note: all my fics have a gender-neutral!reader
& all og posts (including ones not on here) are under the ‘mine’ tag
A3!
➳ the troupes having a karaoke night
all troupes headcanon
➳ another one bites the dust - tenma sumeragi x reader
halloween prompt: “MOTHERF- IT BIT ME”
➳ as thick as a brick - taichi nanao x reader
in which both taichi and the reader are oblivious dumbasses pining for each other.
➳ sleepy makeover - azami izumida & reader
in which the reader is azami’s canvas.
non-fic cursed stuff:
➳ cooking omi
➳ a3 but make it HSM
➳ highlights for A3: autumn & winter ep 1 | ep 2 | ep 3 | ep 4 | ep 5 | ep 5.5 | ep 6 | ep 7 | ep 8 | ep 9 | ep 10 | ep 11 | ep 12
➳ chikage gets cabbaged
Obey Me!
➳ demonbob lucipantsed - lucifer x reader
crackfic in which lucifer gets pantsed.
Ikemen Vampire
➳ pristine - isaac x reader
au in which a person has a tattoo of a phrase their soulmate will say to them.
Warnings: None - not even spoilers really, just speculation
Summary: Silvio sets out to discover what it takes to buy Emma…but the true cost isn’t something either of them expects. (6.7k YES YOU READ THAT RIGHT WHY BRAIN words of snark and fluff, SFW)
Author’s Note: Frankly I’m just tired of looking at this. It’s long and I’ll never be happy with it but I want it out there before Cybird undermines all my ideas. And the gratuitous Italian is all my own headcanon.
Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra;
e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio
(I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice)
- Francesco Petrarca
“What price?”
The words are aimed down a set of glistening silver tines at her, fork brandished over the breakfast plate like a saber. A pair of deep blue eyes pierce her from the other end, and she pauses a moment to sip at her tea, collecting her thoughts before replying calmly. “What price what, Prince Silvio?”
“Your price. How much to buy you.”
She nearly aspirates her swallow as it abruptly reverses course, tannin burning her nose as she chokes it back down and clears her throat. “Forgive the impertinence in stating as much, Your Highness…” It takes more effort than she’d like to admit not to put any additional emphasis on his title. “But you seem to be laboring under some misconception. I am not for…sale.”
premise. in which you make a nuisance of yourself in every train ride you share with scaramouche. (inexplicably, he doesn't stop sitting next to you anyway.)
note. we pretend i didn't disappear for months :D enjoy
Neck pain has been increasingly common in Scaramouche's life these days.
The cause of which is sleeping peacefully on his shoulder, snoring softly as the train rattles past. The way you remain deep in slumber despite the constant lurching is impressive, but your knack for unwittingly making yourself a menace to society is even more spectacular.
Scaramouche takes a deep breath—Kazuha always did advise him to be more patient—yet the moment he does, tufts of your hair curl against his skin. A flush rises to his cheeks, body caught between freezing in place and jolting out of his seat, but he digs his fingers to his thighs and wills himself to dispel the urge to shoot upright, in fear of...
In fear of what? Shocking you awake?
Nonsense. He's never been that considerate.
(Still, once the tension bleeds from his body, he lets his shoulders drop, fitting your head snugly against the crook of his neck. He grabs your phone from your loose grip, tucks it securely in your pocket, and allows himself to stare at the dark circles beneath your eyes.
He can let himself worry for a bit.)
--
“What's wrong with you?” Kazuha's concerned gaze settles over Scaramouche's hunched figure, slumped miserably on the desk. His head is craned in a particular angle, and Childe, obnoxious as he is, had erupted in boisterous laughter when Scaramouche entered the lecture hall tilted the very same way. Unfortunately, Scaramouche had been too sore to swat away Childe's phone as he took a picture of him in a zombie filter.
“Got a crick in my neck.”
Kazuha frowns. “Did you sleep badly again?”
Scaramouche scoffs in defeat. “You could say that.”
The next time he sees you enter the train, you're drenched.
You make an effort to dry yourself, wiping rainwater out of your hair with a handkerchief and packing your wet jacket in your bag, but you're still undeniably soaked. Some passengers don't bother to hide their distaste, scooting away to other vacant seats as they shoot you a scornful look. Others aren't so cruel, offering packets of tissues and initiating small talk over the worsening weather. Scaramouche watches as your apologetic expression turns into one of gratitude, sheepishly admitting to the nice aunties you forgot to check the forecast.
Scaramouche doesn't quite give you a spare towel or send you a reassuring smile, but he broods silently from where he sits beside you, scowling at the impudent lot now sitting far, far away. Insolent fools, tactless jerks, ill-mannered garbage—a barrage of insults fly in his head, ones he has learned not to verbalize lest he gets in trouble for his crass mouth again.
