The rain in Sumeru was pouring down heavily that afternoon.
A rhythmic patter-patter drummed against the eaves, bringing a damp chill that seeped into every corner of the room. You sat at your desk, chin resting on your hand as you read, occasionally stealing glances at the person sitting across from you.
Wanderer was upset.
Not just his usual irritability.
This was a cold, sharp-edged silence—the kind where every word he spoke felt like a thorn intended to prick.
"...Have you had dinner yet?" you ventured, breaking the silence.
"Not hungry."
"Should I warm up some soup for you, then?"
"No need."
Short. Terse. Utterly difficult.
You watched him for a long moment before finally letting out a sigh.
He had been like this for days. At first, you thought it was just stress from his work at the Akademiya, but the longer it went on, the more "off" it felt. He avoided your gaze, pulled away from your touch, and even turned his back to you when it was time to sleep.
The most frightening part? He wouldn't say why.
"Are you mad at me?"
Wanderer’s hand, holding his book, stiffened slightly.
"...No."
"You’re lying."
"Believe whatever you want."
You bit your lip. By now, even the most oblivious person would realize something was wrong. You stood up, walked over to him, and leaned down to look directly into those indigo eyes.
"Tell me what’s wrong, please."
Wanderer looked up. The depths of his eyes were dark and stormy.
"Tell you what?"
"Why you’re acting like this."
"...Do you really not know?"
"I don't."
A long, heavy silence stretched between you. Then, Wanderer let out a sharp, mirthless laugh.
"Of course," his voice was ice-cold. "How could someone busy writing love letters to others have the headspace to notice me?"
You froze.
"...Love letters?"
"Stop pretending."
Wanderer stood up abruptly. The wooden chair screeched harshly against the floor.
"I saw it."
From his sleeve, he pulled out a slightly aged envelope. Your heart skipped a beat the moment you saw it.
That letter. The one you had written a long time ago.
"Did you go through my desk drawers?"
"I have no interest in your privacy," Wanderer hissed, narrowing his eyes. "It fell out on its own."
He tossed the letter onto the table.
"I actually thought you were different from the rest of them," his voice dropped, carrying a distorted, suppressed emotion. "Turns out, you’re just the same."
You opened your mouth to speak, but he turned his face away before you could find the words.
"If you want to leave, just say it plainly."
"Wanderer—"
"Or are you just waiting for a better opportunity?"
"Listen to me explain!"
"Explain what?" He scoffed. "Explain why you kept someone else's love letter so carefully hidden in the back of your drawer?"
You stared at him for a few seconds, stunned.
And then... it clicked.
"...Wait a minute."
You picked up the letter and opened it. Your eyes scanned the familiar lines. It was only then that you realized why Wanderer was so furious.
The envelope bore no recipient's name, and the content read exactly like a confession of deep, hidden longing.
You went silent for a few heartbeats.
Then—
"...Did you not finish reading it?"
Wanderer frowned. "I don't make a habit of reading other people's love letters to the end."
"..."
You looked at him, and suddenly, you burst out laughing. Wanderer’s irritation spiked.
"What's so funny?"
You didn't answer. You simply unfolded the paper, turned to the very last page, and held it up in front of his face.
"Read it."
With a cold expression, Wanderer took the paper. His eyes swept down to the final line.
And then, he went deathly still.
[ To the one I love most.
To the one whose eyes are more beautiful than the night sky of Inazuma.
...Wanderer. ]
The room fell into a pin-drop silence.
You crossed your arms, watching him.
"...Do you understand now?"
Wanderer stared at the letter as if his brain had just stopped functioning. A long while later, he spoke in a low, shaky voice.
"...This was for me?"
"Who else would it be for?"
"...I thought..."
"You thought I was cheating on you?"
"..."
His ears turned red. Fast.
You had never seen the Wanderer this speechless. He gripped the letter slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze began to dart everywhere but at you.
"...Why didn't you write the name on the front?"
"I was going to," you sighed. "But you came home early that day, so I panicked and hid it."
"...."
"And then I forgot about it."
Wanderer remained silent. You watched him for a moment longer before you couldn't help it anymore—you started giggling.
"Oh my god..."
"Don't laugh."
"You spent days being mad at me just because you were jealous of yourself."
"I told you, stop laughing."
Wanderer's face was flushed all the way to his neck. You laughed until your shoulders shook, only to be suddenly pulled firmly into his arms.
"Enough."
"But it's actually hilarious—"
"Shut up."
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"...I thought you were going to leave me."
The smile on your lips slowly faded. You reached up and hugged him back.
"Why would I ever do that?"
"Humans always change their minds."
"Am I not your human?"
You tilted your head up to look at him, your voice softening. "I've loved you for so long."
