Hm?” Your steps falter a little as you’re brought out of your wandering thoughts. Absently you answer him, more focused on pulling the lenses from your face to rub a smudge off on your shirt - sweat doesn’t cooperate with glasses, unfortunately. “I don’t really need one.”

“The issue with fatigue in humans is once you start feeling it, it’s difficult to stop. Take a break before you’re tired, so you don’t injure yourself,” Wanderer explains. Just like one would explain that the sky is blue, or that Dendro Visions are green, or that there are a multitude of subtleties that differentiate the two of you when it comes to physical composition. 

The Wanderer isn’t human, but he looks an awful lot like one, and you’ve forgotten until now about that important fact. Beyond that, there isn’t much you know about him, and it’s with a bit of slyness that you try to strike a deal. “I’ll take a break on one condition. Every fifteen minutes of break time, you answer a question of mine.”

And he laughs. It isn’t necessarily cheerful, but it does pull his lips up into a smile that seems unpracticed. Or, perhaps it is practiced, but never in this sort of context. Despite lingering cynicism, he answers, “You could have asked without a break - it’s not like I’m hiding anything. But I’ll accept. Now sit down.”

Once you’re settled in the grass, just off the road and out of the way of any other travelers that might come along, the Wanderer sits next to you with his legs crossed, elbow on his knee, cheek on his palm. “Ask away.”

“Oh, no.” Immediately you deny, stretching your legs out in front of you as you lean back onto your hands. “I’m saving those for while we walk. You dictate the length of the break based on how many questions you feel like answering. I think that’s pretty fair.”

A huff of air leaves him, making his shoulders jolt. It could’ve been amusement, disbelief, or maybe even both, judging by his tone. “That’s how it’s going to be, huh? Fine.”

The sun above is warm on your skin, despite the sweat that just won’t wick away thanks to the humidity. You turn your face skywards, observing the clouds and completely missing the way his head tilts just enough to look at you out of the corner of his eye, calculating and quiet. At least, at first you miss it, but the sensation of eyes on you is impossible to ignore after enough time. 

“Something on my face?”

“Sunburn, if you’re not careful.” Sharp words, but softened by the actual meaning.

With an airy wave toward your bag sitting in the grass, you explain, “I picked up a recipe in Liyue for some balm that helps protect against the sun. I’ll be just fine, don’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried.” Wanderer responds so quickly that it completely defeats the purpose of his denial. His mouth sets in a line as his brows furrow in irritation that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It would just be annoying to listen to you complaining about your face hurting.”

“Mhm.” Is your response as your eyes close and you wait for him to decide that break time is over. It takes longer than you expect for him to get to his feet, and then almost as an afterthought, reach his hand out to help you up. When he looks surprised that you accept it, you don’t remark on that. 

Maybe the astonishment will wear off with your time together. 

---

“I don’t need to sleep.” Wanderer tells you one day, as the two of you are setting up your tent for the night. When you brought up that he sleeps outside rather than in said tent, he gives you that answer quite easily. “But I can, if I wanted.”

“Don’t you want to? Sounds awfully boring to never dream.” You ask, using the heel of your booted foot to push the last stake into the ground, securing the rain cover to ensure you stay dry in the storm that’s rolling in rather quickly.

There’s no fire to be set up, not while it’s about to rain, so once the shelter is pitched you climb inside and hold the flap open. As he turns around, he starts to speak but then trails off. “That’s two ques..tions…”

Wanderer hesitates. In his eyes, it must be odd - an enclosed room, with someone he likely doesn’t quite trust. But then he looks at you from beneath the brim of his hat, conflicted for only a moment before pulling it off his head and stepping into the tent you offered him. 

It doesn’t take long for the raindrops to begin falling, rolling off the waxed canvas and leaving the two of you safe and dry. Not necessarily warm, but you wrap up in your bedroll’s blanket as soon as the two of you settle in the small tent.  

There’s no extra bedding - he hadn’t brought any, and you’re not about to offer your own when he doesn’t seem to care. As you lay down for the night, he sits with his back to you, cross-legged and leaning back on his hands as he stares at the darkening forest through the mesh of the tent’s doorway. 

That’s the sight you drift off to as you carefully set your glasses to the side and out of the way. A smudge of deep blue and white, the gentle chiming of his vision as he mindlessly runs his fingers along the ornament and feather. It’s almost like a lullaby.

And that lullaby is a stark difference to the smacking of raindrops hitting harder against the tent cover, the thunder rolling above, and the surprising chill in the air thanks to the change in temperature combined with high humidity. You hadn’t realized you were shivering until you woke up to the rustling of your blanket being carefully untucked. 

Immediately, you ask, “What’re you doin’?”

“That’s a third question.” Wanderer murmurs, voice low as if he doesn’t want to wake you further. “You’re shivering so hard you’re going to attract a tiger - they’ll think you’re a wounded animal.”

“M’not-”

“Yeah you are. A wounded animal would make less noise. Just go back to sleep.”

The blanket shifts, and your seal from the chilled air is broken just long enough for another body to fill the small amount of space behind you. Squinting into the dark over your shoulder, you're met with violet eyes telling you silently not to say a word. But so far, you've never really been bothered by any of his threats, and you're not planning on starting now. 

If he's going to give an inch, you're going to try and take a mile. So you shift back, aligning your spine with the way the front of his body curves. It's deceptively easy to slot your back to his chest and glean some of the little warmth he gives off. 

Wanderer's chest expands as if he's going to say something, then he holds it back. Rain drowns out the sound of your quiet breaths, your muscles tensed in anticipation for what his next move might be. It's the one you expect the least, but should be most logical. 

Tentatively, his arm snakes around your waist in a quiet acceptance of how his little idea has unfolded. It's thin, but strong enough that he holds you to him with minimal effort. And despite how obviously nervous he is about it all, it doesn't lessen the effect of comfort and warmth he's providing. 

"Thank you, Wanderer."

"Please don't make this weird." His answer is blunt. "I'm not doing this for you."

"It's not like there's anyone else here." Your voice is thickened by your interrupted sleep, and your eyes turn wearily to the dim roof of the tent, occasionally lit by lightning. Wanderer's breath hits the back of your neck as he makes a huff of amusement. 

"I just don't want to drag your body back when you attract some stray crocodile to eat you with all your shivering. The Traveler would never forgive me. And their floating companion would be unbearable."

"Mhm… you're cuddling me because it makes your life easier then? Why didn't you say so?"

The arm around your waist tightens. Wanderer stammers for a moment before letting out an outraged tsk. "That's not-!...You know what? Fine, believe what you want."

And silence falls. Your eyelids droop, your thoughts slow, and you try to ignore the way you're still cold at the front, despite Wanderer's warmth at your back. The sluggish notion barely crosses your mind before he picks up on it and the flat of his hand presses against your stomach. Through the thin material of your shirt, the warmth from his palm seeps through. 