When the train pauses to his stop, he pulls out a foldable umbrella from his bag, still seething. He hands it out to you, not making eye contact as he's still glaring at the woman giving you a side-eye. “Take this.”
“Uh...?” Perplexed, you hesitantly accept it. “But...”
“It's fine.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder, walking toward the sliding doors. “So don't come here drenched in the rain next time.”
He doesn't get to hear your response as he speeds off.
--
“I'm an asshole.”
“Is this your moment of self-discovery?”
“Congratulations.”
Scaramouche's eyebrow twitches, but he's much too panicked to make a snarky quip to fire back. It's his fault for picking the wrong people to talk to, anyway—Heizou is a smartass and Xiao has a perpetual stick up his ass. He should've confided to the empathetic Aether instead, or to Venti who gives surprisingly good advice when you least expect it.
“So what made you realize it?” Heizou bites down on a pork cutlet, apparently finished with his daily quota for pissing him off and now fulfilling his obligations as a friend. “Did something happen?”
“Does it have anything to do with how you arrived soaking wet to class?” Xiao adds, poking the tofu on his plate.
“Perhaps you tried stealing an umbrella on your way here?”
“You got it backwards, dumbass. I gave away mine,” Scaramouche scowls.
“That sounds like you did a good thing, then. What's wrong?”
The way he gave it away so roughly. The way he said you could use it so condescendingly. How he'd forgotten to offer words of comfort, no matter how painful or awkward for him, because he'd been so absorbed in pointless matters. How he'd completely ruined his chances of being friends with you by acting like an indifferent jerk.
All because he was too embarrassed to say he's worried you'll catch a cold from the rain.
--
When Scaramouche takes the train the way home, it's him who's dripping rainwater everywhere.
Karma had gotten his new umbrella stolen from the rack, it seems. He just bought it from the convenience store, damn it.
So now he stands by the doors, too reluctant to go any further inside the train. His wet sneakers squeak beneath his feet, hair sticking uncomfortably on his forehead. His shirt clings to him like second skin, and the only thing retaining his modesty (because of course he falls prey to downpour the one time he wears a white button-up) is a heavy sweater vest soaked in water.
“So much for telling me not to come here when I'm drenched.”
A small towel drapes itself over his head, and Scaramouche quickly turns on his feet. Your mouth is curled into a grin when you step to the spot by his side, but not unkindly—you aren't here to mock him or return his cruel words.
Scaramouche grabs the towel sitting atop his head, drying his hair with it. As he does so, you make no move to leave even with plenty of vacant seats remaining unoccupied.
“... Aren't you going to sit?”
“Hm? No.” You're already holding onto a handrail, staring ahead.
“...Why not?”
“I'm keeping you company.”
???
“Oh, and your umbrella.” You fish it from your bag, holding it out for him to take. “Cute pattern, by the way.”
“Wha-” he's about to say ‘what are you talking about,’ but then he sees the cute star print, the gold sparkles bright against navy blue, and his hair rises on end, face flushing a deep red. Nahida was the one who packed it for me...!
“...Cute.”
“I heard you the first time,” he grumbles under his breath, accepting it from your hand.
An endeared smile crosses your face, one that he doesn't see as he stuffs the umbrella into his backpack.
I wasn't talking about the umbrella.
Scaramouche has always made it a habit to take the train before rush hour, but his report is due today, and so he slept for a grand total of two hours last night just to finish it. It wouldn't even be two hours if he hadn't slept through his alarm, but he wishes he'd woken up earlier; if it meant he could've avoided a crowded train, he could stand to lose some minutes of sleep.
“Can you move a bit?”
“Ow, ow...”
“Sorry, I stepped on your foot!”
“I hope nobody comes in at the next stop...”
Scaramouche empathizes with the last remark in particular, because he really couldn't handle it any more.
Presently, he's staring at the ceiling, praying for divine intervention. His neck is starting to hurt but he forces himself to face upwards, otherwise he would...
“This is tough, isn't it?” You laugh awkwardly, your chuckle turning into a wince when an elbow digs to your side. The train car is packed at full capacity, and you wouldn't be exaggerating if you were to say you felt like you were drowning in a sea of people.
“That's a massive understatement,” Scaramouche replies, wishing for death.
“Sorry. I can't go any farther than this.”
“It's fine.”
Actually, nothing is fine.
Scaramouche is trapped against the wall in the farthest location from the exit, surrounded by people from all sides, his stop is two stations away, and he has no idea how he's going to swim all the way through the doors.