"...."
"Do you really think I could ever fall for anyone else?"
The room was filled only with the sound of the rain. Wanderer looked at you for a long time. The icy edges of his gaze began to melt, piece by piece.
"...Then," he murmured, "do you want to confess all over again?"
You blinked. "Hmm?"
Wanderer looked away. "...The last time didn't count."
"Because you didn't finish the letter?"
"...Yes."
You gave a small laugh. "Alright then."
You took a step back, smoothing your clothes and hair as if preparing for a first meeting. Then, you held your hand out to him.
"Hello."
Wanderer watched you silently.
"My name is [ ]."
"...."
"I'm in love with someone who is very difficult, sharp-tongued, temperamental, and gets grumpy for no reason."
"That sounds like an insult."
"But I love him very, very much."
Wanderer's eyes flickered with emotion. You smiled.
"So, would you like to go out with me?"
Outside the window, the rain had turned into a gentle drizzle. Wanderer stared at your outstretched hand for a long time. Finally, he took it.
"...Fine."
His voice was barely a whisper. But it was so tender, it made your heart ache.
"This time," Wanderer leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand, "I won't misunderstand again."
Synopsis . Identical Twins!Scaramouche & Kunikuzushi/Fem!Reader
꒰ MODERN AU ꒱
────── Chapter 3: Ei
warnings (cw) .ᐟ 18+, Dead dove: Do Not Eat, parental abandonment, parental neglect, death during childbirth, emotional neglect, found family, Ei is not a good person, Dottore is actually the good one in this and that's terrifying, bad mom speedrun, + more that i cant think of to add...
word count . 7.2k+
LINKS₊˚⊹♡ ˚✎𓂃 ao3 | kofi | taglist | discord server
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authors note: last chap that'll be posted till my haitus is over...
Ei was a good mom.
Was.
She was a good one when the twins were younger, back when being good meant showing up, and she still did that.
She got pregnant with them around the same time your mom got pregnant with you and Sora. She lived next door, and she went to high school with your father, Dottore.
Notice anything creepy about that yet?
She was very much in love with your father.
Your mother took him away from her, and Ei hated her for it.
You and Sora never knew your mom. Dottore never talks about her. The only thing you know is that she was Japanese and her name was Kasumi. He sometimes slips and uses the past tense when he mentions her, on the rare occasions he does.
Like she’s already gone.
Ei got pregnant by some Russian guy on her long list of boyfriends she’d date but never marry. The pregnancy was an accident; the Russian told her to get rid of it, and she agreed.
She made the appointment for the abortion on the phone, and just as she was walking to her car, she saw something.
Your parents.
Kasumi and Dottore were getting out of their car next door, laughing about something. Dottore helped Kasumi out of the passenger seat, one hand at her back, careful not to let her trip. Kasumi's other hand rested over her stomach.
They spotted Ei and waved. “Ei!” Kasumi called, smiling softly, her voice carrying that cheerful warmth Ei hates. “You won't believe it. We just got back from the doctor! And-”
“Let me guess.” Ei forced a smile that hurt her face. “More money? A new job? You two do everything together.”
“No,” Kasumi laughed. “We’re having a baby.”
Dottore slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Babies,” he corrected. “Plural.”
Kasumi rolled her eyes, fond. "They told us we're having twins." She rubbed her belly, not even showing yet, just trusting that whatever was inside her would be cherished.
Ei’s hand tightened around her keys until the metal of it made her palm sting. She wanted to kill the baby inside her, and Kasumi’s.
She didn’t get the abortion.
She told herself it was because children were a blessing and all that bullshit. The real answer sat lower, in the ugly place she doesn’t admit even to herself.
She didn’t want to watch Kasumi have what she gave up. So she kept the pregnancy.
The Russian boyfriend never showed up to appointments, never sat through ultrasounds, never held her hair when she threw up. He barely came home. When he did, he smelled like outside women and expensive vodka and only wanted sex.
When the doctor told her it was twins, her heart sank. Kasumi was having twins, too.
What a fucking joke.
They had a joint baby shower in your backyard because Kasumi insisted. Two very pregnant mothers celebrated under pink and blue streamers while Ei smiled and pretended to be happy about any of it. Kasumi thought of Ei as her best friend; Ei didn't.
When the reveal time of the party came, Kasumi let Ei cut her own cake first. Ei’s cake was blue: identical twin boys. Kasumi’s was pink and blue: fraternal twins, a boy and a girl.
Kasumi gave birth first, in December, and it was the happiest day of Ei's life.
Not out of joy for her “best friend” creating life, but because Kasumi died giving birth.
Dottore was wrecked that day; it was the worst day of his life. He held two screaming newborns and blamed himself for not doing it in his own lab, where he could have monitored everything and, maybe somehow, kept her alive.
