He rolled over in the bed, resting his head on his arm to look at you. His eyes were hazy like he’d just woken up. “Yes?”
“What do you think happens after you die?”
He frowned, puzzlement drawing his brows together. “Why are you asking?”
The blanket rustled as you shifted beneath it, shrugging into yourself. “I dunno, I… think about it sometimes, I guess. I mean, now that I’m alive, it’s inevitable I’m going to die at some point.” You sighed. Chewed on your lip. “I just wonder what it’s like.”
Heizou shuffled closer. “Are you scared?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about it scares you?”
You drew in a breath. “The fact that I don’t know what to expect. You can’t exactly ask dead people what it was like. Is it quick, like lights going off or something, or is it like falling asleep and you slowly… I don’t know, slip away? Do you know when it’s happening? And what’s it like when you’re actually dead? Is it just… darkness? Nothing at all, and this is the only shot we get, and after that our consciousness is gone, forever? Or is there some kind of afterlife? Do I even want there to be an afterlife?”
To your surprise, Heizou breathed a chuckle. “How often do you think about this, angel?”
“…Was the use of that pet name intentional?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.” Paused. “C’mere.” Heizou opened up his arms. You moved closer and nestled yourself comfortably against his chest. His arms came around your back, and he placed his chin on the crown of your head, pressing a kiss to your hair.
“Well, to answer your question…” you mumbled, tracing a finger along his collarbone, “I don’t think about it, like, that often. But sometimes it sort of hits me that I’m going to die someday. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but… it’s weird to think that someday I just won’t exist anymore.”
Heizou paused. “You still want to know what I think?”
“Mhm.” You hesitated. “And don’t make it cheeky. Or flirty or anything.”
His laughter tousled your hair slightly. “Okay. No cheekiness.” You grunted in thanks. Heizou was silent in thought for a moment. His thumb stroked along the line of your shoulder.
“I think,” he said finally, “that death is something you shouldn’t worry about prematurely. You’re right that there’s no way to figure out what happens, so worrying about it doesn’t get you anywhere. What I think is important is making the most of what you have now, and accepting death when it comes, as well as all the mystery it brings along with it.”
“A mystery even you can’t solve, huh?”
“The only one I can’t solve,” he sighed. “Maybe one day, though.” A brief silence passed. “If it helps, you could think of death as a hug.”
You half-smiled, glancing up at him in the dark. “Like this one.”
“Like this one,” Heizou confirmed, planting a kiss on your brow.
“That would be nice.”
“It would, wouldn’t it?”
“Heh. Does that mean I’m dead now?”
Heizou gently prodded your side. “You feel pretty alive to me. But maybe this is the afterlife. Who knows?”
“That means we’re in the afterlife together. So much for ‘until death do us part’ or whatever.”
“Is that so? You’re stuck with me forever, then.”
“Gods have mercy.”
“Hey, now.”
“Teasing you. I don’t think there’s anyone else I’d rather be stuck with for eternity.”
Having said this, you closed your eyes, and fell promptly asleep to Heizou’s heartbeat.
lyney doesn’t know what to do when he falls in love for the first time.
he knows what it’s like to have people fall in love with him—he makes people do it all the time, and is acutely aware of what it takes to tip each person off the edge and into his web of false charms—and he knows what it’s like to love his sister, in the way which makes her his whole world and he doesn’t want to imagine a life without her, but lyney doesn’t know romantic love. that kind of love is only meant for the puppets’ heartstrings he tugs carefully on, and not for the puppet-master, who is above all the charm and flirtation as he spins more people into his web of means to an end.
and then, out of the blue, you come along.
at first, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. his skin is warm; his heartbeat is fast. he knows from observing others that these are symptoms of love, but refuses to accept he’s actually fallen for anybody.
still, he can’t deny that he wants you. wants you by his side, wants to spend time with you, wants to worm his way into your heart like you somehow have into his. gods, he wants revenge on you for making him feel like this, but has no clue how to go around getting it.
so, he plays with you. gauges your personality. what you like and dislike, how you react to things, your opinions, your habits. he pushes and pulls your buttons, learning just the right way to twist you around his little finger, what to say to get the reaction he wants.
but things aren’t that simple. he’s quickly learning that with love, they never are. the thing is, if it was merely revenge that he wanted, it would be easy: make you love him, and then deny you; or not even deny you, but only keep on playing and teasing until you yearned for something more which he would always keep just out of your reach.
as absurd as it sounds, lyney wants to love you. he sees the smiles he prompts onto your face and his heart gives a flutter, because he managed to make you smile. he wants to treasure that smile and hold you close and make sure you know he would never let anything bad happen to you. not on his watch. he wants to kiss you gently, cradle your face in his hands, and tell you all the brilliant things you make him feel with a lovestruck grin on his face. he plays with you, but never too much, because he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself if he hurt you.
he wants your heart to be his, yes, but he knows deep down that it’s only because his is already yours.
so, you see, he’s dealing with quite the conundrum: on one hand, he hates being in love. it’s dangerous for somebody as calculated as him. you’re an unexpected factor in his carefully constructed facade, volatile as you are fascinating. you could bring his walls down with one fleeting smile, and honestly, he’d let you. then he’d hate you for it, but not really, because he’d love you all the same.
and so, when you bring love into his life, lyney’s stumped. utterly clueless. he doesn’t know what to do; he’s only ever been on the receiving end in these situations. he doesn’t know how to act when his heart lurches in his chest, or what to say when you notice he’s not really fine even when he claims to be. he’s caught between ensnaring you in his web and being the wind beneath your wings which helps you fly.
at the end of the day, lyney supposes he’s going to have to learn how to love somebody. not like his sister, and not like the audience which swoons over him after a performance. no, he’s going to have to learn it from scratch.
warning: princess!reader, knight!character (slight AU* Prince and Princess) | sfw | slight hurt (due to different social statuses, arranged engagements,etc), comfort* (happy ending yayayay) | forbidden love | pre-relationship | character perspective
citation: *song lyrics - Just for Now, Michael Crean
Knight!Diluc x fm reader | anthology (Albedo, Kaeya, Jean - coming soon)
synopsis | miles found you fainted in an alleyway one day, except you died two years ago.
word count | 3440
warning | brief mention of injuries / use of spanish phrases translated from the internet :( let me know if i'm wrong about anything! / everything i know about e-42 miles morales is from the movie
note | not the proudest of my writing here. also, a disclaimer that the events in this fic will deviate from canon haha
parts | one, two, three
"Uncle Aaron, I think we forgot to get detergent."
"You forgot to get detergent. I didn't forget nothing."
Miles's shoulders slumped in distaste. His frown mirrored the quiet complaints he spilled out of his mouth as his fingers tugged at the grocery bags dangling on them. He must have been delirious to still forget an item written on a piece of paper and to think the word 'detergent' wasn't even crossed out on the grocery list his mother gave him. It wouldn't be too big of a deal, but he imagined his mother would be mumbling about it as she set the table for dinner.
The doorknob fumbled a bit before the door swung open. The brightness in your eyes dimmed upon seeing Uncle Aaron's furrowed brows, which reminded you of the cautionary tale he kept retiring about being aware of opening doors to unknown knocks in case of danger. You still had difficulty getting used to a dangerous Brooklyn because yours was bright and sunny, and it had its very own Spiderman. Miles had laughed when you told him about your Brooklyn, asking if there was a ranking for crime fighting bug of the week; Spiderman today, something like Ant-man tomorrow?
“If I’d been a serial killer–“
“Which you are not,” you sang with vague cheerfulness as you tried to take the groceries from his hand.
“Hence the question being hypothetical–“
“Miles! You’re home!”
“Mi vida.” It was not audible. He opened his arms habitually and let you dive into his embrace. “How’s your day? Did you glitch?”
You perked up from where you buried your face in his shoulder and examined the bracelet permanently latched around your wrist. Gwen was the one who put the finishing touches on it, and she was so excited about the product that she came over in the middle of the night to hand it to you. It has been about two weeks since you began wearing it, and you have not glitched once. You told Miles it should be safe to conclude that the bracelet worked, but he always asked for good measures anyway.
“I helped around the house, as always,” you replied. Fixing the bracelet, you felt a soft magnetic pull against the tips of your fingers that touched the metal. You let go of it and rested your chin on Miles’s shoulder, sighing in contentment at the mere solidity of his body. “I didn’t glitch.”
