Howdy folks, long time no see. (yes i changed my name here shhhhh)
Since this week is my birthday, last month was 1 year of this blog, and I'm nearly at 150 followers, I thought why not have some fun!! Asks for this event are currently: OPEN
this event is SIMPLE trust, I just need 3 things per ask:
The ship or character for an x reader (x readers will be written as bulletpoints and can include multiple characters per ask)
The AO3 tag you think would be most applicable for your thoughts (as basic as "fluff" or as crack as you want)
2-5 emojis for a vibe check
EXAMPLE: "kavetham, angst and feels, 📗💌🍵🪴" would roughly end up with some sappy note tucked into an old manuscript, some weeping, and eventually they make tea lol
FANDOMS I WRITE: Genshin, Hazbin, TADC, Hunger Games, The Dragon Prince, Stardew Valley, The Bear, Futurama, Bloodymary, and others upon request if I feel comfy (cough cough skk)
TOPICS I WRITE: Anything up to PG-13 (kissing, heavy petting, etc), fluff obv, hurt/comfort, romance, slowburn, enemies to lovers, AUs within reason, SFW agere, disability, sickfics, WHUMP
TOPICS I DO NOT WRITE: "dark romance," stalking, BDSM, explicit NSFW content, major character death, unhealthy relationships (we do not glorify abuse on this blog no thank you), yandere, underage characters (platonic is ok), homophobic/racist/ableist themes, Dottore anything lmao
To reference some of my work you can see my AO3 here or I am working on getting my tags for my writings updated under #junomagwrites but give me some grace lol. All of my char x char will go to AO3 and my x reader goes on this blog, but all my links get crossposted here too.
Any questions, comments, concerns, whatever are welcome in the comments and RBs are more than encouraged :) thank you already <3
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 : While going out with the various! genshin men, you unexpectedly experience an overwhelming panic attack. Recognizing the distress, they immediately intervene by removing you from the stressful environment to a secluded spot to help you get through.
ⓘ : 𝐒𝐅𝐖. panic attacks, severe anxiety, crowded places / sensory overload, claustrophobia, hyperventilation / difficulty breathing, mostly fluff how they try to help you through the panic attack!!
.𖥔 ݁ VARKA
The grand master’s booming laughter and relaxed stride would vanish the instant he felt the sudden, trembling hitch in your step amidst the bustling festival crowd. Varka wouldn’t hesitate, his easygoing grin would instantly be replaced by a sharp, protective focus as he immediately used his massive frame to shield you from the crushing sea of people, stepping between you and the noise like a human fortress.
Without asking tedious questions that would force you to think, he’d wrap a comforting arm securely around your shoulders to ground you, gently but firmly steering you out of the chaotic thoroughfare and into a quiet, shadowed alleyway behind the buildings where the noise faded into stillness.
The cool stone walls of the secluded courtyard offered an immediate reprieve from the overwhelming festival lights, the distant chatter of the Mondstadt citizens reduced to a low, harmless murmur.
Varka slowly guided you to sit on a low stone bench, immediately dropping to his knees right in front of you so he was eye-level, completely stripping away his commanding grand master presence. His massive calloused hands came to rest gently on your trembling knees, their steady weight providing an instant anchor as your chest heaved shallow, panicked gasps.
“Hey, take it easy. Look right here, I’ve got you,” Varka murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that was soothing, entirely devoid of his usual loud theatrics. He took one of your shaking hands and pressed it flat against his broad chest, right over his heart, letting you feel the steady, slow rhythm of his own heartbeat. “Don’t worry about the crowd,” he continued.
“Just match my breathing. Big breath in…” He paused, drawing in a deep, exaggerated breath himself. His broad chest expanded slightly beneath his clothing and armor. Seeing his steady composure, you shakily sucked in a shallow breath, trying your best to natch the immense depth of his.
“...And let it out.” His chest slowly collapsed as he released a long, steady exhale through his mouth. You followed his cue, letting the trapped air rush past your lips, your tight shoulders dropping as your body finally began to mirror his relaxed posture. “There you go. We’re staying right here as long as you need, no rush at all.”
.𖥔 ݁ AETHER
Aether’s golden eyes would widen in immediate concern the moment he noticed your fingers gripping his sleeve with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity, your breathing turning sharp and shallow. Having traveled across countless nations and witnessed all forms of distress, he recognized the onset of panic instantly and moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency to protect you.