Despite telling you pointedly to go to sleep, he seems almost hellbent on causing problems for you each time you nudge at the threshold of your dreams. When your breathing slows, his thumb starts to slowly move back and forth, just beneath your ribs. And when you get used to that, his whole hand moves instead, caressing circles against your skin that finally have you asking once more, "What are you doing?"

"I don't know." And he means that - he'd hardly admit to ignorance, especially over his own actions. "Want me to stop?"

And what a loaded question that is. Because you certainly don't want him to, but you also don't know where this is going. It's hardly appropriate when his hand raises a little higher, growing dangerously close to the unspoken line about to be crossed. 

Almost as if on autopilot, your brain making the decision subconsciously when your mouth takes a little too long, you say, "No. I don't."

The sensation doesn't register in your mind for a split second. It's only after he lingers do you realize that he's lifted his hand further and cupped one of your breasts in his palm with a tentative squeeze. The two of you pause; you in stunned silence, him in quiet anticipation for what you'll do. 

As your tension starts to release, he gives another experimental squeeze, dragging his palm just enough to rub the fabric against your hardening nipple. A little laugh leaves him, high and breathy, and he murmurs, "You like this, don't you?"

"Don't sound surprised-!" You cut off as his fingers pinch and roll, your voice cracking before you can rein it in. With a spark of annoyance, you rock your hips back and find satisfaction in how he falters. "Ngh-... it's not as if you're not enjoying it, too."

Wanderer's arousal digs into your backside, growing more persistent as you repeat that movement with precision. In return, you get a sharp pinch that makes you whine under your breath. It feels like you've given him a victory, and he gives your chest one more squeeze before taking the prize he feels he's won. 

"On your back." He directs, pulling away enough for you to follow his direction. With both hands, he shoves your shirt to your collarbone, your breasts falling free for only a moment before his mouth catches one, his hand on the other. 

Instinctively, your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close enough that he couldn't pull away even if he wanted to. With a sharp suck, he takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it in rhythmic motions that match the movement of his fingers on the other. He’s barely even breathing, but rather working himself up into a fervency where maintaining the illusion of being human is pushed away in favor of single-minded desire.

When he gets too rough, you tug his hair, and he lessens the pressure. If he’s lingering too long on one side, a subtle push of his head moves him easily to the other. And all the while, his hips slot against yours, grinding messily as if friction between the two of you is an afterthought compared to how the taste of your skin is making his eyes flutter shut so prettily. His eyelashes brush against high cheekbones, and you fight the urge to sweep your thumb across to see if they’re as soft as they look. 

Instead, you card your fingers through his hair and wonder how it stays so smooth despite how careless you’ve been with it up to this point. In spite of how nice this all feels, it just isn’t enough. And if he’s going to go this far, you’d rather he just go all the way and be done with playing around. 

With a sharp tug, you pull him away from your skin and he looks ruined. Eyes glassy despite his laser-focus on your face, lips swollen, wetness across his lips from how reckless he’d been so far. Before he can question you, your voice comes out - a lower pitch than usual, breathless but still demanding. “I need more, Wanderer.”

Simple enough to fulfill, you think, but his lips twist into a smile that’s almost wry as he answers, “If you hadn’t interrupted me-”

“You know what I mean.” Any annoyance that might have been effective is lessened by the way he’s warmed your cheeks and slickened your skin with his saliva, his fingers still rolling one of your nipples idly. Like he’s not interested in it, like he hadn’t been nipping and sucking and biting you with the sort of abandon belonging to a man starved. 

Starved for attention, affection, simple contact… You’re not quite sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter, in the long run - any of those would be solved if he just stopped fooling around. 

Wanderer does know what you mean, and his tongue darts out to sweep the lingering wetness from his lips before he lifts off you, shrugging enough of the blankets away that there’s room to rather neatly roll yourself once more. From below you, he looks just as pretty as above. Hair against the pillow you’d just been leaning against, skin lit up by the occasional flash of lightning through the trees above, hands digging into the outsides of your thighs as you straddle his lap.

Inhaling sharply, as if he just remembered that perhaps unnatural stillness of a being that doesn’t need oxygen might be unsettling, he takes in the sight of you in the same manner of admiration you’d been giving him. It’ll make more sense in the morning, when the storm has passed and the cover of darkness isn’t enough to hide rational thought. 

Pressing his fingers against your plush skin, leaving little oval marks of red in his yearning, he murmurs, “Take it, then. If you want more, make me give it to you.”

And oh, does that do something inside of you. Setting your stomach afire with a need you don’t bother to control, Wanderer’s challenge is met with your hands on his shoulders, and a slow roll of your hips that wipes the attitude off his face in one smooth movement. 

Arching himself to meet you halfway, he chases the feeling of your heat against his hardness greedily. For someone that wants you to take, he seems awfully eager to give.

But he demanded that you take what you want, that you make him give it to you, so you leverage yourself away to shimmy out of your shorts as quickly as you can. Depriving yourself of his body heat for such a short time shouldn’t feel as desolate as it does, but by the time you return it feels as if those few seconds were the equivalent of a lifetime. 

Despite your partial nudity, you really only give enough effort to reach between your bodies and pull him free. While he’s attempted to seem detached - both in this tent and outside, where the world exists despite feeling as if it’s been reduced to only these four canvas walls - Wanderer’s eyes positively glow with a saccharine sort of longing that threatens to pull you in if you stare at it a little too long, a little too willing.

The first stretch of his cock brings you pause. It’s been too long, certainly for you, maybe for him with how his fingertips grab as your thighs all over again, as if he were searching for something to ground himself in this exact moment. You don’t blame him, gripping his shoulders just as hard; bracing yourself against him, pushing him down into the mess of a blanket at his back. 

“Y-you’re so-!” Spitefully, you cut off his words by sinking just a little further, taking a little more inside. Wanderer learns his lesson, relegating the use of his voice to what could only be considered a whine as you move at your pace, not his. Little by little, agonizingly slow until he has nothing more to give and you’re seated fully on his cock. 

You’re far from unaffected, but a need to maintain the upper hand keeps your face tuned to amusement as you watch the emotions flicker across his face. A great many of them you’re unfamiliar with, but perhaps he’ll give you a chance to learn them after this encounter. Maybe this won’t be the last. 

Finally, he looks at you through cracked eyelids, desperation coloring his voice as he pleads for you to take him. Wanderer tries to spin it as an order, but there can be no authority when he sounds so ruined from simply being inside you - no movement beyond the subconscious way you tighten around him for your own pleasure. 