Oh, and he's caged between your arms, pressed against your body, and feeling very much like a pervert for sniffing your scent, but it's simply impossible not to smell you at this close proximity (however, it's entirely his fault for thinking you smell good and trying to pinpoint what cologne you use).
Your head is resting on his shoulder, and Scaramouche learns quickly this position is a lot more embarrassing when you're conscious. And fuck, this time he can feel you breathe directly against his neck, puffs of hot air blowing on his reddened skin, and he can only hope for the best you can't sense his racing heartbeat.
You're too goddamn close, even though he can tell you're exerting your utmost effort to create some distance between your bodies. Your arms are straining pushing on the wall just so you wouldn't crush him under your weight, and as much as he should appreciate it, he can hardly think straight over the sound of his pulse in his ears. He's hanging precariously over the edge, and if he crosses his limit, he might just pass away on the spot.
Hell, if he so as much looks down, he's close enough to kiss your forehead, and-
He really shouldn't be thinking about that right now.
So yeah. Scaramouche may look like an idiot facing the ceiling, but at least he isn't at risk of cardiac arrest.
It's fine. This is fine. I'm one stop away. I can survive this. Just a little more.
But the gods above must hate his guts or something because the train screeches to a rough halt at the station, the car rattles violently, and you're squirming underneath him, his hands instinctively wrapping around your waist to steady you, but your head moves to look up at him and-
Scaramouche very nearly astral projects to another plane when he feels your lips graze against his chin.
“Hey, you okay?! Did you hit your head on the wall or something?”
He feels like he did. He's so dizzy and the world is spinning around him, but at the same time you're the only one he can see. This must be unhealthy, Scaramouche thinks, and he wonders how much blood has rushed to his head, coloring his cheeks bright pink, and if he can die from losing too much blood this way.
“Kuni?”
How do you know my name, Scaramouche isn't sure if he really says it, mind still whirring with thoughts, and oh god his hands are still on your waist-
“Your umbrella had a name tag...” You squint at the neon letters displaying the current station, “Hey, your stop is here, isn't it? Excuse me! Coming thro....”
He vaguely remembers your hands pushing him forward and the crowd parting obediently to make way for him when they see his face becoming visibly ill. The rest passes in a blur, and when Scaramouche finally comes to, he's already outside the train station.
For a brief moment, he stays frozen. Then by the corner of his eye, he notices the shopping center.
He stares at the pastel decor from the cosmetic store, approaches the vanity mirror, and if possible, his mind turns even more blank.
A faint kiss mark is stark against his chin, the same color as the lip tint you wear everyday.
“I'm not going.”
Venti sighs, disappointed but not surprised. “You never go to drinking parties with me. Why do you always head straight home after class?”
“Reasons.” Scaramouche closes his laptop and slides it inside his bag, making quick work of packing his things. “In your case, I'd advise you to go less. Being an alcoholic isn't a good look.”
“My liver is strong,” Venti insists, a cheeky grin dancing on his lips. “But seriously, what's up? Don't tell me you have a secret girlfriend you meet up with after class?”
“I was starting to think the same thing,” Aether pipes up, matching curious looks with Venti. “Or maybe you have a boyfriend? Either way, what are they like?”
“I have neither,” Scaramouche grumbles, coming off more pitiful than spiteful. “And I'm coming home early today because Nahida wanted me to get something for dinner.”
“Ehh, that's boring.”
“You're the ones making assumptions by yourselves!” Scaramouche snaps, treading towards the door. “I'm leaving. Don't call me to pick you up when you're wasted, it's Xiao's turn this week.”
“Okay, enjoy your date~”
Scaramouche doesn't even bother replying.
--
You get on the train scheduled for 4:15 everyday.
It's not that Scaramouche deliberately researched this information; he really did just catch the same train rides by chance. Over time, he began to recognize you as a familiar face, and eventually, he even became your headrest.
Not by choice, but he supposes he just has to live with it.
It's not that Scaramouche intentionally takes the same train so he could see your face. At least, that's what he tells himself as he silently pressures the retail cashier to scan his items faster and practically flies out the convenience store to rush for the train.
He glances at his wristwatch. 4:11. I'll make it. He breathes a sigh of relief, and checks the shopping list Nahida texted for good measure. Curry mix, milk, a carton of eggs...
A notification sound rings from his phone.
‘Sorry for the late notice, could you get pudding for dessert too?’
Shit.
Panic flares in his eyes and he spins on his heel, returning to the convenience store. Do I sprint? No, it's still not humanly possible to buy pudding and go back in four minutes... But I could try. Wait, wasn't there a line of customers behind me earlier? I'd still have to wait in line.
Finally, he stops running. This is stupid. Why am I working so hard just to catch this train, anyway?