Knowing that he was not being paid attention to, Aaron decided against scolding you for cutting him off twice. Instead, he rolled his eyes and turned to the kitchen, where Rio was shifting through a stack of sealed envelopes. He placed the groceries on the square table in the middle of the kitchen and smacked his teeth, looking pointedly at Rio as he nudged his head toward the apartment door.
Rio didn’t have to look to know you two were stuck in each other’s arms by the door. She smiled, shifting through the letters carefully with a shake of her head. “He is happy, Aaron.”
“Happy enough to cut me off my sentence,” he scoffed before adding, “twice.”
“I’m sure they will apologize if you say something,” she mused. “Especially [Name]. They’re a good kid.”
Aaron’s eye twitched in dismay. Rio was right—you were a good kid. He couldn’t hate you enough to delude himself into believing otherwise, and of course, he didn’t actually hate you. Besides the apparent naivety he suspected came from living in a safe Brooklyn, nothing about you was blatantly dislikable. You were helpful, albeit not the brightest learner. You listened well, which could be a product of being in another’s hospitality. And, most importantly, you were Miles’s safe place. For the first time in years, Aaron could see his nephew find time to be the teenager he was supposed to be. You practically breathed life into him, which worried Aaron the most.
You were a second chance that Miles was unwilling to let go of, but whether you return to your Earth was not his decision. What would happen to him when you leave? You would destroy him.
“I got the groceries, Mrs. Morales!”
Rio dropped the envelope in her hand and smiled upon your arrival. "Mi amorcito!"
You tilted your head with a thoughtful grin after you put the grocery bag next to all the things Uncle Aaron had taken out of the one he was holding. When Rio flashed you a questioning look, you shrugged. "Miles called me that before. I didn't know what it meant."
A choked-out cough sounded from behind all three of you, and standing by the kitchen sink was Miles, gripping the edge of the sink and coughing out the water that ran down the wrong pipe. Rio covered her teasing smile with a hand, but her shoulder moved to the gentle beats of her lighthearted chuckles. Aaron stared at his panicking nephew, a tinge of judgemental pity laced in his eyes.
Slamming his fist to his chest, Miles swung around to glare between the three of you before his eyes landed on your curious face. “What are you talkin’ about?”
"When did he say that to you?" Rio asked.
You rolled your eyes skyward. If you remember correctly, it was during the first few glitch attacks when you would break down from the sheer pressure of it. He had encouraged you to sleep with him on those nights, and you gladly accepted the offer. It was during one of those tearful nights, you believed. He had whispered it when he thought you were asleep, with teary hiccups still occupying your body's consciousness, and you remembered he had been stroking your hair to lull you to sleep. Everything about him was tender during those nights—his touch, voice, and presence. Unbeknownst to you, its cause was that he physically could not muster any energy when you suffered.
"He must have thought I was sleeping," you said, then you looked sheepishly at Miles, who returned it with a sneer. “I wasn’t asleep yet.”
“Clearly,” he muttered.
"I didn't take you for someone who would sneak into people's rooms when they're sleeping?" Aaron chimed in.
“I didn’t!” Miles groaned in embarrassment. “They cry like hell whenever they glitch. What was I supposed to do?”
“I did cry like hell when I glitched,” you said in agreement as you turned around from the kitchen cabinet where you were stocking the cleaning supplies. “I was the one who looked for him, actually. I couldn’t fall asleep alone. The glitching was terrible.”
Aaron’s eyes darted between you both. Miles reached out for you, his arm moved boldly, but the tip of his finger that touched your shoulder to get your attention was timid and boyish. He exhaled when you smiled at him, and the faintest smirk only you could discern to be a curve of contentment grew on his face as you walked near him. You scrunched your nose into a tight-lipped smile when he muttered something only you could hear, likely giving an unnecessary explanation for his comment on you crying like hell.
The rate you two could engage in your own world was almost admirable if Aaron wasn’t so cautious of Miles’s growing feelings for you. But watching as you two helped each other stock the kitchen cabinets, shoulders brushing and shoving playfully, he knew he couldn't do anything.
"We forgot to get detergent."
Rio gasped. She glanced at the washing machine filled with dirty clothes waiting to be cleaned, one of which included her work uniform, and she sighed. She would have to wear the one she did on her last shift. “I guess I’ll make a run to the store after my shift ends,” she mumbled with a thoughtful hum. “Or I can do it later on the way to the bank. I needed to deposit something.”
“The bank closes at six,” Aaron said questioningly.
“They have a drop-off box that opens through the night. It’s super convenient,” she clarified with a finger snap. “I’ll just stop by briefly before my shift starts. I might forget tomorrow.”
“Your shift starts at twelve, right?”
“Yeah,” Rio nodded, “overnight.”
“You gonna eat dinner with us?”
“I will,” she nudged her head toward where you and Miles were bickering about the washed dishes, “if those two would step away from the stove so I can cook something!”
The two of you froze up at Rio’s demanding tone. Quickly organizing the knickknacks on the dish rack next to the stove, not forgetting to scoff at each other about storing the utensils, Miles ushered you out of the kitchen with his hands clamped over your shoulders. Uncle Aaron watched your backs disappear into Miles’s room, and he saw your ridiculous faces trying to hold back from laughing at what he could only assume was an inside joke, as nothing was amusing about this situation. He gulped—he couldn’t do anything about Miles’s feelings for you.
The only thing more dangerous than a teenage boy in love is the person he is in love with. Taking you out of the picture would do nothing but bring Miles out of the canvas with you, leaving two vacant spots once close together. If you left, you would destroy him, but more importantly, he wouldn't hesitate to follow you everywhere. If you jumped the universe, he would jump the universe. If you got stranded in purgatory, he would strand himself in limbo. If you went to Hell, he would go to Hell because, at some point, it stopped being a biblical state of eternal torture. At some point, Hell is not a place; Hell is just where you are. And Miles would follow you there, always.
You jolted up with the television screen flashing at your face. Even in your sleep, your body subconsciously remembered there was something you need to do. Before Rio left for her shift, which was just a little after Miles and Uncle Aaron left for the occasional hangout, she gave you a sealed envelope to deposit into the bank mailbox because you insisted that you were going to head outside for a short walk of fresh air anyway, so you might as well help you with this tiny task. Except you fell asleep on the couch after getting ready and woke up at one o’clock in the morning.
Scanning the quiet apartment, it was easy to tell nobody had returned home yet. Rio wouldn’t be home until early in the morning; Miles tended to get home around two to three o’clock when he was off with Uncle Aaron doing who knows what. Leaning your head against the couch cushion, you drew a mental map of the path to the bank before closing your eyes. If you jogged, a round trip would take you roughly fifteen to twenty minutes. Not a problem!
Sliding off the couch, you reached into your crossbody bag that was big enough for a phone to feel for the envelope Rio gave you. It was still in there. You zipped the bag and patted it twice for safety, then fixed your jacket sleeves in preparation for the chilling night breeze. Turning off the television and the living room lights as the last step, you grabbed the house key lying in a bowl with some loose change and left the apartment.
Keeping up a light jog was easy under this cold weather and the dark streets. You liked walking at night, but you were never outside this late. There were no cars or people, much unlike the bustling morning you preferred much more. Uncle Aaron’s cautionary tale repeated in your head and increased your speed through the empty pedestrian road. The more you stayed outdoors, the more you thought it a bad idea to be outside at this dead time.
“What? What is–what?” you muttered as you moved your body about.
Glaring at you was the metal deposit box enclosed in the bank walls. It took you a hot minute to find it because it was behind a wall off the side of the building where the ATMs were. You thought it was a terrible design choice only because you couldn’t find it immediately; it would not have been if you managed to. The second hurdle came when you realized the handle to the mailbox wouldn’t budge.
“How do you open this?” you laughed as you gave the handle another pull. When the metal texture began hurting your skin, you let go to loosen your jacket sleeve until it reached your palm so you could use the thick fabric as a shield. This time, you put a leg up on the wall to use it as leverage. You pulled again. Nothing happened. Huffing in dissatisfaction, you pointed at the mailbox as if it could understand you. “You’re really–mhm!”