Taking the smallest amount of pity - and growing impatient with your own teasing - you rock your hips forward, then back, and take note of how his head falls back enough to show the pretty line of his unmarred throat, usually so hidden by the high collar of his clothing. With a shaking exhale, pleased by both the sight beneath you and the sensations inside, you ask, “Does it feel good? You look overwhelmed…”

“I-I’m not, it’s just-...” Wanderer trails off, face twisting in a grimace as you repeat your movements, setting a slow and rhythmic pace that could be enough if either of you had the patience to maintain it. The smallest whine precedes his words, “You feel so good, I don’t think I can… I can’t-”

“You can.” You urge, reaching for his hand on your thigh to pry it loose, bringing it to the apex of your thighs with a purpose he clumsily realizes. Just the thought of having him - normally so composed and closed-off - completely pulled to pieces like this has you thrilled in ways you haven’t managed to feel before. 

That, paired with the obscene feeling of being perfectly filled by him, has you close enough that even if he’s a bit too overwhelmed to be precise with the movements of his fingers, you’re inching closer and closer to what feels like a monolith on the horizon. Swallowing around a moan threatening to tumble free, you turn it into words, “I’m so close, j-just a little more. You’re so good, so good, so-”

“Please,” his begging is hoarse as he tries to match your movements, tries to match the pleasure you’re giving him with offerings of his own, “let me feel you, please.”

Another inhale from him, like something is just on the tip of his tongue, but it dies as you tilt back a little. The change is what you need, the last bit to complement the succession of feelings in every sense of the word, and Wanderer gets exactly what he begs for as you find your release at his behest. 

Your hands lessen their grip on his shoulders as you abandon pinning him in favor of prolonging what you’ve found, and like the snapping of a leash he abandons any sense of submitting to you in favor of gripping your hips and jerking himself sharply upward into you. The sound of surprise you make is undignified at best, downright lewd at its most basic, and that only seems to spur him on as he takes on a short-lived viciousness stemming from unresolved desperation. 

One hand snatches yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a sloppy kiss to your palm - a sudden intimacy just before he takes your fingers past his lips and onto his tongue. A wrecked sound tears from his throat as his tongue twists between your fingers and his teeth graze at your knuckles before biting down with enough force to almost be painful.

By the time you’re coming down, he’s taken your place - pistoning with long, sharp thrusts that are short-lived. The two of you danced on the edge as it was, and he’s freely able to throw himself off of it with reckless abandon and his back arching in such a beautiful curve. His tongue stills, but you’ve gained enough faculties back to drag the pads of your fingers along his taste buds, dangerously close to the back of his tongue where it would make him gag. 

In that moment, his eyes open enough to look at you as he murmurs around your fingers that he loves you. 

Maybe he does, at that moment when the entirety of existence loses its deeper meaning, perhaps Wanderer does feel something strong enough that it could be confused for love. But as you pull your fingers from his mouth and fall to his side, head over his chest where no heart beats, you wonder how he’d justify it if you brought it up in the morning. 

You won’t - and he won’t either, even though he says it the next time, and the one following, each growing more frantic as if he were desperate for you to return the favor. If you do, it won’t be in the throes of passion - you want to mean it. It’ll be said in the sunlight, maybe even spoken with a nonchalance he doesn’t expect. 

His expression of surprise would be rather pretty, you think.

FUUUCCKKK PLS THIS IS SO GOOD HE DESERVES SO MUCH 😭😭😭

He Who Hides Behind a Mask.

Scaramouche x F!Reader.

Warnings: Scaramouche is a mess, Reader is honestly a mess too, implied not SFW.  Word count: 6k. 

Note: originally, this story was going to be lot darker (haha), but after the 3.1 cutscene… i decided mr. mouche can have a break just this once. as a treat. please handle him with care. he really needs all of it he can get. anyway here’s my love letter to my fav genshin character. 

i.

You are, without a doubt, the worst human in the world.

If Scaramouche was labeled an eccentric by his peers throughout the centuries, he wonders what that would make you. Whatever conventions you abide by are a complete mystery to him. Perhaps you damaged your head at some point in your life and are now living with the consequences. Or, your head has made it out mostly unscathed, and you really are just this foolish for no good reason. That miserable doctor might say there’s an explanation behind every phenomenon, but the charlatan surely would change his tune if he met you.  

What else could possibly explain why you have the audacity to waltz into his office, entirely unannounced, scuttling about like you owned the place?

… And if that isn’t worse enough, why does he let you?

Keep reading

Meeting a Beautiful Fan

w/sakusa kiyoomi, bokuto kotarou, and atsumu miya

fluff. 1k wc. rip to fictional friend aiko.

♡ Sakusa Kiyoomi

“Um, hello.”

“Hey….Hi.”

“Are you Sakusa Kyoomi?”

“Yeah, that’s-“ This is an angel. He’s looking at an angel right now. “That’s me.”

“Oh! Okay,” You nod, gesturing at the matching jersey in your hand. “If you’re not too busy, can you sign this jersey?”

Sakusa nods silently and reaches for the shirt, nearly swallowing his tongue as his fingers brush with yours. “Who should I… make it out to?”

“Oh um - if you can, can you just wish my friend a happy birthday? Her name’s Aiko.”

“Oh, this is a gift.” He sounds impassive but that’s because he’s having a meltdown on the inside. “‘Was wondering why I haven’t seen you at any of the games.”

“Yeah, my friend’s a huge fan but she’ll be overseas until next year so, I came and got some souvenirs to send her.” He nods at the explanation, but nearly overheats when you continue. “But your plays were amazing, this being the first time I’m seeing them in person. I can see why she’s such a big fan.”

“Thank you. I uh..” He glances around. “I appreciate it.”

“Uh no, thank you-“

“Wait there a sec- Miya!”

Atsumu looks over and trots to him with a smile, bouncing the novelty foam ball in his hand and nearly dropping it once he’s got a glance at the dime standing in front of his teammate.

“Heya there, angel-“

“Can I have that?” He points to the ball.

Atsumu immediately catches on. “Oh, sure thing! Here, gorgeous, ya want me ta sign it-“

“No.” Sakusa takes it out of his hand and scribbles on it with his pen. “Here, uh… keep this for yourself.”

“Hm? Oh.” You reach for the ball and Atsumu nearly croons at the sound of your voice. He nearly says something to, if not for the clear call of dibs drilling holes in his head as Sakusa side eyes him.

You smile and it’s straight out of a day dream. “I appreciate it, thank you.”

Sakusa nods as you side-step your way out of the line and they both wave back at you as you walk away.

Atsumu smacks his teeth. “There she goes, ma future wife walking off with your number.”

Sakusa elbows him.

♡ Bokuto Kotarou

“Uh, are you Bokuto?” A voice inquires softly behind him.

Kotarou turns with a gleeful smile to address the fan standing behind him. Smiling widely as he cheers from the deeper portion of his chest. “Hey, Hey….H-Hey!”