Before he could even properly sulk about it, Scaramouche bumps into someone hurrying for the train. “Oh, sorry! I wasn't looking-”
Much to his surprise, your face comes into view when he looks, chest heaving for breath. You look like you've been running for a good while, hair in disarray from the wind, the reading glasses perched on your nose askew. And that's how Scaramouche knows you're in a real hurry, if you didn't even have the time to put on your contacts.
“It's okay,” Scaramouche quickly replies, stepping aside out of your path. “The train is still there, don't sweat it.”
He turns to the convenience store, mood lifted. I got to see them, so I guess this way is fine, too.
--
When Scaramouche returns from shopping, he comes back to a strange sight.
“Huh?”
“What are you looking at?”
Good question.
Why was he looking at your figure, still waiting for the next train to come by?
“No, well...” The plastic bags in his hand crinkle when he tightens his grip on them. Scaramouche blinks repeatedly, trying to see if you'll somehow fizzle out of existence if he closes his eyes enough. “You definitely could've made it in time for the train, so why are you still...”
Your lips stretch to a small smile. “I didn't.”
No. You definitely did.
You were at a distance where it'll only take three minutes max to reach the train even if you walked the same pace as a turtle. So why...
“Your face can be surprisingly expressive sometimes, Kuni. You're practically a walking question mark right now.”
“Ku-” He stops himself from speaking before his voice could crack.
“Sorry, you don't like me calling you that?” You're tilting your head at him, putting on puppy eyes. Oh no.
“...No. It's fine.” Damn it. Aether was right—he really is a softie.
However, he's still busy pondering. Sure, it's a stroke of luck and Scaramouche won't look a gift horse in the mouth, but why didn't you take your usual train? You were even running towards the station, arriving with wind-tousled hair and disheveled clothes.
“I was waiting.”
Scaramouche blinks. “For what?”
You stare at him in disbelief, like you seriously can't believe he doesn't know. That's when Scaramouche notices some things about you are a little different from earlier.
Your hair is fixed now, no strands randomly sticking up in the air. Your clothes are neat and tidy too, creases patted down. Your glasses are gone, and Scaramouche isn't sure if it's just his mind playing tricks on him or the color of your lips appears more vibrant from earlier.
He flinches when a sigh escapes you. But then the frown on your face is replaced with a dazzling smile, exasperated but fond.
“Who do you think I'm waiting for, dummy?”
BONUS: A look into the future.
“Has anyone ever told you your chin is really sharp?” Scaramouche grumbles under his breath, movements heavily restricted when your arms are wrapped tightly around his torso and the edge of your chin is stabbing his neck. Cooking breakfast proves to be a lot more of a challenge when a koala is clinging on his back.
“No,” you chirp, grinning ear to ear as you watch him stir the pancake batter over his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you how cute you look in an apron?”
Scaramouche glowers. “No.” If a living person actually did, they wouldn't be for long.
“That's good.” If possible, you squeeze him even tighter, nuzzling against his face. “I want to keep the adorable Kuni to myself.”
“Disgusting.”
So he says as he leans his head closer when you peck him on the cheek.
hiya byeool! i read your selfship ask game and i can't stop thinking about being academic rivals with artem ever since 😭
can i request a oneshot for it? id love for you to expand on it since i loved your marius fic. feel free to base it on your selfship but maybe a confession scene?
no rush though! thank you and have a good day!
where you're meant to be
✦ artem wing x gn!reader | tears of themis
✦ tags: academic rivals to lovers, one-sided rivalry, confessions
✦ link to self-ship ask game.
"you're shaking." ARTEM's hand comes down on top of your knee.
you hadn't even realized that you'd been bouncing your leg up and down nervously. if it was any other day, you would have probably shoved off his gorgeously sculpted hand, but right now, the weight felt uncomfortably comforting.
not that you'd ever admit to that.
instead, you scowled. "involuntary trembling is the body's response to a perceived threat, which in this case, manifests in the form of 500 people, bright lights, and a two-minute speech."
you should be celebrating, hollering your lungs out, or doing your little victory dance backstage. after graduation, you'd at least be free for a short while until you landed your dream job. no more all-nighters. no more drowning yourself in whatever drink helped you stay awake. no more wallowing in self-deprecating tears.
and no more of artem wing.
you startled, hearing him call out your name from beside you. your co-valedictorian and sworn adversary ever since you butted heads in a debate that landed both of you in the dean's office.
that was the first and last time you ever lost to him.
whenever you two weren't paired together — which happened a lot more often than not, much to your annoyance and bewilderment — you were determined that every accomplishment after, whatever it was, ended with you either above or equal to him.
because he was perfect. too perfect.
you've never caught him with bags under his eyes or a hair strand out of place. there was never a single piece of lint on his smoothly ironed-out clothes that also fit his frame too perfectly.
he was devastatingly attractive, flawlessly well-mannered, and frighteningly intelligent. he likewise breezed through every subject so effortlessly, it was utterly unfair.
you turned towards him. "what?"
he looks at you like he always has. unnervingly patient. sometimes, you wondered if he had any feelings at all, since he could stomach whatever attitude you threw his way.