The swift kick to the wall could be heard. Miles perked up to where the soft rummaging noise came from and squinted his eyes behind the prowler mask. He scanned the area carefully, looking for any signs of people to find none. He remained tense even as he dropped the matter—gritted teeth and clenched jaw over a bank heist only a few days in planning. He has done this many times before. Maybe not robbing a bank specifically, but criminal activities were no longer a stranger to him as they were. He would even say he enjoyed it; he liked being strong, and it was a source of easy money. However, the main reason why he turned to a life of crime was to distract himself from the death of his father and you. Now that you were here to repaint a corner of his world with colors again, being a prowler was losing its appeal.
"Miles."
He snapped out of his trance at his uncle's impatient voice screeching through the earpiece, and cleared his throat. "Sorry. What's up?"
"What's up?" His uncle sounded incredulous. "Are the bombs set up?"
"Oh–uh, yeah." He peeked out from behind the bush to check out the blinking red light he set up at the foot of the gate. "They're all set up."
"And you? You got your head in the clouds just then.”
“I’m fine, Uncle Aaron,” Miles clarified with the kind of grit that would have gotten him in trouble usually. He took a deep breath. “Let’s detonate them so we can move on from here.”
The other end shuffled and scratched; its noise muffled the careless footsteps behind the ATM wall.
“Detonation in three….”
You pouted when you shoved the envelope in your bag, still mumbling about not finding an opening to the night deposit box. It was a good enough reason to give Rio tomorrow when she returned home from the hospital; that metal handle would not budge!
“Two…”
Miles perked up at the familiar figure trailing slowly by the bank entrance where he set a bomb device. His ears did not deceive him when he thought he heard footsteps somewhere, and neither was Uncle Aaron wrong about his head being in the clouds! Nobody should be out to the bank at this forsaken time, but his surprising lack of attention made him miss the slow walker—he tilted his head—a slow walker wearing a jacket he remembered he also owned.
You blew raspberries as you patted your bag twice for safety measures. When you looked up, you met eyes with a figure in a purple suit. His stance seemed agitated, and Miles was. He cursed under his breath when he recognized your face, his legs already bringing him out from hiding. What were you doing here? You should be at home!
“One.”
“Uncle Aaron, no!”
The ground shook under your feet, but what made you lose your balance was the impact of the sudden explosions that came in three—bang, bang, bang! The bank building was collapsing, or perhaps it was only in the process of being destroyed? You didn’t get a chance to see clearly. You could hear the alarm bells, though. It wasn’t the wailing kind; it was the kind that rang non-stop.
Meeting with the ground was not an extraordinary experience for you, but it felt worse than being pushed in this case. Face planting on marble tiles was mentally more endurable than outdoor brick floors. At least you thought that way for now. A groan left your lips as your brain was overloaded with sensations; you absorbed too much, from the alarm noises to the growing pains at the bottom of your body. You groggily looked to where it came from and saw glass shards sticking to your legs through the fabric of the pants. Great. Turning away from them, you noticed your bracelet scratching up tiny sparks, and you couldn’t bring yourself to wonder if you’d broken it.
“Oh no–shit! No, no, no, ¿por qué estás aquí?” Miles unmasked himself, showing his anxiously darting eyes. His hands hovered over your body indecisively, but he felt his fingers inching toward your face where blood trickled down the side of your skin. Miles needed to look through your hair for the source. Curling his arm under your neck, he lifted you to his chest. “Oh no, oh no. Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento–no quise hacerlo.“
You stirred upon his voice phasing in and out of your muffled hearing. Even with the migraine, you could recognize his voice. He was spilling words you didn’t understand, but some of the vocabulary you knew he had said to you before. Mi cariño, mi corazon…mi vida—he whispered that to you today when he came home from school. He probably didn’t think you heard, but you did. You exhaled, then an exhausted whimper pushed itself out of your mouth when the breathing hurt your throat.
He quickly regained his composure upon seeing a sign of life, immediately hooking his arms under your knees, pulling you to his chest, and leaping away from the falling debris. The sight of you bleeding and injured was all too familiar to him. But instead of letting the flashbacks stop him in his tracks, he planned to do something he couldn’t last time—saving you or at least trying to save you.
Returning to where he was hiding, away from the burning building, Miles scanned his surroundings. “Uncle Aaron! Uncle Aaron, help!”
“Miles!” Aaron emerged from the shadows. “We have to go now, we don’t have time–“ he stopped at the sight of you in Miles’s arms–“what happened?”
“They were here–I don’t know why! They’re not supposed to be out here at this time!”
You remembered how he carried you, which seemed to always be bridal style. It wasn’t as if he did it all the time, though. His hand on your back felt much weirder, too, like he was digging claws into your skin to keep you in his arms. If your senses had gathered better, you would have teased him with the hope that he hadn't gotten tired of you joking about his feelings for you. Licking your dry lips, you rolled your head to meet his chest. It heaved with each word he hollered beyond the fire, the alarm bells, and the disagreement coming from his uncle. They were arguing about where to go. Miles clutched your body closer to him every now and then. He was hell-bent on bringing you to seek medical treatment, and his uncle was not.
“Gwen is waiting!”
“She would want me to help [Name]!”
“We triggered the alarms, so law enforcement will gather here!” Aaron argued. “The police can bring them to the hospital just fine! We need to stick to our plan!”
“[Name] is dead on record. We can’t just bring them to the hospital!” Miles said. “I’m taking them directly to mom.”
A foolish boy. “You’re gonna throw away everything we built.” It was more than just doing crimes, it seemed. There was a bond, a mutual trust built in the process that was on the verge of collapsing. “For that.”
Miles widened his eyes in disbelief. He had his doubts about the way his uncle felt about your existence. Still, he held out hope that the aloofness resulted from the great unknown of the multiverse and Aaron’s personality rather than that he thought your presence was a nuisance. Supposed he was wrong. The casual dehumanization was all he needed to decide how to proceed. Miles hopped a few steps back, his brows furrowing and his grip on your firm.
i need a miles 42 x plus size reader any plot can work 😭
— headcanons. miles with a plus size reader
a/n: i really really hope i did these justice anon im so sorry if i didn’t! for my plus size lovies 🫶🏽
• He is in loveee with your body. Infatuated with every curve, every roll, every stretch mark. Everything that comes with you. He literally compliments you until you get tired of it, and you know it’s genuine just off how he looks at you.
• Encourages you to wear the clothes that you’ve been too scared to go out in. The ones that have been sitting in your closet for ages because you claim “they’re not for your body type”.
• He thinks that’s absolute bullshit and got mad when you told him that. Not at you, but at the fact that you genuinely believed something like that were true. He never lets you talk badly about yourself.
“Fuck you mean they’re not for your body type?” “That’s bullshit, ma. don’t let me hear that again. You look good in everything.”
• For the first few months of your relationship you refused to sit on his lap. He didn’t press you about it because he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but eventually he caught on to what you were doing. And now he doesn’t ask you anymore, he just grabs your arm and pulls you into it.
“Stop it, baby. Don’t get up, I want you here.”
• Has bought a few oversized hoodies specifically so when you go through his closet you can find one that doesn’t just “fit” but is baggy on you, too. He didn’t understand why that was important at first, because you fit his other hoodies just fine, but when he asked, you got a little flustered and told him it was just a girl thing, and that it was stupid so he shouldn’t worry about it. He thought the opposite, though, because if something mattered to you it mattered to him. He went out and bought some the next day.
• Loves to go shopping with you so you have a second opinion in the dressing room. Often times you’re quick to shut down a potential purchase, because for some reason you just don’t see what he does when you look in the mirror.
“Baby, do you like this or does it look weird on me?” “Mhmm, definitely get that one.”
“What about these?” “Lord have mercy I’m bout to—“. “Miles!” “My bad. That was gon’ be a yes, by the way.”
• Will get up and make your plate for you at a family party just in case you’re anxious about doing it yourself or worried about potential looks you might (you won’t) get.
“What you want mama, chicken or pork?” “….” “If you don’t choose I’ll give you both.” “Umm, chicken, please.” “You want rice?” “No, I’m alright.” “Alright, so yes to rice then. You want some pasta, too?” “Miles, I think I have enough on my plate. I don’t wanna take too much…” “Nah, mami. My family not like that. You gotta try everything or they’re gonna try and feed you themselves.”
synopsis | miles found you fainted in an alleyway one day, except you died two years ago.
word count | 2861
warning | brief mention of bullying / mentions of death (reader from earth-42 has passed) / everything i know about e-42 miles morales is from the movie
note | i had to write something :'( it's been on my mind!