Holy shit.

You return his grin with a closed mouth smile as you bow, hardly paying any mind to the way his grin slowly falls into a disbelieving gape. “Nice to meet you.”

“Y-…Yeah, it really is!” He stammers a bit nervously. “Nice to meet you, I mean. It’s- It’s really nice to meet you too!”

You snicker somewhat and his chest caves in.

“That’s great!” Your attempt to exclaim with him is poor and a little cut off by the sheer silliness of trying to match his energy but it’s cute regardless. He barely registers the jersey in your hand, too busy planning out what your wedding reception is gonna look like.

“Is it okay if I ask you to sign this?” You simper.

Ko takes it out of your hand with an eager few nods. “Yeah! Of course!” He whips out his marker. “And what’s the pretty girl’s pretty name?”

“Oh, it’s- Well this is actually a gift for my friend, Aiko. Who’s a huge fan. But I’m-…My name’s ____.” You stumble a bit.

He nearly croons. Are you nervous? He’s the one staring at the girl of his dreams right now! Ah, and you’re such a good friend! Going out of your way to get your friend a gift like this! He swears he’d swoon over you if he could.

“Yeah? Birthday?” You nod as he regains a bit of his composure. “Cool. Cool. And are uh… are you a fan?”

“Me? Oh, this is actually my first game.” You admit. “But it was really fun watching you play. Your…line shots? I think? They’re super duper cool!” You beam up at him, he nearly clenches his heart in duress.

Ko gasps. “Thank you!! Sometimes I forget how to do ‘em!!” The two of you giggle a little together. “But I’m flattered regardless! Think after this match you’ll become a regular?”

You shrug. “Maybe. If I can find some time between school work.”

“College student?” You give him an affirming hum. “That’s really cool. Well - Hey, I’d like to see you again regardless?”

He rips a thin sheet of signing paper from the table beside him and bends to jot his phone number on it before folding it a couple times.

Ko turns back to you and somehow you’re even cuter than you were when he first looked at you. “If that’s… alright? Maybe we can catch a drink or something later?”

You give him a bit of a disbelieving smile but take it regardless. Belatedly he realizes what a small chance it was that you’d even be single. “O-Oh! Yeah sure that’d be great.”

Ko smiles excitedly, like he’s won twice today. “Great! Well, I’ll uh- I’ll talk to you later?”

“Definitely.” You smile, and he’s floating on cloud 9 as you start to walk away. “Bye!”

“Bye-Bye!”

♡ Atsumu Miya

Atsumu’s smile wavers when you shuffle into the front of the line but only because he’s a little too surprised to remain cordial. It’s not every day that your dream girl shows up in line to ask you for an autograph.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” He immediately grabs the foam ball to the left of him. “Didn’t know they let angels in here?”

You smile a little at his quip but you aren’t as affected by it as he’d like you to be. “Ah, that’s very kind of you, Miya-san. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, gorgeous.” His chair creaks as he stands up, and he cradles the toy between his elbow as he reaches for the novelty plushie in your hand. “So, who am I makin’ it out to?”

“My friend, Aiko? It’s her birthday.” You shift on your heels as he signs the doll. “She’s a huge fan. I really wanted to surprise her.”

“Yeah? That’s awful sweet of ya.” He smiles. You glow under the gym lights, he doesn’t know if it’s the afterglow of success or just the sheer desirability you exude that’s making you so painfully attractive to him right now. “What’s Aiko’s friend's name is what I really wanna know?”

“Me? Oh, my name’s ____.”

“Figures.” He tuts. “It fits ya, pretty.”

Atsumu bounces the ball sitting in the crook of his arm down to his palms as he hands you back the toy, quickly scribbling a little note on it before you can get the chance to thank him for his signature.

“Hey,” He leans in hushedly, you follow his lead, “It’s gonna kill me if I miss a chance like this, so here.” Atsumu sneaks the ball into your hands. “If you’re available?”

You glance at his handwriting on the ball and smile abashedly. The little giggle you let out makes his face hot. “Yeah? Sure thing.”

“A’right!” He leans back cheerfully, waving you off before the rest of his fans can catch on. “See ya later then, sweetpea.”

You smile as he twiggles his fingers at you from the stand, watching you disappear into the crowd even as his next fan stands in front to receive their own signature.

The ball crunches slightly against your wandering fingers.

“Your future boyfriend, Tsumu. <3 xxx-xxx-xxx.”

reblogs are appreciated 💕

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐭

warnings/info: scaramouche x gn!reader, scaramouche lore spoilers, not proofread very well, ~1k words, fluff, overuse of italics, no other warnings

notes from tori: continuation (prt3) to the husk of opulance miniseries. i am planning on writing a part 4. please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in that!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (you are here)

Nights on Yashiori Island were painfully dark. Dark enough to be vulnerable, and yet, Scaramouche had kept your quaint pair so safely hidden while he formulated whatever plan he was concocting. Currently, you were sitting across from the man, orange firelight between you casting deep shadows across his dramatic features, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared intently at you. The pads of his fingers were pressed together in front of his mouth, but despite his contemplative, overall calm posture, you couldn’t resist squirming under his burning gaze. The violet in his irises glowed, reflecting the embers below, and he stared. He stared at your face, studying each curve without expression. 

“Kunikuzushi.” You murmured, feeling the need to coax him from his thoughts. Aching to sever the tension before it stirred up the raging thoughts you’d had since that night.

That night. 

His hands had been calloused yet delicate against your skin when he slid on your shoes. Like he cared. Perhaps that wasn’t far-fetched at face value, but anyone who knew Scaramouche knew. They knew how monumental such a gesture would be. 

Scaramouche didn’t respond to your meek call of his name, and you shivered internally, warmed by the fire and yet so cold within. 

“Is everything-”

“At dawn, I will be leaving for a time.” He interrupted matter-of-factly, his words leaving no room for argument. “I will be coming back. You better stay put while I’m gone.”

“What?” You guffawed, your voice barely cutting across the smokescreen. “Where are you going? Why can’t I come?” His eyes narrowed at your interrogation, but he remained otherwise calm.

Keep reading

Serendipity

“The faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable and agreeable things not sought for” 

Ordinary (h/c) hair and plain (e/c) eyes. Two loving parents bringing in average income. Part of Mondstat’s middle class. Enough schooling and education to bring out job opportunities, with grades succeeding an average score. And lastly Visionless. 

If it weren't for any legal work, your very existence itself is replaceable a humdrum to the big shots who bears a vision.  

If the whole of Teyvat is a written book of wonderful heroes like the Traveler and the Knights of Favonius. You’re probably one of the mob characters blending in the background par average without any accomplishments, outshone by some fortunate enough to be given a vision. Whose ambition shone brightly enough to gain the archons recognition. 