He silently waved Paimon away, giving the floating companion a look to stay where she is before taking your hand in his and gently leading you away from the busy marketplace into the serene, empty docks of the harbor where the open air could give your lungs room to breathe.
The gentle lapping of the ocean waves against the wooden docks provided a soft, rhythmic backdrop as the cool sea breeze swept across your face, helping to clear the suffocating weight in your chest. Aether sat closely beside you on the edge of the pier, his shoulder rubbing against yours to offer a constant sense of physical security without crowding your space. He held your hand with his, his thumb gently and repeatedly tracing smooth, comforting circles against the backs of your knuckles.
“I’m right here. You’re safe with me,” Aether said softly, his voice carrying the calm, steady assurance of a seasoned traveler who had weathered a thousand storms. “Just focus on the sound of the water. Take a deep breath with me. In…”
Aether slowly expanded his chest, drawing in a deep breath of the salty harbor air. He held your hands a little tighter, waiting patiently until you tried to mimic the motion, your chest rising with a shaky, desperate gulp of air as you fought to fill your lungs. “...and out.”
He let his breath go in a long, quiet sigh. He watched you intently as you followed his lead, his golden eyes tracking the slow rise and fall of your chest as the rigid tension finally began to drain from your shoulders, a gentle smile now outstretched on his lips. “You’re doing great,” he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, “we can just sit here and watch the waves until you feel better, okay?”
.𖥔 ݁ WRIOTHESLEY
Wriothesley noticed the sudden, icy tremor in your hand where it rested in the crook of his arm, your footsteps faltering as you walked through the dimly lit, echo-prone corridors of the fortress’ upper levels. His sharp eyes immediately took in your pale complexion and the way your gaze darted frantically around the enclosed metal space, recognizing the onset of claustrophobic panic before you could even try to hide it.
Without a single word of fuss, he immediately pivoted on his heel, using his large frame to guide you through a nearby service door and into the private, spacious sanctuary of his personal office, immediately locking the heavy doors behind you to guarantee absolute privacy.
The heavy click of the deadbolt sliding into place signaled that the outside “world” was completely locked away, leaving only the dim, cozy warmth of the office and the crackle of the radiator. Wriothesley didn’t push you into a chair, instead, he pulled you directly against his broad chest, wrapping his heavy arms around you to completely envelop your smaller frame in his comforting warmth.
His massive hands rubbed slow tracks up and down your spine, his leather vest providing a solid, immovable surface for you to press your face against as you trembled. “Woah, easy there sweetheart. You’re alright,” Wriothesley murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your ear in a lazy, soothing tone that cut through the loud ringing in your head. “Just lean into me and let it out. No one can get in here, and you don’t have to put on a brave face for me.”
He tightened his arms around you, burying his face into your hair as he drew in a heavy, deliberate breath, letting you feel the unwavering expanse of his chest expanding against your cheek. “Just breathe, real slow.”
You shivered against him, forcing your lungs to finally expand and mimic the heavy rise and fall of his chest as the crushing weight in your throat began to dissolve. “Yeah, that’s it. I’ve got you completely covered.”
.𖥔 ݁ FREMINET
Freminet felt a sudden, sharp spike of sympathetic panic the moment he looked over during your walk along the quiet shores of the Court of Fontaine and saw you gripping your chest, your eyes wide with a quiet, suffocating terror. Because he was very familair with the crushing weight of anxiety himself, his initial instinct to shy away vanished entirely, replaced by a deep, protective need to help the person he cared about the most.
He quickly scanned the area, finding a secluded alcove beneath a stone archway near the water’s edge, and gently took your hand, guiding you into the quiet shadow where no passing citizens could see your vulnerability.
The soft lapping of the Fontaine waters against the stone arch provided a familiar, comforting sound as Freminet helped you sit down against the cool masonry. He immediately sat down right next to you, his knees tucked slightly to his chest as he pulled Pers from his belt, gently placing the mechanical penguin into your trembling lap to give your hands something solid to hold onto.
His cheeks were slightly flushed with his own nervousness, but his eyes were completely focused on you, full of a gentle, understanding empathy. “I… I know exactly how this feels. It’s really scary, but it’s going to be okay,” Freminet whispered softly, his voice a quiet, comforting presence that didn’t demand any energy from you.