Against his better judgment, Miles felt restless, and he wasn't sure if it was because of the miraculous event of you coming back from the dead or that seeing your face again made him realize how deeply he has deluded himself into thinking he had changed.
The truth was that he hadn't changed. He merely made the decision to completely push his identity away after your death, as it was the only way to shield his fragile mind from unraveling into a pit of suicidal doom, where all he could ever think about was to follow you wherever you go, be it heaven or hell. He put his face into a mask unseen by all, not even himself, and the mask ripped itself aggressively when he saw you fainted in the dead end of an alleyway at night. You were supposed to be six feet underground—he watched you fall off a skyscraper! He watched you get put six feet underground! How were you alive?
"Shit."
Miles cursed through a frustrated groan as he pushed the covers off his body. The clock in his room enunciated each tick of a second, reminding him how long it had been since he plopped himself on the bed and tried to get some shut-eye. The ticking noise irritated his ears like chalk scraping against a blackboard, and he would have thrown something at it if you and his mother weren't around to hear the damage. Staring at the dim ceiling, he heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes, not to get some sleep but to piece together everything that happened so far.
First, he found you fainted in an alleyway. He brought you home and decided to hide you in his room. A person who has been dead for nearly two years coming back to life was not the easiest news to break to anybody. He managed not a whole day of concealing your existence before his mother found out when she was tidying up the dirty clothes in his room. Baffled and even a little creeped out, she helped nurse you after you woke up, which was only later that night. Second, Miles called Uncle Aaron to help make sense of this situation, which led to him finding out that you weren't from this world at all—Miles clenched his fist as his train of thought shattered.
He always forgot you were not the same [Name] he knew; not the childhood best friend, and not the person he harbored secret romantic feelings for. He wanted so badly for you to be them, for him to be able to turn away from the guilt of not saving you years ago. For the most part, he did. The immense joy of spending these past few days with you, albeit with a few stuttered words and clumsy movements because you were both getting used to each other, was an experience very familiar to how it used to be like with the ‘you’ he knew of.
Miles took you everywhere upon your request, and his mother encouraged him to go out. He took you to play in the arcade, eat at the local sandwich place, and stand atop a massive neon sign advertising for a corporate brand. The only place he refused to bring you to was the skyscraper where ‘you’ died, and you didn’t push him to do so after the first time he refused. He kept himself relatively guarded these days, much like he has always been. But during the times with you, he has never felt more childish and happy. Chasing you down a crowded street and being forced to hold your hand like a leash was normalcy he forgot he deeply yearned for, and it made him happy.
The cause of his insomnia was simple: you. More specifically, the fact that you gave him something to think about, to worry about, and to lose.
Miles exhaled with exhaustion as he got off the bed. He thought a cup of water would do him good. It could clear his head. Pushing open his room door quietly to not wake his mother, flashes of colors on the television screen greeted him immediately, accompanied by the rhythmic tilts of your head as you watched the commercials on silent. He raised a brow. You were humming a song in your head; he wondered what it sounded like. Also, you should be sleeping so you can get some rest.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Fair ‘nuff,” Miles muttered as he walked past the couch to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and poured himself some water when you sheepishly trailed into the area to watch him. Your stare made him uncomfortable, so he turned away from you and quickly chucked the whole cup of water down. He almost slammed the cup near the sink, stopping just before the glass could make a noise against the kitchen counter. “What?”
“I thought you have something to do tomorrow,” you said, ignoring his impatient tone.
“Yeah? What of it?” He shrugged, focusing on cleaning the glass with tap water.
“You should get some rest, then.”
“Thanks, my insomnia is gone now.” He rolled his eyes and wiped his hands on the towel hung on a magnet stuck to the side of the fridge.
The sound of your pitter-patter footsteps followed him as he made his way out of the kitchen. You hovered around him, watching him with squinted eyes as if trying to access him. He ignored you; he found the only way to keep his emotional walls up and guarded was to ignore you as best as possible. He had missed ‘you’ so dearly that even bickering with you was an activity left to be desired, and he could not afford to want more of you than he already did. He set himself a limit, and he planned to stick with it.
“Insomnia!” you whispered with a beaming face as if he didn’t just straightforwardly tell you his problem was his inability to fall asleep. You clapped your hands and held them in front of your chest in an intertwined position. “Let me help you. I know a good way to fall asleep!”
“Being around you is not one of them,” Miles muttered.
"Don't be mean," you said through a huffed-out giggle before you made a beeline to his open room.
He closed his eyes to hold down the pit of quiet rage burning in his chest. Your spontaneity was challenging to handle. His body could keep up with you weaving in and out of crowds. If anything, he was much faster than you could ever be. But his heart could not keep up with having to follow you around constantly, his eyes trailing your back, his legs picking up their pace to go where you go, and his voice talking whenever you talk. He set himself a limit for how much he would let you into his life—
Miles returned to his room to find you sitting cross-legged on his bed, grinning at his arrival.
—and you punched past it with ease.
"By the way, I'm sorry I have to keep wearing your clothes," you mentioned as you extended your arms, letting his sweater sleeve fall over your hands. "Your uncle's clothes are too big for me, and I don't like wearing sleep gowns."
He didn't mind. "I'll take you to get something when I'm free," he said. He planned to veto anything you wanted to keep you rummaging through his closet.
"You're taking me shopping?" you pursed your lips into a playful smile before you smacked your face with your hands, your torso squirming about to make an even bigger mockery of the situation. "How sweet, Miles!"
Too much ease—his walls crumbled like sandcastles under a gust of wind when he turned away from you to allow himself a chuckle. Then he caught himself. He rubbed the tip of his nose and fixed his jaw before returning to you; his less-than-menacing glare became dull and soft once his eyes filled with your reflection. He leisurely pointed at the bedroom door and almost laughed again when he demanded, "Go back to your room."
You pulled a face. He doesn’t get to tell you to do that. “No.”
"Get off my bed, then."
You thought about it for a little before you agreed. Scrambling off, you kept your arms on the edge of his bed, and your legs slumped onto the floor with the bed's support. Miles furrowed his brows when you tapped the empty spot on his bed twice, and he begrudgingly filled the space when he realized you didn't plan on leaving.
"I got you. You're gonna fall asleep in no time!" you exclaimed quietly, touching his chest. "This helped me a lot when I have trouble sleeping."
"Pattin' your chest helps you fall asleep?" he questioned in disbelief. Then, a beat later, he fired a question with a bitter taste, "Who's touching you like this?"
“Just me,” you replied, laying your cheek on your forearm. “Patting my chest helps me regulate my breathing, which is good for after I cry.”
He shifted his head slightly to eye you. “You cry a lot?”
“Hmm… no,” you mused. “Just when bad things happen.”
“Like what?”
“Like these.”
You lifted your head and raised your arm upward. Taking a break from the beat you rested on his chest, you pulled down the sleeve and flipped your forearm to his direction, showing him a short, bulging scar decorated just below your inner elbow. Miles lifted his body from the pillow and raised a brow curiously at the nasty scar, but he kept his opinion to himself. He watched as you pulled the sleeve down to cover it, and he deduced that there must be more of those injuries scattered across your body. Relaxing back onto his bed, he shrugged.
“One hell of a fall,” he commented.
“No, someone cut me,” you clarified as you leaned back onto your arm and pressed your hand to his chest again, “someone from school.”
It took him a moment to register your words and then another short moment to register the unfamiliar rage traveling through his body. This was unlike himself, unlike what he felt as the prowler. The signature thrill and trigger-happy sensation didn’t exist in this version of his anger. His fingers twitched with each jump of his thoughts, his hooded eyes scratching out an empty figure on the ceiling as if replaying the pain you must have gone through to receive that scar, and he recognized his anger as slow and steady, brooding and demonic.
There was no use holding a grudge against someone from a universe away, but Miles thought he would kill whoever hurt you. With the right technology, he may even erase their existence forever. Never mind killing; dying, in some sense, was a blessing. What if those people were never even born? Their existence wiped off the face of Earth, reduced to nothingness, with no pictures, no songs, and no memories to preserve even a trace of their livelihood.
“Hey, you can’t fall asleep like this.” Your voice snapped him out of his trance. “You’re being really tense, Miles.”
“That’s 'cause you’re terrible at helping people fall asleep,” he retorted as the muffling in his ears began to scatter.
You scoffed but didn’t cease the rhythmic pat on his chest. Instead, you turned your focus elsewhere. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“No.”
“What was I like?”