Yet as you walked through the market square you failed to notice bright teal eyes wander to your form as you listened to the girl, he heard was named Eury.  

The bustling children looking at you expectantly, hoping that you’d lend some of your time indulging them in their childish antics. 

Or the lines of admirers including his very own disciple, Timaeus.  

Lost in the thought of considering yourself mundane, you failed to realize that your simplicity is a blessing to those whose life is filled with action and chaos at every moment.  

================================================

Boorish and mundane. When Albedo heard about Timaeus’s little “puppy crush” on you through Kaeya, the subject of course went his ear and out the other. Until the faithful day when he saw you at the Alchemy stand with sucrose on his rare visit’s to Mondstadt, bored out of his mind he then decided to pay you some mind. Interested in how you made his normally timid and shy assistant, social and comfortable enough to go outside. 

With the excuse of performing outdoors precautions on making Alchemy safer. He had the opportunity to stalk observe you.  

Like he predicted, you were mundane as he thought. More than the others he found a nuisance. 

Physically wise nothing was out of the ordinary. You wore the same clothes like anybody else, styled your hair the same way, and had your actions oriented in a way that made you blend in. 

Other than your snide witty remarks, you almost always listened and never really “conversed”. Even as Sucrose went into detail about how her experiment went wrong, or the number of species of mushrooms she recently discovered with her bio alchemy and the difference with each one. You just stood alongside her, smiling at her urging her into her rambles, and at times giving her shoulder a light pat.  

Considerate and having the patience of a saint. Likable traits enough to make his assistant feel comfortable. Or anyone at that. He must say he starts to see the appeal of well, being your friend. But it doesn’t answer his question at the very least. 

Dismissing your inhumane attention span. The way you make people flock around you mesmerized him more.  

The way the Calvary captain muses to you about his recent case, often inviting you to the tavern for a drink. Or how both the spindrift knight and the outrider seemed to always try to invite you to one of their expeditions. What baffles him the most is the fact that his own sister a girl who often says what's on her mind, flusters at your presence. 

 Curious about this phenomenon, and him deeming his predicament is the answer to his master's question. He then decided to do a survey among the Knight’s, people who are well adapted to the general public. a complete contrast to his profession. On how exactly can someone be so ordinary yet be so stimulating to others. 

“Albedo... the question is a bit off-putting but since it comes from you, I'll try and answer the question as best as I can- Let's see I would say that it is refreshing to hear a person's life whose lifestyle varies from your's.. but for it to be stimulating, I'd believe it would be about the person themselves wouldn't it? ordinary or not a person's life isn't the only thing that brings people together, it's the people themselves also."

“Hmm.. Well, stimulating isn’t how I would word it...- but to be accepted by the citizens of Mondstadt and to be not seen as a schemer plotting over Mondstat's downfall would be quite nice... *Ahem* what I would like to say is...- to hear about the common folks lifestyle.. makes it easier to fantasize such lucid fantasy- not like it matters anyway.... I hope I answered your question is that all?"

And as much as he hated it he had one person he didn't ask about the survey.. The one person he dreaded to ask. But alas a survey is a survey and to make it as accurate as possible to be presentable enough for his master he had to do it.  

“Oh- are you perhaps talking about dearest (Name)~.” 

Upon seeing the slight shift of the Chief Alchemist’s normally painted passive face. The Calvary Captain couldn’t help and hide how his lips curved up. 

“Sigh- Please just answer my question for the survey...” 

“Oh how you wound me buuuut- surely do amuse me on what exactly the survey is for, I doubt that a survey based on psychology and social dilemma relates to anything, Alchemy” 

Rubbing his temples, he felt himself getting a migraine. Dealing with Kaeya is akin to dealing with a child. 

“It’s for the final assignment my creat- master told me to fulfill.. So, I would gladly appreciate it if you answer it truthfully, I may add” 

Leaning on his palms, the bluennette pursed his lips entertained at the spectacle happening before him. 

“Well seeing how desperate you are.. I heed~ “ 

“I well- I personally believe that no one is really ordinary, from the line of my work the most mundane thing can and have the potential to become one of the unordinary, and really who is to judge on what is and what isn’t normal.. Don’t believe me-? Think about Inazuma a land that was known for its infamous Vision hunt decree, at a time vision holders with their vision taken away was the norm in Inazuma..- but to us doesn’t that sound abnormal” 

“To put it simpl-” 

“That’s enough Kaeya.. Your answer is enough, take you for lending me your time..” bowing out of courtesy he swiftly made his way out of the door. Ignoring the teasing remarks, that came soon after. Disappointment clear on his form. Time and energy spent on his little assignment thinking that this was the answer to his master’s question. Rubbing his forehead, he can tell that if it weren’t for his homunculi nature a headache would’ve already formed. Curse Kaeya and his musing on normality.  

Pausing to take his pocket watch out of his pocket he fumbled with the button expecting the latch to open he realized that the latch was clogged by something, and upon investigating he smelt a light scent of sulfur, Gunpowder. How did Klee even manage- 

“Hey.. Are you alright” 

Snapping his head at the sound, he felt more than embarrassed at his current situation. Light ashy hair in disarray, with his uniform disheveled with all the running around he did. He out of all people didn’t want her to see him like this, all so disoriented. 

“Oh- it's nothing really... My pocket watch’s latch seems to be clogged up by some gunpowder.... It's nothing to worry about” gesturing to his hand. 

He watched as they looked at his pocket watch, (e/c) gleaming from the sun’s reflection.  

“If you want, I can take a look at it, my folks always clogged theirs's to and I always manage to fix them.. going to the Locksmith these days I heard it's very expensive.. And well-.” Cute. To think that she seemed to forget who she was talking to- he must admit this was a turn of events. 

“If u want to..”  

And just like that, the normally unimpressed alchemist watched as the “mundane” girl fumbled with his watch. Being this close to her, he noticed how picturesque she looked. (h/c) lashes fluttering softly, youth clear from her features, and tongue poking a clear reverence of wanting to prove her word.  

“And Iam-.. Done" reaching her arm out, the girl looked at you. Mirth dancing through her irises.  

“(Nam-e) .. right?” 

“mhmh surprised you remembered, we met.. Back at the alchemy stand- while I was visiting sucrose...so uhh.. are you going to take it- or are you just going to keep staring at me” 

Blinking rapidly, he hurriedly grabbed the watch in her hand. Feeling a volt of electricity shock his gloves' layers upon contact with her palms. He felt his ears redden as he bashfully hid his face in his hands.

“uh- well, it's nice to see you again Albedo.. if that is all il see you later then-” 

“yeah..” 

The star-stricken man watched as the girl went past him. His form glued to his spot as he watched her form pause at that oh so familiar door. His blood running cold knowing exactly where she is going.