"what hormones do our bodies release whenever we're stressed?" he repeats slowly.
huh? you blink.
when you stare at him blankly, those cerulean eyes flick towards the audience for all of two seconds before going back to meet yours. "do you not know the answer?"
"of course, i do." you sucked in a sharp breath, narrowing your eyes. you weren't going to allow him to make you feel like an idiot, especially not in a moment of weakness. "it's epinephrine," you snapped.
"and?" he prompts, not at all fazed by the spite in your voice.
"norepinephrine," you answered in a tone that sounded a lot like, duh.
he hums, squeezing your knee with the tiniest amount of pressure. "you're correct."
your heart, which had already been pulsing much too quickly, skipped a beat from the gesture. what was wrong with you? your heart? skipping a beat for your least favorite robot in the world?
but then he kept going, "and how about when we're feeling joy?"
you wonder if he had any underlying motives for suddenly engaging you in a pop quiz. perhaps he was finally asserting his superiority.
cautiously, you provided him with answers to all the random questions he proceeded to ask you from then on, not limited to biology, but to every class you shared together.
when the weight of his hand is lifted from your knee, only then do you realize that you'd completely stopped shaking. the tight coil of nerves in your stomach likewise felt like they'd been detangled one by one from artem's questions.
why did he ...
you're about to say ... something when your name reverberates throughout the auditorium, signaling your speech.
you take a deep breath when you stand. you could do this, you told yourself. straightening your shoulders, you glance at artem one final time.
he wore the faintest smile that made his eyes crinkle handsomely — one that was directed at you. probably his least favorite person in the world.
and you take on that podium headfirst. still nervous, but not as terrified as before.
"ARTEM!"
artem glances behind him to see you, chest heaving for air. it was unusual for you to call out to him first, even though you somehow always ended up together.
alright, that was only partially true, as artem did request to get partnered with you multiple times on several occasions.
without your knowledge.
and he'll bring that little secret to his grave.
you take a bold step forward and thrust a hand out without meeting his eyes. he tilts his head, slightly baffled by the gesture.
you cleared your throat. "i suppose this is goodbye."
ah, a farewell handshake. hesitantly, he allows himself to touch you again.
he's not sure what came over him earlier, placing a hand on your knee of all places, but he's long learned your body language and signs to know that you were nervous.
and though he's always admired you for being so self-capable — only one of your many traits and characteristics that he loves about you, his most favorite person in the world — the urge to offer you some semblance of comfort had overridden his judgment.
he clasps your hand in his, mildly bothered at the anti-climactic situation. this wasn't the kind of ending he'd hoped for after trying to muster up the courage and wait for the correct timing over the past four years.
"you've always pushed me to strive for excellence and do my very best, so thank you for being a formidable rival," you say, giving his hand a firm shake.
artem's entire body tenses and his voice comes out just as stiffly as he clarifies, "rival?"
"yeah." you shrugged.
and the mystery behind your entire demeanor toward him finally makes sense, like jigsaw puzzles falling into place. embarrassment heats his ears.
"i wasn't aware that we were ever in a ..." he couldn't stop the frown from overtaking his usually composed features. " ... competition."
"oh." your eyes widen at his revelation, and you drop his hand to bring yours up to slap your cheeks. "dear, themis. i've been acting like a bully toward you this entire time. you always treated me so kindly, that i sort of found it condescending, when truthfully, i think i'm just in denial. you're actually one of the sweetest persons i know, and i can't believe i've been so mean and nasty —"
"it's fine," he assures you, stopping your tirade and coughing into his fist as he struggles with his next words. "i was more concerned over the fact that you seemed to despise me."
your lips part open, the same expression you wore whenever you were considering something deeply. this too, was one of his favorite sights to stare at during lectures.
a long, silent moment stills between you as he also holds his breath, awaiting your answer.
"i don't," you eventually admit. "the only reason i ever competed with you was so you could see that i was worthy enough."
he blinks slowly. in a quiet voice, he says, "i never once thought that you were any less."
"and i never believed that you were below or above me." he continues, watching your features soften and carefully reaching out for both of your hands again.
he pauses for a moment, choosing the most suitable words to convey his long-buried affections. "i've wanted you from where you always were. where do you think that is?"
you furrow your brows, and he almost laughs. you appeared wary, an image of a distrustful kitten popping into his head, similar to when he'd flooded you with questions earlier.