He sighed. “I’m not talking about it.”
“Fresh wound. Got it,” you said with a nod. But he knew better than to let his guard down. The smacking of your teeth was an indication of your mind gears turning—unbeknownst to him, he had your habits memorized in a span of a few days. A frown increasingly widened on your face until your mind map ended, and you hummed at the distaste in your mouth. “Were you in with love them? It feels like you were.”
He glared at you pointedly, but the intimidation passed your head as you leveled him with a curious gaze. Miles choked on his thoughts. Nothing he could do here would stop you from believing in his denial. He could turn away, ignore you, or even verbally deny your question! Nothing would have gotten you to let go of your correct assumption that he was in love with ‘you,’ and by extension, him being in love with you too.
“What made you think I was?” he asked, flipping the attention to you.
You let out a curt giggle and sheepishly shrunk into yourself. “You’re really nice to me.”
“Because we were friends.”
“Yeah,” you mused with a grimace before you smiled. “But it’s much more interesting to think you were in love, isn’t it?”
He slapped a hand over his eyes and rubbed his face in exhaustion. “Can I sleep?”
“Of course! I’m sorry, it must be tough to have the love of your life watch you while you sleep,” you snickered with a few nods of approval directed at yourself.
You rested one side of your cheek against the bedsheet, finally deciding to heed his plea to be quiet. Miles took your silence as a chance to close his eyes and finally relax into his headspace. The consistent pat of your palm on his chest served as a hypnotic device to lure you to sleep more than it was for him. The real lure of peace for him was more from your presence in his room and the soft humming that trailed out of your shut lips. That must have been the song you were thinking of when you watched the television on silent; Miles got it memorized after a few loops of it.
You shifted sleepily on the floor and looked at him. You thought he didn’t look so hateful asleep as he always did. He looked at everything with such coldness, distant enough to be out of reach but close enough to justify hating everything. With you, his eyes held a sense of unwilling defeat, like he was grounding himself on the spot to keep from running to you, and he hated every minute of it even though he thought it was for his own good to shut himself out. He always looked like someone refrained from holding a loved one as they stood before him with open arms.
Your suspicion that he was in love with you from this world didn’t spawn out of nowhere. You merely knew he wasn’t ready to be confronted with his feelings, so you made a humorous joke out of it instead. But you would tell. You could always tell because nobody had ever looked at you like that before, and for once, someone’s unfamiliar eyes made you feel a centuries' worth of romance rather than torture.
“It’s nice to know a version of me is likable,” you muttered to yourself, and you laughed. "And I thought nobody would ever fall in love with me.”
Miles laid still on his bed for a little longer, listening to the clock tick by. When your humming ceased and your hand stopped patting a beat on his chest, he opened his eyes and carefully turned his body toward your direction. He took a good look at you; his eyes brushed past those identical pair of eyes, your recognizable nose, your soft lips, the curve of your jaw, and your ears made small over his hands. A shivering breath latched at the tip of his tongue, and he had to huff through his nose to remind himself to breathe.
You didn’t wake when he carefully hooked his arm under your legs and pulled you onto his bed. He made space for you on his bed, and he made space for you in his concealed heart that once only belonged to him.
Despite the illusion, his mind knew who you were, but his heart couldn’t pick apart the differences. Except it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. This wasn’t about how you both looked and sounded the same. This was about him and his feelings. This was about him having fallen in love with you before, and now, as he felt his shattered heart piecing itself together through the mere sight of your sleeping face, he was about to do it again. His heart knew you were different, and it did not care. He was ready to fall in love with you again, and he was ready to fall in love with you anywhere.
Because the moon never stops orbiting around the sun. Because Miles chose to let go of himself instead of letting go of the love he has for you. Because he would fall in love with you every time, and he would choose you over himself every time.
“What do you even know,” he touched your cheek with the back of his knuckles, “about people falling in love with you?” What do you even know about Miles Morales falling in love with you?
He hugged you close and shut his eyes—you knew absolutely nothing.
mitsuya takashi, not really an x-reader piece but i will tag it as such even though there is no "you" mentioned, more of a character study fic, discussion around pregnancy, birth, and motherhood, happy belated birthday loml
"Can I talk to you about something?"
Mother Mitsuya is surprised by the visit from her oldest. At 33, he's far more healthy, handsome, and stable than she could have ever hoped. She wishes she could take an ounce of credit for any of it, but she figures she's been selfish enough in her lifetime and his.
"So, you and the wife are finally having a kid," she says with a smile both sad and genuine as she moves inside her quiet apartment to let him in.
She enjoys the look of irked shock on Takashi's face that she could ruin the surprise so easily. She might not be able to brag about a close relationship with her son, but she still knows him well enough to apply reason to his visit.
"I haven't even told Luna and Mana yet," he grumbles after taking off his shoes.
"I'm still your mother," she says. "Sit."
Takashi sits at a table nicer than one he ever knew growing up while Mother makes some tea. He can't be bitter about it, glad that she can finally afford more comfort for herself now that she doesn't have to worry about filling the stomachs of him and his sisters.
"I might have messed things up already," he tells her backside he can see over the counter that separates them.
"Well, for one, congratulations," she says as she serves tea in matching mugs. "And welcome to parenthood: All you're going to do is screw up."
"I'm not worried about being a parent. Maybe I should be, but right now I'm more worried about being a good husband.”
“Worried you’ll be like your father?” She asks from across the table.
“No, I don’t think so," Takashi says, brows dipping for a moment. "Should I be? I can’t remember enough of him to worry. Even in the worst of cases, I could never abandon her or my kid.”
“Where did you ever learn to be such a man?" Mother smiles as Takashi contemplates telling her it was the streets. "You shouldn’t have any worries about being a good husband if that’s the case. Or did you simply miss your dear mother so much that you came here with such a weak excuse?”
He takes in a deep breath. No matter how casual and pleasant they act, he's aware of a tension between the two of them that never seems to ease.
“Will you promise me that you won’t get mad at me for what I’m about to tell you?” He asks while fiddling with the handle of the mug.
“If you make me a new blouse. The ladies at work are jealous of the last one you made for me.”
“I’m being serious. I— I screwed up so long ago that I might not be able to undo it.”
Takashi huffs. Opening up to his mother is one thing. He's spent the majority of his life practicing forgiveness. He doesn't want to risk beating old wounds or possibly creating new ones, but right now there's something more important to him on the line that's worth the discomfort.
“I feel so naïve. I guess I’ve just never thought about the deeper complexities of bringing children into the world. I feel like I of all people should have known it isn't so simple as two people loving each other.”
“Because you are a man, my dear.”
Guilty as charged. Excitement before consideration. Sinless selfishness. Takashi accepts the generalization.
“She’s so scared—terrified of things her body is going through. I thought I was comforting her when I told her that billions of women have been giving birth for thousands of years—that you survived me to go on and do it twice more. But she just got mad at me and thought I was implying she's weak for being afraid. She told me she doesn't even want me to be with her during delivery because I'll just remind her of her weakness."
"Do you think she's weak?" Mother asks him.
"Of course not! I see her throwing up in the toilet every morning and she looks like God. I tried explaining that I think what's happening is so incredible, but she said—"
He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment.
"Please don't get mad at me for this," he pleads, trying to read the patient look on Mother's face. "She said she's just living out the consequences of us being horny one night. And it hurts, not only because it's so much more than that, but because she got those words from me."
Mother doesn't say a word. Takashi thought it would be more difficult to tell her the rest, but his heart is tapped and the rest of the story comes flowing out.
"Back before we were dating, I had told her about my childhood. You know I love Luna and Mana, and that I don't resent being the one to raise them, but I guess somewhere deep down, I still held onto the bitterness of having to grow up too fast. She made me feel so safe to vent to, so I said, 'Why did I have to pay the consequence of my parents being horny one night?'"
It doesn't feel so critical after he says it, especially when Mother doesn't show a hint of reaction. However, his heart churns now that he's laid it out.
"I feel so shit for ever thinking that. I'm sorry."
There's silence.
There's the dampened sounds of the city outside the window.
There's the quiet tap of Takashi's thumb on the hot ceramic of the tea mug.
There's Mother taking in a sigh.
"Let me tell you about when you were born," she says. "I was terrified too. The pain and panic were like no other. I hated you. I hated your father. I hated existing. All of the nurses tried to tell me it would all be worth it once you arrived, but all I could think was that the last thing I wanted after all that pain was for a wailing parasite to be thrust into my arms.