The Calvary Captain’s office.

over and over again

pairing - kaeya alberich x gender neutral reader

word count - 4307

genre - fluff

format - fic

warnings - kissing/skinship, sharing a bed with no sexual implications, kaeya spins reader around in his arms, food mention, semi-nudity (kaeya sleeps shirtless), marriage

summary - there's a first for everything but the butterflies in his stomach will never fade whether you kiss him for the first, second, tenth, or hundredth time

a/n - happy new years everyone! WOOO FIRST POST OF 2022!! this piece is my contribution to @favoniuscodex 's "favorites with friends" event! i'll jump at any chance to write for my beloved kaeya, and though i'm sad i didn't get to write him the birthday fic spectacular i wanted to, i think this makes up for it in my little writer heart :P i hope you enjoy!

" I'M A MAN WHO'D KNOW NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT YOUR SMILE, OR LOVE WITHOUT YOUR KISSES "

the first time kaeya alberich kissed you, it was a melancholic, rainy day full of raging tides and crackling thunder.

he had only meant to test the waters; see just beneath your skin and observe the way your heart pounded in your chest whenever he strutted by with a wink and a blown kiss in your direction. but, instead, the tides had risen and engulfed him with sweet fervor and though his lungs craved the comfort of oxygen; of a no-strings-attached little game, he ceded to the sugary depths of your ocean's bellow and allowed himself to drown within your everything.

one date turned to two, then ten, and suddenly he wasn't keeping track any more because time seemed to fizzle off into specks of sparkling gold by your side, and in that moment of sweet prolonged brevity did he realize the hold you had on his shipwrecked heart.

it was a thundering day when he finally put his lips on yours for the first time. the recipe for disaster entailed: one rainstorm, one picnic-gone-wrong, two rain-soaked, giggling adults who ran hand-in-hand back to the gates of mondstat, and a stone archway where you brushed his damp locks from his face with a smile and he tried his best not to let his eyes wander down your sheer clothing. what should've been innocent touches and fleeting glances slowly began to bud into lingering touches and he had leaned in almost instinctually like a rehearsed habit before he even realized it. and never before had he tasted a flavor more sweeter than the smothered smile that he felt curve up against his lips, or your honey giggles muffled by the gentle dance of your intertwined lips. it's a sweet song that drowned out the hammer of the rain and crackle of lightning that zipped across the sky.

"say," he muttered just as his lips were about to meet yours, "this is quite cliché is it not? two young lovers caught in the rain for a kiss? you'll indulge me, won't you, sweetheart? or are you perhaps too shy of how good i might make you feel?" he purred with a droopy smile and thumbed the apples of your cheeks.

"oh shut it," the exasperated smile on your face grew as you tugged him impossibly closer and brushed your nose against his, "less talking, more kissing, pretty boy."

kissing was nothing new: nothing grand or revolutionary or anything that would shatter through the glass panes of his reality. at least, that was what he thought before his lips had pressed themselves so firm yet gently against your own and your hands, which wrung themselves around his neck, raked through his damp locks and ignited a dance of swans in his heart.

even after he pulled away from your lips and caressed every inch of your face with his calloused palm, he never truly ever pulled away ever again: for you were his sweet siren who sang tales of starcrossed lovers and destined fate, and he was a mere sailor who loved and loved and loved and jumped ship without hesitation.

continued utc!

" YOU'VE SHOWN ME WHAT LOVE IS—WHAT LOVE COULD BE IN ALL ITS INTRICACIES AND MIRACLES, AND I'LL MAKE IT MY LIFE'S MISSION TO REMIND YOU EACH AND EVERY DAY OF HOW MUCH I CHERISH THE GIFT OF LOVE YOU'VE GIVEN ME "

love is a tricky sea of uncertainty that requires a compass crafted of patience and a telescope forged out of understanding. but love, as he knew it, was not patient, kind, or understanding.

but you were.

patient was your heart which thundered so gently for him; every bit of him from the scalding portraits of firey flames on his body to the thick, coarse, wiry branches that engulfed his shielded heart. patient were the tips of your fingers, which brushed against his and never asked for more than he could ever give (because what he had was finally enough). patient were your lips that melded so sweetly against his and uttered words of unaltered affection bathed in a thick, rosy red glaze.

you understood that you could never truly understand a man like kaeya alberich and yet despite this your arms wrapped around his waist with no hesitation in sight, and you'd look at him as if his scarred and bruised hands were the glorious hands which hung the crescent moon and her glittering stars.

and the kindness that spread and branched out from your back like clouded, fluffy angel wings and engulfed him in their warmth; oh how kind your embrace was; how lovely it was to be peppered with kisses and bathe in your words of sweet love and adoration, or let you kiss the tip of his nose whenever you'd drop off a neatly packed box of a homemade lunch to his office.

he had lost his compass and had his telescope ripped from his trembling, young hands: but you forged new ones bonded of the strongest metals and utmost care and placed them in front of him: you allowed him to grab onto his navigation tools at his own pace, and with eyes unclouded by grief and fury and tools crafted of warmth, sunny days, and the smell of sunflowers did he finally set course for the treasure chest of your heart aboard his sturdy ship.

his compass guided his heart in the direction of yours, and with his telescope he spotted a shore line of a sandy beach where you sat with an armful of blossoming calla lilies and a gentle smile, waiting for his ship to finally dock.

and with these tools did he finally utter the single greatest three words known to all.

shoes and socks discarded and ankles deep in the sloshing, crystal waters of cider lake at the cusp of sunset was where kaeya alberich took both of your hands within his and first murmured a dream against your fingertips.

"say it again." you asked.

and he did. he said it louder, and louder, and louder, until he was screaming at the top of his lungs and spinning you around in the water until both of your clothes were damp and his voice was hoarse and throat sore and the air was filled with your mingled giggles and love-bathed gazes.

"well, are you satiated, sweetheart? or do i need to run my voice into the ground a little more?" that familiar boyish smile of his creeped onto his face as he cupped your face within his hands and thumbed your cheeks just as he did on the day he first got a taste of your lips, "though, if it's for you i wouldn't mind all that much." he murmured against the inside of your wrist as he picked up your hand within his own and peppered kisses all the way up to just beneath your earlobe, where you shivered in his arms and relished in his touch no gentler than the drop of a feather.

perhaps you were living the same dream when you whispered an "i love you too," against his lips, and let him lead you in a water-bathed waltz to the tune of rolling tides and cooing evening doves.