"somewhere ... far away?" you guess, raising your shoulders in uncertainty.
"incorrect." artem shakes his head, hurrying to finish, knowing that you'd definitely challenge him. "i want you to stay beside me — like this. like you always have been."
"you'll get sick of me," you warn playfully, yet he's studied you long enough to know that you honestly believed that. "i positively know it."
and artem clicks his tongue fondly, moving his hands to cup your face, thumb sliding down your cheek. "wrong again."
"you think i did alright?" you ask ARTEM, lacing your fingers and holding his hand like you'd done a thousand times. the action was so seamless now, so natural, that it hardly took him by surprise anymore.
he plants an affectionate kiss on your temple, another gesture he's grown much more comfortable doing around people. "you were great. i'm extremely proud of you."
"you still aren't threatened by me, at all? not even a teensy bit?"
"i'm afraid not. nevertheless, i'll only ever accept defeat from you."
and your laughter echoes across the hall as you skip alongside your fiancé cheerfully. despite your ceaseless attempts of competing with him, he's been with you in every step of your journey, and for that, you couldn't be more grateful.
and excited, because you'd have artem wing, your most favorite person in the world, for the rest of your life.
✦ byeol's notes: happiest birthday to one of my biggest motivators for pursuing law, artem, my beloved! ♡
and to nonnie, thank you so much for making a request! i especially saved it for his birthday, so i hope you don't mind the wait, and that you see this.
reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated! thank you and ily.
SYNOPSIS. he's the embodiment of the sun, and you've always been content to stay in the shadows. until his light decides to swallow you whole.
✦ marius von hagen x gn!reader | tears of themis
✦ tags: bodyguard!reader, mutual pining, forbidden love (sort of), confessions
CHAPTERS. completed !!
i — the boy who bled sunlight.
ii. — and you, who feared the sun.
iii. — suited for this, and us.
✦ byeol's notes: what started out as brainrot at 2 AM in the morning spiraled into this.
✦ hi, this finally comes to an end! again, thank you so much for the love, patience, and support that was shown for this series. hoping that you enjoy this as much as i loved working on it. ♡
genre/warnings. angst. female reader (but only to refer to their position). historical au. bodyguard!xiao. unrequited love. arguments.
PART OF TEYVAT GEMOLOGY.
The day of your engagement begins with the heavens pouring open.
The sky rumbles and rolls, the clouds cast shadows along the landscape of the palace but you remain at your seat by the window, feet curled into your skirt and watch your wavering silhouette in the raindrops.
“Your Highness,” he says softly, “The maids will arrive soon to dress you. It is time to—”
“How many years have we known each other?”
He pauses for a moment. It’s an odd question, considering the impeccable memory he knows you possess, but Xiao decides to humour you today. How many years has he known you? The two of you were so young when you first met that he struggles to remember a time when he was not by your side. As a child, you had been quiet — docile. Your smiles were calculated. Every laugh and flutter of your eyelashes held meaning. You weren’t the heir to the throne, nor were you the First Princess but you were the picture of royalty.
Within the first year of becoming your personal guard, Xiao learnt very quickly that you hid behind a mask. That you were so much more than just the perfect example of royalty. You were bright and intelligent. And funny. You liked the sun in the morning but disliked the same warmth in the afternoons. The head chef once lost a bet to you and now sneaks red bean pancakes to your maid every night. You keep a record book of all the times he has won against your eldest sister’s guard. You liked the colour green because it reminds you of him.
(He’s seen every act of your life, every piece that makes up your existence — Child, Daughter, Sister, Princess, Friend— and today he will bear witness to the final act: Wife.)
“I was assigned to you on the eve of your sixth birthday. You will turn eighteen in two moons— which means it has been twelve years.”
You sigh and turn towards him. “And you still will not call me by my name.”
His lips curl into a small smile and he bows to you. “To call you by your name would be treason— I would sooner see myself hanged before such a day ever arrives.”
He waits for you to laugh, to push his shoulder and snicker, to hop off the bed and call him to your side because ‘C’mon, it’s time to steal some lotus cakes from the kitchen!’ but all he hears is the pitter-patter of rain on wood and the growing silence in the room.
“Your High—”
“Do not call me that!”
Somewhere outside, the sky rumbles and rolls. Somewhere outside, the wind howls between the trees. Somewhere outside, the wood on your pavilion groans and creaks at every thunderous roll. But here, inside, in this room, in the small bubble that is you and Xiao and your twisted features, Xiao hears nothing.