"Your father took it all very personally. I had told him the pain and fear wasn't worth our love. I don't blame him, but I still hate him for leaving my side after that."
"Is it really that awful?" Takashi asks. He remembers a horrific educational video in middle school. He remembers the screams he could hear in the waiting room when Luna was born. He remembers Mother's pale and sweat-laden face when he first met Mana. Still, he can't fathom the experience.
"It is. But I was wrong. I was so mad the moment you were placed in my arms, because those damn nurses were right. I was so mad that I didn't have half a second to make the choice in loving you. So I can't be mad at you, ever. You resenting me is the mildest punishment for me ever believing for a moment that I could hate you."
Mother smiles at him with more truth than he's ever seen from her.
"Even when I ran away from home to hang out at a whorehouse and got a tattoo on my head?" He asks, voice wavering.
"You sure did test me, but no. Not even close," she laughs. "Society told me I should be mad at you for that, but I was amused to see you act out—proud that you wouldn't be the type to accept the unfairness of life without a fight."
He can't look at her. He clenches his fists as tight as his throat feels. If he meets her eyes right now, he'll throw himself at her feet.
"Thank you, mom. For telling me this. For everything. For Luna and Mana," he says through his teeth.
"I'll only accept it this one time so that maybe your wife can see the value in what she's doing. I'm excited to be a grandmother after all. You and the girls might not have had me back when you were kids, but you have me now."
"Thank—"
"Save any more thanks you have for your wife. I've gotten more than my share in seeing how you kids grew up. I'm glad you came to talk to me."
I am LOVING the fucking chocolate guy’s netflix show! It’s FANTASTIC! Anf hold on to your fucking boots y’all cause it’s actually not what I was expecting at all!
Do you miss the gentleness of the Great British Bake-Off? THIS SHOW IS SO KIND AND GENTLE! For fuck’s sake, NO ONE GETS KICKED OFF! No. No, Listen to this! When they lose the first challenge (a pastry one), the punishment is… They get private lessons with Amaury to help improve what brought their scores down instead of competing in the second chocolate challenge.
When the one black lady contestant messed up the first challenge I was super bummed and like, OF COURSE. But NO. She got lessons! She struggled! she worked hard! and she won a later challenge! GROWTH MY DUDES! They are there TO LEARN and GROW and Maybe Win a Big Prize!
They ALL get to stay and keep doing their best! and at the end the one who did the best overall is the one who gets the money prize!
Look at this lovely line up! they make COOL LOOKING FANCY THINGS! Amaury tells us how he does some of the fancy things he does! They OFFER TO HELP EACH OTHER WHEN THEY FINISH EARLY AND GET PROPS FOR THAT! (not taunted for not using their own time better). The set up even kinda makes the one who is like, I’m in it to win it, is the villain and doing bad. The rest who are like, I’m here to learn and grow and maybe make friends! AUGH YOU GUYS!
Amaury is soft spoken and kind, and has a pretty voice and a pretty smile and that’s nice to watch too. The chefs are talented and artistic and they actually give the THE TIME to make nice things! It’s not “Wham out some half-assed garbage in 2 hours so we can shotgun the production and laugh at your garbage” like most cooking shows nowadays. NO! 14 hour challenges! They’re still hard, but they get to actually make cool stuff! fancy stuff! Stuff I want to look at and cheer for them!
The episodes average 38 min and aren’t a huge time commitment, the first episode being the longest one, and there are only 8 total so it’s not like you have to really get in for the long haul. \
WATCH IT! Pump it! we need more cooking shows like this and less that are sad and mean!
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Blessed Heir of the Abyss (Abyssal Prince Childe x Reader) Part 4
Synopsis: After centuries of conflict, Teyvat and the Abyss are attempting to make peace with one another. To solidify new alliances and let go of past grudges, the Abyssal Prince Tartaglia will choose a spouse from the people above to rule over the Abyss with him.
That spouse happens to be you, an ordinary, Visionless citizen of Liyue.
Chapter Three: Star-Colored Blight
Previous | Next
Warnings: Mentions of crying, descriptions of illness and pain, small mentions of injury, you being scared out of your mind, Childe is still mean, SLOW BURN
~ * ~
It’s dark.
Everything is pitch black, your vision dancing with muddy spots as it adjusts to the sudden lack of light, the star lamp nothing more than an empty glass case. Your fingers rest on your open book, still and cold as ice, and something breathes down your neck, horribly close.
Whatever’s behind you exhales, and you exhale with it, not daring to even blink as goosebumps stand and prickle on your skin; tiny needles jabbing and dancing across your flesh and nails.
Your movements are stiff as you turn, a wooden puppet being dragged across a starlit stage, forcing yourself to confront whoever- or whatever- looms behind you, the fear swallowing your heart whole.
A monster. A monster stares back at you, and your breath catches and chokes in your throat, feet stumbling backwards and knocking against the table in an attempt to get as far away from the beast as possible. But every step back you take is met with a step forward from the creature before you, claws shining and silver and so sharp- with a single slash you’d be dead, blood coating the floor, never to speak again. You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding in your chest as you accept your inevitable death in one rushed exhale.
And yet, it never comes.
There’s the sensation of something near your face, so close you can almost feel it, but can’t because it’s still not touching you yet, razor-edged talons ghosting over your skin. The creature sniffs you almost delicately, letting out a small huff of air that ruffles your hair, and tentatively you open your eyes to stare into the strange, crystalline gaze of the monster.
It blinks in faceted sapphire, warily curious, the crimson red of its mask and horns visible even in the gloom. The very tips of its claws hover over your cheek, light breathes falling from a maw filled with deadly, pointed fangs. Cold, heavy fear gives way to caution and awe, not daring to move as the creature leans closer and carefully nudges your face with armored hands.
You inhale sharply and the beast flinches away, catching your skin and tearing open a small, stinging cut. The blood slowly trickles down, sticky and warm, your head swimming in a daze.
It’s too warm in here, too stuffy, the room illuminated only by the soft glow of the monster’s eye, and with blurry vision you swear you catch a few glimpses of twinkling stardust as you press your back against the wall, dread clouding in and filling your chest.
Rattling coughs wrack your throat, the force sending sparks of pain through your head as your body jolts. The faint light in the room retreats as the peculiar creature darts away, a sound akin to a panicked hiss reaching your ears as it flees, and you’re left alone in the darkness. A gradual ringing begins to whine in your mind, high-pitched and constant, and you slump and curl into yourself.
It hurts to move- it hurts to breathe, your lungs shriveling up, refusing to hold enough air for you to inhale properly. Instead you wheeze painfully, black bits of intangible mold bursting and invading your sight until you can see nothing but the Abyss itself in an ocean of unlit stars.
It opens its mouth, sharpened teeth grazing your skin, and consumes you.
Hurts… It hurts…
Are you awake? You can’t tell- you can’t see anything. Were you lost at sea? There are voices, obscured by water filling your ears, and you feel like you’re drowning.
“Oh dear, this already…”
“What did you expect? Weak, pathetic mortals were never meant to enter the Abyss.”
“I know, but… I thought we had more time…”
“Always the… optimist, aren’t you Enjou? A word of advice from someone more experienced- stay in the Library, do your job, and sort dusty old books like you’re supposed to.”
Enjou…? He’s here…? Vaguely you register a door slamming shut, and you wince as your head throbs. Someone- Enjou- hums quietly, carefully pulling a silken blanket up to your shoulders, the smooth, chilly texture making you shiver.
“He’s right, of course,” The Pyro Lector sighs, his claws tapping idly against each other. “But I didn’t think it’d happen so quickly… Something must be done, and quickly.”
With a click of his talons, Enjou stands and delicately smooths down your hair, and you want nothing more than to lean into his touch and fall asleep until everything becomes a dream and you wake up, safe at home in Liyue. But instead you merely cry, tears leaking out of your aching eyes, leaving warm trails down your burning cheeks as Enjou departs, the door shutting with a soft thud.
You’ve never despised being alone more.
Your body feels hot and freezing cold all at once, the cool sheets against your skin sending chills down your spine, and when you try to inhale you only end up coughing, thick miasma in your lungs choking and smothering you. Any shifts in discomfort send new waves of pain through your body, your veins and nerves infected by the night.