He carefully reached out, his fingers sliding into yours, squeezing your hand with a gentle reassuring pressure, “you don’t have to say anything at all.” He slowly took your cold shaking fingers and wrapped them tightly around the small, solid frame of the clockwork toy, using his own hands to steady yours against Pers’ smooth metal shell.
“Just hold onto Pers, and hold onto my hand. Let’s listen to the water together, okay?” He took a slow quiet breath, consciously dropping his shoulders and tilting his head closer to yours so you could hear his steady respiration over the splashing of the nearby waves. “It’ll pass soon, I promise… I’m right here with you.”
I’m having a really fucking bad time gamers!!!!!! Really bad!!!!!!!!!
Yk when you make a decision for the greater good but it feels like you actually just did everything wrong and everyone is going to hate you forever!!!!! Yep!!!!!!!!!!!!! Fuck!!!!!!!!! I’m just really tired of it!!!!!!!!!
Also my birthday is next week and nobody knows about it and nobody’s going to do anything and nobody’s going to remember and my family doesn’t even want to see me after the shit I did and I’m really upset. I can barely get a text back from most people and my job is kicking my ass and I feel like I’m drowning and idk if it’ll get any better because I’m so egregiously socially stunted I can barely hold a conversation. FUCK.
when u remember that alhaitham is the younger one who lacks social skill, during the whole thesis argument... honestly i cant help but feel my heart ache...
like wdym little alhaitham scared away the one person he actually liked and wanted as a friend... and he probably looked up to kaveh since hes his senior too... thats so heartbreaking.
hiiii your xiao content is so sweet ❤️ i love him sm
sorry to #intrude but could i maybe request xiao comforting an EXTREMELY stressed reader? life’s been kicking my ass i need him. tysm ❤️
lantern light, low burning
xiao x reader
content: hurt/comfort
notes: so im actually so horrible im so sorry?? i dont know how tumblr works so im seeing this literally like a full year late.... i get u tho im also incredibly stressed rn so uh hopefully this is still okay sob
masterlist
The exhaustion does not arrive like a wave tonight—it arrives like sediment, the slow accumulation of a hundred small disturbances settling at the bottom of something that used to hold itself together. You've been at the desk for hours, the candle burned low enough that wax has pooled and hardened in uneven rings, and at some point you simply stop. Stop reading, stop writing, stop pretending the words on the page mean anything coherent. You let your forehead drop against your folded arms and stay there, breathing in the smell of old parchment and melted wax, feeling the specific exhaustion of someone who has been performing competence for so long they've forgotten what the alternative feels like.
You don't hear the window. You never do.
But you feel the air change—a faint shift in pressure, the way a room responds to something ancient entering it—and when you lift your head he's already there, perched in the windowsill with one knee drawn up, watching you with that flat unreadable patience that used to unsettle you and now feels like the only steady thing in a week that hasn't given you anything to hold onto.
"You've been sitting like that for an hour," he says.
"Have I."
"You have."
"I didn't notice."
"I know," he says, and there's something underneath the words, some current of worry he won't name directly because naming it would mean acknowledging how closely he's been watching, how long he's been perched out there in the cold dark studying the shape of your exhaustion through glass before deciding to come inside.
He drops down from the sill without sound, the way he does everything, all that violent power folded into something quiet and contained, and crosses the room toward you. You expect him to sit across from you, the way he sometimes does when he's working through what to say. Instead he stops beside your chair, and after a moment of visible deliberation—Xiao does not do casual touch easily, every gesture considered before it's offered—his hand settles against the back of your neck, thumb pressing slow circles into muscle gone rigid with tension you hadn't realized you were carrying.
You make a small sound, something between relief and complaint, and let your eyes close.
"You're tense everywhere," he says, like an accusation.
"I'm aware."
"Your shoulders are by your ears."
"Xiao."
"I'm simply stating the facts."
But his hand doesn't stop. It moves with unexpected care along the line of your shoulder, pressing into the knots gathered there with the kind of precision that suggests he's catalogued the geography of your body's stress responses the way he's catalogued the terrain of every mountain pass he's ever guarded—thoroughly, instinctively, without ever admitting he's done so. You lean into the touch without deciding to, tilting your head until it rests against his forearm, and for a long moment neither of you says anything at all. The candle gutters. Somewhere outside, the wind moves through Liyue's eaves with a sound like something exhaling.