“For once in your life, say my name!” you shout, hands clenched into fists by your side. You let out a quiet sob and bite your lips. He’s never seen you like this — shoulders curled into your body, your breaths coming out in short puffs as you try to calm yourself, to slip on your mask. Your voice is quiet — small. Docile. Like the six-year old he met under the light of the autumn moon— when you continue.
“Say it, Xiao. Say it before it becomes someone else’s to say.”
“You’re not making any sense. Do you even realise what you’re asking me?”
“All my life I have been bound to duty — To my place in the family. I am not the heir nor am I anyone with influence. I was born to be a pawn and I know I will die one as well. Changing my fate is impossible but I hoped…all these years I— I wanted—”
You take in a breath and Xiao watches the slight tremble of your lips. “You were always so far away. Behind me, in front of me, protecting me from the shadows — you were everywhere but the one place I wanted you to be. I knew I couldn’t ask forever but If…if we had time, if I could go back to when we were young and free and when nothing else but the bright sun in the morning mattered… could you have—?”
His chest hurts. His eyes burn. His legs feel like they would turn to dust in seconds. He watches your eyes, bright and beautiful and as endless as the day he met you, plead for some kind of answer. He watches the way you beg, the way every inch of you bleeds of hope and resignation and something he can’t quite put his finger on.
(Love.)
But Xiao understands the meaning behind your words a moment too late because your face falls and your eyes turn away from him. He reaches out to you, but the mask has been set. Your back straightens, your hands fold into your sleeves. Your lips, trembling not a second ago, set into a straight line. Your eyes turn distant. He can feel the weight now, bearing down on his shoulders.
You brush past him as the first syllable of your name echoes into the silence.
“The banquet is about to begin. My husband awaits. I trust you know of your duties.”
The chill in your words root him to the middle of your room. You are so close but he’s never felt further. The tassels in your hair sway when you move to the doors, and Xiao can do nothing but stare when you turn to look at him over your shoulder.
“Do not fail me, General Alatus.”
NOTES. okay so like. i really didn’t realise this was your request zaly :sob: BUT! in my defense, i also didn’t mean for this to become angst >:( i genuinely wanted to write something wholesome and thought but here they are. fighting and breaking bonds. i also hope i didn’t butcher xiao’s character here but thank you for requesting ilu ilu ilu <33
you ask him to open a jar that you superglued shut.
includes: xiao, zhongli, ayato, thoma, and itto.
warnings: gender neutral reader, fluff.
notes: please this is the favorite thing i've written so far.
xiao.
xiao prided himself on always being available when you needed help. so when you called him and presented him with a tightly shut jar, xiao was more than accepting to help you open it.
except that he couldn’t.
xiao frowned when the lid didn’t budge. he tried again, repositioning his hands on jar, but still the lid refused to moved. and then again. and again.
it was only when you let out a quiet wheeze did xiao stop. he looked up and saw you, your face flushed from trying to hold back your laughter, tears almost coming your eyes.
“what?” he asked, slightly defensive. “what are you laughing at?”
“you,” you got out between laughs. prephaps not the best way to put it. at that, xiao raised flushed in embarassment, and you rushed to catch your breath and explain.
xiao couldn’t believe he’d been had. especially by you. he threatened to never come to your aid again, especially not for such another “stupid” request. when you pointed out that was an empty threat, xiao only stalked off, not saying another word.
poor xiao. all he wanted to do was help you. now all he could do was sulk in the corner like a scolded puppy, a perpetual frown on his face for the rest of the day.
you better apologize.
zhongli.
zhongli had faced many hardships and challenges in his few thousand years of life, but the small jar in front of him was proving to be one of the toughest yet.
he underestimated its potential when you handed it to him with what he thought was a simple request. zhongli might have even laughed if he got it on the first try after your futile attempts. but he had lost count of how many times he tried to failed to unscrew the lid, and he no longer felt like laughing now.
“it’s like,” he said as he tried yet again, “you superglued it shut.”
“no, i didn’t.” your answer, too quick. too defensive. too prepared.
zhongli paused mid attempt. he glanced up at you, and you saw the realization slowly dawn on him. “you did superglue it shut.”
you shook your head and said again, “what? no, i wouldn’t have, i swear it.”
your smile was nervous and forced and completely guilty. it faltered as zhongli put the jar down, crossed his arms, and gave you a disapproving look. “was this really the best prank you could come up with?”
“i’d like to see you do anything better.”