" I CAN'T PROMISE YOU MUCH, BECAUSE EVEN I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS; BUT I KNOW THAT SHOULD I LOSE MY WAY, MY HOME WILL ALWAYS BE IN YOUR ARMS "

home was within your arms, and you were never quite far.

according to his subordinates, their captain had gone "soft", but how could one not want to melt into the side of their love and feel them merge into their embrace? perhaps he was "soft", but softness was a sweet aria that sounded like you and he was an avid listener.

his duties bound him to work, but once finished you often expected him to be on your doorstep with an armful of your favorite flowers and a promise of a stroll around a rolling hill or two. bit by bit his clothes began to pile up in your closet, and yours his. he'd forgotten his scarf—slung over one of your dining room chairs—after a night spent humming gentle melodies and swaying in each other's arms while skewers of fruity chicken grilled on the stove and a tray of cupcakes baked in the oven (not to mention all the frosting he must have kissed off of your lips). you returned it the next day and draped it over his shoulder like a veil: he loved that it smelled like home because it smelled like the sweetness of the cupcakes you both had baked last night.

"kaeya! i thought i told you no spoon licking!"

despite being caught, he eyed you the second time his tongue scraped over the wooden spoon and collected the sweetness of the chocolate frosting into his mouth, complete with a satisfied hum. "my condolences, dove, but you must know by now that i'm simply insatiable when it comes to sweets." he chuckled and lurched his hand containing the spoon upwards just as you lunged forwards to grab it out of his hand.

"gimme the spoon, you big oaf!"

but that was the last thing he wanted to do; looking at the little furrow of your eyebrows and seeing you try to come off as angry but give in to the bursting bubble of giggles that wiggled up from your stomach made his heart flutter and glow a beautiful, pearlescent pink.

his free arm wrapped itself around your waist and pulled your flush against his chest, effectively silencing your attempts to regain the spoon and your giggly protests.

"won't you let me satiate my sweet tooth with just a little taste of you, dove?" he hummed against the shell of your ear.

of course he didn't mean the spoon—in fact he tossed it into the sink to hold the back of your head as soon as you closed the gap between your faces and let his sweet tooth indulge in all the sugary sweetness of your kisses.

his house was bathed in your glow: from little trinkets of yours that you had brought and put on his shelves because they suited him—according to you at least—(like the little trail of wooden duckies that shrunk in size the more they went down his shelf), to the now worn-in softness of his couch, once firm and hard from disuse.

there were imprints of your existences within both of your homes but he felt that there was never a need to ask you of anything more: what he had now was comfortable and safe. you existed in every crevice of his home, and how he dreamt so many nights of waking up in the morning to the smell of savory pancakes and coffee, and wrapping his arms around your waist and planting his chin firm on your shoulder while you flipped more of the delicacies.

he loved to surprise you—loved seeing the glimmer of your eyes when they lit up in excitement when his hands unraveled to reveal the prize beneath his skin: whether it was an invitation on a kaeya-esque date that involved mock pirate treasure hunts or a simple picnic in a field of flowers, or even just a little kiss, you loved it all and he loved you.

so with a heart bursting of desires for your hands to gently comb through his morning bedhead and for your clothes to hang neatly beside his in his closet, he looped a necklace with a perfect, bronze copy of his apartment key around your neck and kissed the back of your nape to utter silent words straight down your spine.

"you're always around, so i figured i'd gift you a little something to make my place easier for you to get into. you're the only burglar that i'd welcome with open arms, sweetheart." he chose to ignore the gentle, chiding slap on his forearm as he hugged you from behind and toyed with the metal key that now hung from your neck.

imagine his surprise when you, in turn, knocked him off his feet to the ground in a hug and produced a key similar to the one to your house from your pocket, made in a similar fashion to the necklace he had looped around your neck.

" I LOOK FORWARD TO ALL THE MORNINGS THAT I GET TO WAKE UP BY YOUR SIDE, AND I LOOK FORWARD TO WATCHING YOU BURN BREAKFAST TOO "

there was beauty to be found in even the most mundane of activities when it concerned you.

the minute his eyes fluttered open, he was gifted with the beautiful sight of your slightly parted lips and a thin trail of drool from the corner of your mouth as you snored contently with your head nestled into the crook of his neck. morning light streamed through his (or should he say yours—but really it was both of yours) bedroom windows and bathed your intertwined bodies in a honeyed morning glow.

it was the first time he'd ever woken up next to you when light was still young and birds cooed their sunrise sonnets. his fingers couldn't help but trace paths across your face and skin. he'd pull you closer if possible but distance was nonexistent when he held you so tightly in his arms. he couldn't wait for you to rouse from your sleep; just what was that pretty little mind of yours up to in there? perhaps one day you'd tell him if he asked, and he'd be sure to respond in kind with a foxy smile and tales of grandeur of his own.

but for now he was more than content to sync the rise and fall of his chest with your own and whisper ballads of affection with a sweet rosy scent through half lidded eyes and a gentle smile.

and when you did finally pull yourself away from unconsciousness and fell through the thick clouds of your dreams to wake in his arms, his heart felt whole and full and good.

"you're staring, captain."

your finger poked his bare chest with playful intentions under your fingernail before it dissolved into a tender touch where your palm splayed over his shoulder blade and creeped upward over his skin to cup his cheek, warm from the morning light.

"i quite fancy the drool on your face, wish i had a kamera to capture this moment."

he laughed as you groaned and pressed your face into his chest to avoid his teasing coos while you hurriedly used your sleeve to wipe the trail of drool from your mouth.

"you're insufferable, i'm gonna kick you out of my bed." you grumbled even as he hummed a chuckle against your scalp and kissed the top of your head.

"our bed, sweetheart." he corrected with an impish grin.

"...'m gonna push you off." despite your words, your arms tightened around his torso and you drove your face further into his chest—presumably in search of the gentle pitter patter of his heartbeat. he couldn't bite back the smile that spread to his face as his hand traced indistinguishable patterns along the length of your spine.

"g'mornin', dove." were the words he'd waited so long to say with a voice laced in sleep, and when you replied in an equally raspy and love-drunk tune and so easily slotted your lips against his, there was no other place he'd rather be than snuggled up beside you in your shared bed where you'd forever wake up with morning doves as your alarm and feel the gentle touch of each other's fingertips wander across starstruck skin.