"I had a bad week," you finally say, because the silence has gone soft enough to hold the confession.
"I know."
"You don't have to keep saying you know things."
"I would say it less if it weren't true."
You laugh, a small broken thing, more exhale than sound, and he pauses his hand just long enough to register the sound before resuming, more careful now, as though your laughter were something fragile he didn't want to disturb.
"I don't even know how to explain it," you continue, eyes still closed, voice thinning toward something rawer than you intended. "Nothing went catastrophically wrong. It was just—everything, all at once, none of it large enough to justify how heavy it felt. Does that make sense?"
"It makes sense," he says, and there's something different in his voice now, something lower, older. "Grief doesn't always come from catastrophe. Sometimes it's accumulation. Small weights, stacked carefully enough that no single one seems worth mentioning, until you're carrying something unbearable made entirely of things that individually weren't."
You open your eyes and look up at him. He isn't looking at you—his gaze has drifted toward the window, toward the dark shapes of mountains he's spent six hundred years standing watch over, and you understand without him saying it that he isn't speaking hypothetically. Xiao knows weight. Xiao has spent centuries being weight, has measured his own existence in karmic debt accumulated one small necessary cruelty at a time, has carried more than anyone should ever be asked to carry without once setting it down.
"You'd know," you say quietly.
"I would," he agrees, and something tightens at the corner of his jaw before releasing. "Which is why I'm telling you—you don't have to wait until it's catastrophic to let someone help carry it."
You reach up and find his free hand where it rests against the back of your chair, fingers curling around his with the easy familiarity of centuries you don't yet have between you, though it feels, in moments like this, as though you might. His hand goes still beneath yours, the way it always does, some part of him still faintly disbelieving that you keep choosing to do this, to reach for him without hesitation, without flinching from what he is.
"Come here," he says, and it isn't a question.
He guides you up from the chair with a hand at your elbow, steady, certain, and leads you the short distance to the low cushions by the window where you sometimes sit together watching the lanterns drift over the harbor. He sits first, back against the wall, and after a moment's hesitation—because even now, after everything, some part of you still waits to be sure the invitation is real—you settle yourself against his chest, his arm coming around you with a careful, deliberate weight, as though he's still relearning, every time, how to hold something without breaking it.
His chin finds the top of your head. You feel more than hear the breath he releases.
"You smell like candle smoke and ink," he says, after a while, his voice low enough to feel like vibration against your skull more than sound.
"That's not exactly romantic."
"I wasn't trying to be romantic. I was making an observation."
"You're terrible at this."
"I'm aware," he says, and you can feel the ghost of something almost like amusement in the way his chest moves beneath your cheek. "You'll have to settle for honest instead."
You settle. You always settle, with him, into something that doesn't ask you to perform ease you don't feel, doesn't require you to narrate your exhaustion into something palatable. His fingers find the ends of your hair and begin, slowly, methodically, working through the small tangles there, the same patient focus he brings to sharpening Primordial Jade Winged-Spear, the same care he brings to everything fragile enough to require it.
"I keep thinking I should be handling all of this better," you admit, into the quiet. "Everyone else seems to manage."
"Everyone else is lying to you, or lying to themselves," he says, without hesitation. "There is no version of carrying weight that doesn't eventually bend something. I would know."
"That's not comforting."
"I'm not finished," he says, and his hand stills against your hair, settling instead at the curve of your shoulder, thumb tracing slow absent patterns against your collarbone. "What I mean is—bending isn't failure. I bent for six hundred years and I am still here. Still standing. Still capable of this." His arm tightens, fractionally, around you. "You are allowed to bend. You are not required to break simply because the weight is heavy."
You turn your face into his chest, breathing in the particular scent of him—something like mountain wind and old parchment and faintly, beneath it, the green tea he drinks too much of when he thinks no one's counting—and feel something in your chest finally, finally loosen. Not solved. Not fixed. Just loosened, the way a held breath finally releases, the way a clenched hand finally opens.
"Stay," you say, quiet, almost embarrassed by how much you need it.