“is that a challenge?” zhongli asked. he didn’t let you answer. “if so, then i gladly accept. just be warned, [you]. i won’t be holding back.”
his eyes twinkled with all things mischievous. although you might have won this round, you suspected that zhongli would have the last laugh after all.
ayato.
ayato, ever the intellectual, didn’t at first try to unscrew the jar. instead, he immediately began to run it under warm water. then, very unceremoniously, ayato whacked the jar against the countertop. after a few hard strikes, he then attempted to unscrew the lid.
imagine his surprise when his methods of loosening the jar didn’t work. he tried again to the same result.
you should have stopped him then. told him it was a prank, had your laugh, and rested on your laurels.
but no, you decided to wait and prolong the humorous display before you. you watched as ayato moved around the kitchen, grabbing anything and everything that could aid him in his quest to open your jar. a spoon to wedge open the lid. a paper towel to wrap around the base. a bottle opener to try and break the seal.
every single method that could have been found on a random blog was now being done in your kitchen. when, at last, ayato exhausted all his various items after failed attempt after failed attempt, you expected him to give up.
but his face somehow began more determined. you were about to admit to your prank when he cautioned, “stay back.”
you were about to ask why when the flash of ayato’s vision and the quick movements of a hydro sword stopped you. it was over in an instant, and in its wake your jar—
your eyes widened. it was cut cleanly in half.
“well, that certainly did the trick,” ayato said, quite proud of himself.
you stuttered out a string of incomprehensible noises, unable to fully process what just happened.
“although, i might have gone a little too far.” it was only then did you realize that ayato had not only sliced the jar in half, but the entire countertop, too. cleanly down the middle. ayato shrugged. “oh, well.”
you really should have stopped him earlier.
thoma.
how could you do this to poor, sweet thoma? your boyfriend trusted you entirely and genuinely thought you just needed help opening a particularly stubborn jar.
now he only felt bad that he couldn’t. and you didn’t have the heart to admit it was a prank, not after he called ayato and ayaka for advice on how to help you. not after he watched several youtube videos on how to open it. not after he consulted google for the better part of an hour.
you knew that you had to eventually, but as of right now, you were in too deep. prephaps if you got him to stop trying and told him later, it would soften the blow.
“it’s okay,” you said to thoma as he tried yet again. “it’s really fine. i didn’t really need it opened.”
but thoma would not listen. he steeled himself to try again and—
nothing. the lid didn’t budge. the jar remained perfectly shut.
and then your worst fears were realized to be true when thoma put his head down and started to sob. you opened you mouth as he practically shook from crying so violently. the frustration had finally got to him.
“no, thoma, please stop!” you said frantically, immediately pushing the cursed jar away from him.
“if i can’t do this for you, what can i do?”
“don’t say that!” you insisted. and then, without thinking, “it’s just a prank! i glued it shut—“
“so you admit to it?” thoma looked up. no tears stained his cheeks. his voice was completely normal. a hint of a smile even laced his lips. “you admit to pranking me?”
you blinked in surprise. you were played.
thoma trusted you entirely, and he knew you even better. the way you handed him that jar with an innocent little smile… he knew. he knew before you even opened your mouth.
thoma, one. you, zero.
itto.
the first time it wasn’t a prank. when you needed help the previous night to open a subborn jar, you asked itto because you genuinely couldn’t do it yourself.
“that was nothing!” he boasted after opening the jar with ease. “i could do that blindfolded and upside down, [you]. are you sure you just didn’t want to see how awesome i am?”
“i loosened it,” you protested.
“yeah, yeah,” he dismissed you. itto continued in a carefree tone, “listen! it’s fine. i don’t mind help you out. i can open any jar you give me, i promise.”
you raised an eyebrow at that last part. and now, standing before itto once again, a jar you superglued shut the night before in your hands, you decided to see if itto could really make good on his promise. either that, or recieve a rude awakening.
as judging by the amount of glue you used, it was going to be the latter.
“can you please help me with this one?” you asked. your blinked your eyes up at him in a show of innocence. your smug smile was hidden underneath a small pout as you pretended the jar had gotten the best of you.
“another one?” itto asked in mock exasperation. he grabbed the jar from you and said, “watch and learn.”
itto twisted, and—
it opened. the jar opened. itto had opened the jar as if you hadn’t poured an entire bottle of superglue on the lid and rim.
your mouth dropped open. itto offered it back to you and asked, “why do you look so surprised?”
“i…” your voice trailed off. telling itto would only further fuel his ego. and you really didn’t want to deal with him talking about it the rest of the night. “i’m not surpised. thanks for… yeah. thanks.”
itto gaze you a puzzled look. then he shrugged and said, “what’d i tell you? i told you i could open any jar.”
you could only nod in agreement. itto had no idea just how correct that statement was.
the wangsheng funeral parlour director and her consultant for his funeral, one harbinger to avenge him and one half-oni as background music no one even asked for