Your cheek stings momentarily, and you almost laugh at the small, shallow cut still present. It feels so long ago, your encounter with that mysterious beast a distant, foggy memory. You’d reach up to touch the tiny injury if your body didn’t hurt so much, so instead the scab simply tightens and itches overtop of your skin; scratching, burning, festering.
There’s a small scraping sound at your door, and then a slow, drawn-out creak as it swings open, even the dim light from the hall enough to make you wince, but your body suddenly stiffens in fear when heavy footsteps approach your bedside. A shadow obscures the small amount of light that blinded you so, hot, raspy breaths raising goosebumps on your neck- all you can do is curl into a tight, shaking ball as the bed dips from the weight of claws, terribly familiar.
Someone lifts your covers and brings them to your shoulders, carefully tucking the silken sheets around you. There’s a moment of rummaging before another weight drops on top of you, warmth spreading through your chilled body as those same claws delicately settle a thick quilt atop you.
Instinctively you let out a sigh of relief, and are met with a soothing purr in response.
Your senses are muffled from then on, only registering the loss of company- why were you ever scared of it in the first place? Now you sink into your lonesomeness, the ache in your bones present even when lying down, covered in blankets. There’s not a peep from anyone in the hall, not even Enjou; perhaps they’ve all forgotten about you.
In a strange way, you almost prefer this, being able to suffer in silence without enduring the judgmental glares of the Abyss.
Your lungs thicken and congeal, and you languish away in your cage of a room.
“Your Highness, this is really quite serious.”
“What have I said about disturbing me… Especially at this hour.”
“With all due respect, Prince Tartaglia, your spouse is dying.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“Watch your tongue, Librarian,” Tartaglia growls, rubbing his temples. “All this does is rid me of a problem I never asked for.”
Enjou clicks his tongue, giving the Crown Prince a cold look. “Or it could break the already tenuous partnership in place with Liyue. Their symptoms look very… familiar.” Tartaglia stills, turning towards the Lector, whose shoulders slump with relief upon seeing the smallest hint of worry in His Majesty’s dull blue eyes. “You really should come see them, Childe… Even just once.”
The Prince brushes his hand across your forehead, only to snatch it back in shock when his fingers touch skin that’s nearly scalding.
“Their fever is so high…” he murmurs- and yet, you’re shivering, caught in the grasp of some unknown chill. Your eyes are screwed shut in pain, incoherent mumbles falling from your lips, and a cold knot forms in Tartaglia’s gut.
Strange. That’s never happened before. The Prince of the Abyss isn’t one to get nervous, yet here he is, dread settling in his bones and refusing to leave. He moves to adjust your covers, only to find that someone’s already done so, adding an old, worn quilt on top to keep you warm. The familiar fabric is soft against his calloused fingers and Tartaglia sighs.
Suddenly you let out a series of violent coughs, the Prince jumping back in slight alarm. Each is more violent than the last, your hands squeezing the blankets in a vice grip, and Tartaglia instinctively places a hand on your back to support your thrashing body. When the fit ends you let out a shuddering breath, collapsing back against the mattress.
Small tears begin forming at the corners of your eyes, and Tartaglia silently rubs your spine with his thumb.
“Librarian.”
The Lector perks up, standing at the doorway.
“Arrange for a visit to the surface… They need medical treatment.”
Enjou nods and turns on his heel to inform the other members of the Court.
“Oh, and Enjou?”
He tilts his head backwards, confused at the downcast look in the ginger-haired Prince’s eyes.
“Do it quickly.”
Another nod and the Lector vanishes down the hall, leaving Tartaglia at your side. His movements are stiff and much too rigid as he sits on the edge of your bed, staring out into the corridor beyond your room. It’s almost comical, seeing such a grand figure perched motionless on the mattress, glaring forwards as if daring anyone to say a word.
You whimper in your sleep, trembling from the effort of breathing, and subconsciously your hand reaches for and grasps Tartaglia’s, squeezing as hard as you can. His eyes widen, flashing with bewilderment as he snaps his head down to your hand holding his, like it’s all that prevents you from breaking.
Another wave of pain stabs your skin, and your grip squeezes the Prince’s fingers even tighter.
After a moment, he gently squeezes back.
Blessed Heir of the Abyss (Abyssal Prince Childe x Reader) Part 3
Synopsis: After centuries of conflict, Teyvat and the Abyss are attempting to make peace with one another. To solidify new alliances and let go of past grudges, the Abyssal Prince Tartaglia will choose a spouse from the people above to rule over the Abyss with him.
That spouse happens to be you, an ordinary, Visionless citizen of Liyue.
Chapter Two: The Librarian
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Warnings: Mentions of crying, Abyss Heralds and Lectors still hate you (with exceptions), Childe is still mean, allusions to getting sick at the end, mentions of fear, bad Latin (I used a translator), SLOW BURN
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You wake to several sharp raps on your door, heart pounding wildly. The sheets on your bed are cold, tangled around your legs as if they’re trying to trap you, keep you in place and drown you in the realm of dreams and nightmares.
It’s tempting to fall asleep forever, if it means you can escape the icy confines of your fate.
With a tired exhale you push aside the twisted blankets, shivering when your feet touch the gleaming floor- uncarpeted, it shines in the dim light; no expense spared for the Royal Abyssal Palace.
The castle must have a name. All magnificent structures do- at least, they do back in Teyvat. But you’re not in Teyvat anymore, you’re underneath, in a strange land of ruins and starlight.
The knocking increases in volume and irritation, and hastily you pull on the coat you brought and push open the door. An Abyss Herald looms before you, somehow both looking extraordinarily annoyed and superior despite his inhuman features, and you instinctively back away, blood running cold.
“You are late,” the Herald growls, and you swallow thickly, fear gumming up and clogging your throat.
“L-Late for what?”
The Herald clicks his tongue at your ignorance, claws curled in an effort to remain calm. “Breakfast. As the Prince’s spouse, you’re expected to join him every morning.”
“I didn’t know-”
“Clearly. Perhaps you should pay more attention to your surroundings.” The Herald’s frigid tone makes you wince, and with another mumbled apology you retreat into your room, turning towards the grand wardrobe in the corner. It looks dull compared to the crystal and porcelain of everything else- yet you know it’s one of the most prized objects in the entire room, for where does wood grow and flourish in the Abyss? And when you pull open the doors, a gasp slips from your mouth at the sight of clothes lining the racks, neatly folded or suspended on hangers, in exactly your size. The designs and shapes are elegant, glittering with tiny stars and gems, fit for royalty.
Not you. Nervously you gulp, intimidated by the rich cloth.
But the fabric is carefully woven, warm yet silky to the touch, and the Abyss has been nothing but cold to you, so you pick the least embroidered of the clothes and quickly don them, the air still making your skin prick with chill. A glance in the mirror hanging on the wall tells that you’re presentable- tired-looking, but presentable.
The Herald’s still waiting when you open the door, only paying you a single disdainful glance before striding down the hall, waving for you to follow him. Every one of his steps is three of yours and you jog to keep up, shoes tapping quietly on the polished floor. You continuously turn corner after corner, passing room after room, in awe at just how big the palace really is- the Jade Chamber- no, all of Liyue Harbor- is incomparable to its size and level of grandeur, as even the pathway to the dining hall is enormous and gleams with inset gems and gold.
The doors smoothly slide open at the Herald’s command, yet still the room falls silent when you enter, the chatter of Lectors and Mages hushing as they all turn to stare at you, nothing but judgment in their gazes. They line the walls, creating a path down the center of the hall for you and you alone, and at the end awaits a small table; two chairs, and one Prince. His Royal Highness Tartaglia watches you from his seat, dull eyes bored and lethargic as he drums his fingers slowly on the tabletop.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
You’re not sure if the sound is from your footsteps or his nails on wood- either way, it’s too loud.
Quietly you sit in the other chair, back stiff and upright, posture Zhongli would be proud of. Your hands twist and wring in your lap as you focus on breathing in and out, slow and steady, despite how your chest attempts to tighten and choke you at the feeling of dozens of eyes boring into you.
The Prince waves his hand towards the Court, jeweled ornaments on his clothes making small clinking sounds, and the Abyssal creatures obediently file out of the room, doors swiftly whisking shut, leaving you alone with your husband-to-be.
Or perhaps he’s already your husband, you becoming his betrothed the moment he selected you from the crowd.