" EACH DAY I WAKE UP AND FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU OVER AND OVER AGAIN, AND I WILL FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU OVER AND OVER AGAIN EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE "

if there were an image that kaeya wished to burn into the back of his eyelids so that he could always remember every intricate detail and glimmering sparkle of the memory, the image of you in your wedding attire and bathed in a honeymooned glow would be his first choice.

his hands were trembling—not the kind that you'd see in a strong captain who'd braved the harsh flare of fiery flames, the cold sting of frost, or the quizzical enrapture of the stars.

his hands were trembling like they were trembling when diluc first placed a frog into his hands at the tender age of four, and kaeya—never having seen such a wonderous creature—was terrified it'd open its mouth and swallow him whole like the creatures back home could.

his hands were trembling like they were when he first picked up a sword and felt the grip of it rub against his once tender palms—now, however, they were quite callous from years of use and wear and yet your hands still caressed his as if they were made of heavenly clouds.

his hands were trembling like they were when he carried out his first campaign as cavalry captain with a shattered heart and a mask that would slip if he were not careful. his voice commanded his troops and he rode his black stallion with grace and glory and all the reverie that a captain should hold, but deep inside he feared braving the storms that awaited him—feared the ferocious endeavors that would snatch the lives of his troop, or even his.

but you knew—you knew so well just why his hands trembled. you'd seen it the minute you starting walking down the isle on the carpeted floors of the church. the white suit he adorned made him look so handsome, so sweet, the epitome of the man you'd soon swear your life to in legal binding. kaeya couldn't take his eye off of you, not from the minute you entered through the heavy, oak doors to the moment you met him at the altar and placed your hands within his own. the soothing rub of your thumbs over his knuckles had him relaxing into your touch, and the little "hi" you whispered to him made him want to do nothing but sweep you off your feet and book it out of the church and go dancing at the shorelines of lakes or read each other fairy tales on gingham picnic blankets on summer breezy days.

and though his hands continued to shake while he recited his vows, his gaze remained fixed onto you and the universe of possibilities that swam in your telescope eyes.

with a shaky breath, kaeya began:

"i'm a man who'd know no happiness without your smile, or love without your kisses."

for once there were no glittery words or phrases bathed in gold. he was terrified of being bare but to bear himself in your arms gave him the confidence he needed to declare his truth once and for in all the holiest of places in front of all those he treasured.

he was glad he lost track of how many dates you'd been on; glad that the thunderstorm that interrupted your picnic had backed the two of your into a corner so that he could finally get a taste of your lips. the day you gifted him true happiness and felt the first surge of love from your lips to his own was the day he felt reborn again; almost as if he had touched the stars and gotten a taste of cosmic dust.

"you've shown me what love is—what love could be in all its intricacies and miracles, and i'll make it my life's mission to remind you each and every day of how much i cherish the gift of love you've given me."

he wanted so badly to wipe away the tears that had begun to pool and trickle down your cheeks, sometimes running over the warbled smile on your lips.

"crying already, darling? but i've only read half of my vows." he leaned down and whispered for your only your ears. he did his best to ignore the slight crack in his voice towards the end and swiped his thumb just below your eye and kept his trembling hand pressed snug against your cheek.

"i can't promise you much, because even i don't know what the future holds; but i know that should i lose my way, my home will always be in your arms."

now it was his turn to tear up, despite how much he promised himself that he wouldn't cry. he tried to dissuade the urge to cry during his vows beforehand (because no matter how hard he tried, whenever he read those promised, sacred words, he just couldn't prevent himself from crying). but, for once, these tears weren't from a place of sorrow and grief, but rather a warm garden filled with roses and carnations and a sparkling fountain with both of your names inscribed on the shining marble. he let out a breathy, shaky laugh when you mimicked his touch and cupped his cheek within your palm to swipe away at the tears that cascaded down his face. kaeya didn't quite know if it was improper to so openly touch you beloved before you were wedded in the church, but nothing mattered more than the gentleness of your touch at the moment.

"i look forward to all the mornings that i get to wake up by your side," he started, squeezing your hand before continuing, "and i look forward to watching you burn breakfast too."

laughter rippled throughout the crowd as you choked back a joyful sob and gently knocked him in the shin with your shoe. "i'll make sure yours is burnt to a crisp, alberich." you muttered.

"what, me or you? we'll both be alberich in a minute, sweetheart." he retorted, despite the glimmer of fresh tears in his eye.

choosing to ignore the side eye of urgency that the pastor gave him, kaeya let go of your hand for a brief moment to pluck a single, blue rose from your bouquet and place it behind your ear before continuing.

"each day i wake up and fall in love with you over and over again, and i will fall in love with you over and over again every day for the rest of my life."

his hands still trembled: more than when diluc placed a frog into his hands, more than when he first knew the weight of a sword, more than when he led his first campaign. but they trembled within your own, and he knew that no matter what he'd be safe enveloped within your touch.

somewhere in the process, the pastor officiated him as your husband and those in the pews cheered, but he was far too enamored with studying every inch of your face and dipping into the pools of your eyes that never flickered away from him no matter what. when you finally cupped his cheeks and kissed him with such adoration and twinkles of starlight in your eyes, he knew that you'd always be there to hold onto his shaking hands.

kaeya knows how to dance with frost: be quick on your feet, subtle with your moves and never, ever, let the enemy get a hint of your next move.

but dancing with you for the first time as your husband was nothing like the dance of a battle of frost. it felt warm, soothing, and sweet: like the first bite of a gooey, chocolate cookie straight out of the oven. as he wrapped his arms around your waist and let you loop yours around his neck, he felt no need to adhere to the ebb and flow of noblemen footwork and fancy dance tactics. your noses brushed against one another, and he was pretty sure he was swaying with you much slower than the tempo of the song, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

the shimmering golden band that adorned his left ring finger was a reminder of his vows, both spoken and silent, and the life that he'd forge by your side as one who loves you. and as he raised your hand to press his lips to the similar ring that encased your finger, he felt a surge of determination wash over him like a gentle tide.

"hey," you murmured, and raised a hand to cup his cheek.

he hummed an acknowledgment and pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist without breaking the starry gaze that connected your eyes to his.

"i'm sure that our dance was supposed to end a little while ago." you giggled and weaved a lock of his fluffy, indigo hair through one of your fingers.

"was it now? my apologies, love, i got lost staring into your eyes."

he tastefully chose to ignore your playful eyeroll and instead zeroed in on your lips, which were moving and probably chiding him for making such a cheesy remark. as if in a trance, his hands cupped your face and tilted your head to the side for a tender kiss that felt like the first breath of spring in his veins; more dainty and gentle than the fragile petals of a soft, velvety rose. his fingers ran over the soft tips of the blue rose he had tucked behind your ear at the altar once he pulled away, all awestricken and breathless in the lungs.

there weren't any words that he needed to preach; no lord to impress, no one to woo or have them do his bidding in a game of wits. just you: you who loved him wholly and as he was for the man he knew himself to be.

the food, guests, and party can wait: because in your arms he is home and home is where he wished to forever remain.

date published: january 9th, 2022

Words cannot express how fucked up I am for Haitani Ran and this work ಥ‿ಥ

friends | haitani r.

haitani ran x fem!reader

summary: he shouldn’t have been so damn cocky when he told you not to go catching feelings for him.

genre: fwb to lovers, best friends to lovers

warnings: fem!reader, fwb tropes, semi-public sex, angry/jealous sex, degradation, car sex, UNEDITED

word count: 3.9k

notes: for @kshira​‘s FWB collab! :D 

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