"I wasn't planning on leaving," he says, immediate, certain, no hesitation at all in it. "I told you. You don't have to hold it all tonight. I'll keep watch over what's left."
"You say that like it's simple."
"It is simple," he says. "I've spent centuries standing guard over things infinitely less important than this. You, asking me to stay—that's not a burden, little one. That's the easiest thing anyone's asked of me in six hundred years."
The endearment lands somewhere soft and unguarded in you, and you feel your eyes go warm and stinging, the exhaustion of the week finally finding an exit it's been searching for since morning. You don't sob. It isn't dramatic. It's just a few tears, slow and silent, slipping free while his hand moves steady circles against your back, while his chin rests against your hair, while outside the lanterns continue their slow drift over a harbor that has stood for centuries and will likely stand for centuries more, indifferent and beautiful and entirely unbothered by the small private collapse happening in this room.
"I've got you," he says, once, quietly, into the dark.
And for the first time in days, you believe it enough to let yourself rest.
You don't know how long you stay like that—folded into him, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear, the candle finally guttering out somewhere behind you and leaving the room lit only by moonlight and the faint glow of distant lanterns. Time moves strangely around Xiao. It always has. He exists slightly outside its usual current, six hundred years of accumulated patience giving him a stillness that makes minutes feel longer and somehow gentler, and you let yourself drift in that stillness without trying to measure it.
At some point his hand stops moving against your hair, not from inattention but from something quieter—you realize, when you finally tilt your head to look up at him, that he's simply watching you. Not with concern anymore, not entirely. Something softer than that. Something he doesn't often let surface, careful as he is about armor, about distance, about the centuries of instinct telling him that wanting things, keeping things, loving things, only ever ends in losing them.
"What?" you ask, voice rough with the remnants of crying.
"Nothing," he says, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, and for once he doesn't try particularly hard to make it convincing.
"Xiao."
"I'm only thinking that you look less like you're carrying the weight of Teyvat than you did an hour ago," he says finally, reluctant, like the admission costs him something. "I prefer you like this."
"Tear-stained and pathetic?"
"Soft," he corrects, with more conviction than the word seems to warrant from someone who uses so few of them. "You're allowed to be soft around me. I won't think less of you for it. I think—" he pauses, jaw tightening slightly, the particular discomfort of a man unused to articulating tenderness, "—I think it might be the only time I see you as you actually are, underneath everything you carry for everyone else."
You don't have a response for that. You're not sure one exists. So instead you simply press closer, tucking yourself more fully against him, and feel his arm tighten in response, an answer offered in pressure rather than words, which has always been more his language anyway.
The candle is gone now. The room exists in blue-grey moonlight, the lanterns of Liyue glowing faint and distant through the window, and somewhere in the stillness you feel your breathing finally even out, your shoulders finally drop from where they've lived by your ears for days, your mind finally quiet enough to simply exist in a body that is, for the first time in a long while, not bracing for the next demand.
"Thank you," you murmur, half-asleep already, the words slurring slightly with exhaustion finally allowed to be exhaustion instead of something to push through.
"You don't need to thank me for this," he says, low, almost rough. "Just rest. I'll still be here when you wake."
And he is. Through the slow turning of the night, through the lanterns burning down to embers and the moon shifting position across the floor, through whatever small movements you make in sleep that have him adjusting his arm without waking you—he stays, unmoving, immovable, a yaksha who has spent six centuries learning that vigilance over something this fragile, this human, this entirely undeserving of the violence the world keeps offering it, is not a burden at all.
I will stop picking at my skin. I will stop picking my nails. I will stop ruining my nail polish. I will stop picking my scalp. I really would appreciate if I wasn’t always bleeding lol. I’m committing to the bit.
Looking into taking NAC and getting some new replacement fidgets
Waking up from a disgustingly wholesome domestic dream about someone you haven’t spoken to in a year actually should be considered self inflicted psychological warfare
The autistic urge to explain every detail about how the disorder affects me to a man I met on hinge to clarify that I’m not a normal situationship and he will have to deal with that
is this a safe space to say how much i despise the Vees and think that the people who write fics about them and glorify them and their overall popularity is kinda sorta really yucky
Big brain. Genshin x reader talking super cool hot sexy (aka intellectual conversation about a deep stimulating topic of personal interest like science or literature) and they are down atrocious. Who should I write for it tho????