You absentmindedly pick at the corners of your nails and stare at your hands, not daring to look up at the Prince, and he returns the favor by focusing on his breakfast as if you’re not even there. He eats and you only tense further, the silence hanging over you like a thick, suffocating fog.
“Why haven’t you eaten?”
You start violently, head snapping towards Prince Tartaglia. He’s stopped eating, hand still elegantly grasping his fork, and instead he stares at you with the barest hint of concern in his azure eyes.
No- not concern, curiosity. A sick, simple desire to know why, nothing more, nothing less, and you swallow thickly.
“I’m not hungry, Your Highness,” you reply, lacing your fingers together, horribly aware of how his deadened gaze burns into your head, through your skin and bones until he can see right through you and hold all your secrets in one hand.
“Hmm…” He downs his drink until it’s nearly gone, a trickle swirling in the bottom of his crystal glass. “I suppose because you showed your face after all, I should inform you of this castle’s rules.” Tartaglia glances and arches a brow at you, still scratching at your fingers. “The first rule is to look at me when I’m talking to you.”
You flinch and look up so quickly you feel your joints pop, the ghost of a smirk dancing on the Prince’s face before fading away again.
“The second rule,” he begins, leaning back into the cushions of his chair. “Is to not disturb me in the later hours of the day.”
You nod stiffly, as you weren’t planning on bothering him ever.
“And lastly… see those doors?” He tilts his head towards a grand opening, locked shut by the pair of ornate, hand carved doors with pointed stars on the handles. “Those lead outside. You are not to go through them, ever.”
Your blood runs cold. “Your Highness… what do you mean-”
“The palace will provide everything you need. There is no reason for you to go outside.”
“But what if I need to go back to Teyvat?! Visit home?” You exclaim, rising to your feet, and Tartaglia stands to meet you, a cool, icy glare on his face. Instinctively you take a step back, chills going down your spine.
“Teyvat is your home no longer, don’t you remember? You are my spouse, and will go where I go, and my domain is the Abyss.” Idly he swirls the water in his glass. “You were given to me as a gift, so here you shall remain, even if my contract with Liyue becomes null.”
The liquid he drinks is blood-red in the light, and your eyes widen with horror as he drains the cup and leaves without another word, cloak swishing in some unseen wind. The moment the doors close you sink to your knees, tears pricking and sliding down your cheeks as the walls close in on you, the bars of a crystalline cage.
“Your Highness- Ah… is this a bad time, perhaps?”
You jolt at the soft voice, glancing up at the Pyro Lector floating in the center of the room. He seems almost awkward, looking from you to the exit and back again, and hastily you scrub your face and shake your head.
“N-no! Not at all, I’m fine- Wait. I recognize you…” Blinking, you furrow your brows. “You’re the Pyro Lector who took me to my room yesterday.”
“You remember!” You’ve never seen an Abyss Lector beam in delight, but it’s certainly a curious sight as he smiles widely. “Forgive me for not introducing myself- I am called Enjou, Your Highness.” The Lector- Enjou- bows deeply, and you’re quick to bow in return, confusion washing over your being.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sir Enjou…”
“Please, no Sirs and Madams here, Your Highness! There’s already so much formality around here, anyways.”
“Oh…” A small smile spreads across your face, a spark of mischief glowing like rising embers. “Then… you don’t have to call me “Your Highness”, either. Just use my name, please.” Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and you clear your throat. Enjou hums, nodding curiously.
“Does the title of royalty displease you?”
You exhale shakily, shoulders slumping. “I’m not sure… this place is beautiful, but it’s so cold and hollow. I miss my friends and the Harbor and the sun, and the walks Zhongli and I would take together. I miss Hu Tao and the way she would pop up out of the blue, like a sneaky little ghost. I miss my little house and the pen I used to write and the soft blankets- and I- I just want to go home.” Words spill out, one after another until you’re sitting on the ground, face buried in your knees and Enjou quietly patting your back. The Lector says nothing, merely offering you a warm presence to lean against as you hiccup and sob, crying yourself dry of any tears.
Finally you sniff, wiping your cheeks and under your eyes- certainly you must look like a mess, but Enjou gracefully says nothing of it. “Enjou, you’re… different from the other, er, people here.”
He laughs, glowing a soft orange. “I have been seen as slightly odd compared to my peers- perhaps they think me to be “too casual”.” With a single movement he stands, a hand on your shoulder to bring you with him. “If you have the time, there’s something that might cheer you up a bit- I think you’ll quite like it.”
The Lector guides you down the hall, matching his pace to yours as you walk, never more than an arm’s length ahead of you. The palace is still cold, a chill settling in your bones, but somehow Enjou’s aura soothes your rattled nerves, casting a warm glow on the otherwise cool and polished walls and keeping up idle conversation the entire journey. It’s easy to talk to him, you realize- easy as blinking, and he seems eager to chat with you as well, a stark contrast from the revolted glances received by the rest of the Abyssal Court.
“Ah, here we are!”
Enjou ushers you into a room and you let out an awestruck gasp, for lining every wall and nook and cranny are shelves upon shelves of books. Scrolls and scriptures old and new, books the size of your hand and as tall as Enjou, and journals embossed with gold and tiny locks. You turn towards the Lector, eyes blown wide with amazement, muffling your laugh at the sight of him taking out a pair of rectangular glasses and setting them on his face with pride.
“Welcome to my workplace!” He spreads his arms with a flourish, striding around the room. “In terms of the Court, I hold the title of Chief Archivist, Keeper of the Tomes and Organizer of Celestial Knowledge.“ Enjou winks, a mischievous smile on his pointed face. “Or, if you’re more sensible, I am a Librarian.”
The small laugh you’ve been holding in slips out as you take his extended hand, the tips of his claws pressing carefully into your skin. “Not one for fancy titles either, huh?”
“Well, not ones that are complex and redundant!” With the flair of a tour guide he turns on his heel, almost dragging you down the aisles in his excitement. “Even so- this is my favorite spot in the entire palace. I spend more time here than in my actual room.” Enjou runs his fingers along the books’ spines, touch feather-light. “And you are more than welcome to visit me whenever you’d like.”
You blink, fingers winding around the front of your shirt in daring, fleeting hope. “Really? I can come… here?” Your head cranes back to stare at the ceiling, an artful symphony of swirling gold filigree and mysterious constellations.
“Certainly, I’d be more than happy to have your company! And besides,” Enjou kneels, dipping his head to your height. “You are royalty now, and as such you can go wherever you wish in this place.”
Your cheeks grow warm in embarrassment at Enjou’s bow, and your gaze trails back down to your fingers, twisted into knots. “Then… I’d like to stay here for a little bit. If that’s alright.” It’s difficult to keep your voice from wavering as you straighten your shoulders, but a smile tugs at your lips when Enjou claps in delight.
“Wonderful! I’ll fetch a lamp- humans can’t see well in the dark, if I recall correctly.” The Pyro Lector floats off to scrounge up a light, a little floating star in a glass case to illuminate the way for your weak mortal eyes.
When he returns you’re already immersed in a book- The Kingdom of Fallen Light, a History- a wobbly, but genuine smile on your face for the first time in days.
It’s late.
Too late- you should be asleep right now in your room; that glittering, gilded prison. Yet you simply yawn and turn another page, idly tracing the elegant script with your fingertips.
Porta Abyssi Stellarum- The Gateway of Abyssal Stars; the Royal Abyssal Palace. That’s what it’s called, standing alone in the gloom as a shining beacon.
The Abyssal people must trust their Prince wholeheartedly- your brows furrow slightly.
A carefully crafted breeze ruffles the parchment, your little celestial lamp bobbing up and down as you shiver, the cold air sending chills down your back.
You’re too warm. You’re too cold. Your head hurts, and you pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers and sigh. It echoes in the Library, the lack of Enjou’s muttering being filled in by heavy silence.
Another page flips, a quiet rumbling in the distance reaching your ears, something clicking on the floor like drops of water. In your exhaustion you don’t notice, only continuing to pore over the book on the table, eyes scratchy and aching. The star-lamp flickers feebly, valiantly trying to provide a few more minutes of light for you.
You cough once, then twice, lungs expanding and contracting painfully, and the thumping in your head grows steadily louder. Suddenly it vanishes, leaving a high-pitched ringing that drowns out everything else, and the back of your neck prickles in quiet, dreading fear.
Something breathes, then growls behind you, terribly familiar.
The star in its glass seal flares one final time, then extinguishes, and you’re plunged into darkness.