Ei hugged him, told him she was sorry, and smirked the second he turned away.
One month later, on January 3rd, she gave birth to her twins.
Two beautiful, identical twin boys covered in vernix, screaming and crying, their hair already dark with that strange violet undertone that shouldn’t be natural.
Scara came first, and Kuni came second.
Scara is 20 seconds older, and it's a secret only the three of them know. Everyone at school assumes Kuni's the older twin because he's more put together. Even on TikTok, everyone thinks Kuni’s older. They never correct anyone or tell anyone who’s the older one. Not even you’re allowed to know.
Once she saw their faces, something like real love broke open inside Ei. She didn't care about Dottore anymore, or the bitter fixation she had carried toward Kasumi. It was like every ugly part of her life had suddenly become separate from the woman she was now, and she wanted to cut all of it away. The Russian, the resentment, the… mistakes. Everything that had made her unhappy before them. She had her sons now, and she wasn't going to let any of it follow her into their lives.
The Russian entered the hospital room with flowers and a half-hearted, “congrats.”
“I’m keeping them,” she told him.
He shrugged, not wanting them anyway. “Your choice.”
“And I’m not keeping you,” she added. “So pack your shit and get out of my house before I come back.”
He raised his brows, and she stared back, arms crossed, until he finally understood she wasn't joking.
She went home with the boys, alone.
The favoritism started early, and it was annoyingly obvious.
She loved both of them as much as she could. She could tell them apart with her eyes closed just by their breathing, by the way they kicked, by the way they gripped her shirt.
But Kuni was the more cherished one.
Scara was reckless, loud, and constantly throwing tantrums. A new mom’s everyday nightmare. He broke things, bit other kids when she finally got them in daycare to socialize, and threw toys when he got frustrated. He'd always run to her afterward, arms around her legs, sobbing into her jeans because that was all he could reach.
Kuni was the perfect child any mom could ever want. Quiet, talking early, able to entertain himself, and reading everything. He watched his brother’s outbursts and found ways to calm him down so Ei didn’t have to. He didn’t cry often, but when he did, it wouldn’t be annoying; it was silent.
When both of them ran to her at once, she bent down to Kuni first.
Always Kuni.
Never Scara.
And it only made him act out more.
Scara learned very quickly that getting scolded was better than being ignored. If he had to knock something over to make her look at him, he would. If he had to break a plate to make her say his name, he would.
He’d do anything just to get her attention.
You and Sora never had a mom. Ei tried to fill that gap, but only for one of you.
She gave Sora what she refused to give you.
Sora looked like Dottore, even as a kid. Same features, same everything, minus the fact that Sora used to look like the sweetest boy when he was younger. He was polite, earnest, and helpful. Ei treated him like a secret third son, letting him stir pots in her kitchen, sitting him between the twins during movies.
You looked like Kasumi. So she didn’t look at you; she hated you.
You didn’t understand that as a child. You still don’t fully understand it now; you just assume she was one of those boy moms who hated any girl who was interested in her sons.
Just wait till she knows how many girls Kuni dated…
She didn’t even bother hiding it or faking that she didn’t like you with a smile. You'd yell "Ei!" ten times, and she would only respond when Scara spoke up, nudging her arm, saying, "She's talking to you."
Scara noticed it and confronted his mother about it for you.
"Why do you always ignore her?" he asked once, arms crossed, standing in front of Ei in the kitchen while she set the table. "She tries talking to you, and you act like you suddenly need hearing aids."
Ei just laughed it off, told him he was imagining things, and handed Kuni another plate to set at the table.
Kuni noticed too, but he didn’t say anything. He watched Ei angle her body toward him and away from you, watched the tiny flinches on her face she tried to hide when you smiled, when you called her name.
Scara’s the louder, more outspoken twin; Kuni's just the observer that keeps everything to himself, in that frightening brain of his.
You, Scara, and Kuni were always close.
Always.
Sora wasn’t in the friend group because Scara didn’t want another nerd as his friend. Kuni was already too much for his standards.
The twins and Ei felt like family to you and Sora. You’d have dinner together a lot, alternating between the Raiden and Iruma households; you even spent holidays with them, including Thanksgiving.
And Scaramouche loved Dottore.
If Ei had never said anything, if paperwork hadn’t existed, Scara would’ve assumed Dottore was his father.
It would’ve made sense, honestly. Dottore was the one who patched their knees, did check-ups, wrote doctor notes for school when they didn’t want to do P.E., and signed more forms than any neighbor should.
Scara was just a kid when he started asking.
"You should marry my mom," he said once while Ei was in the bathroom during dinner, kicking his shoes against the legs of Dottore's chair. "You can be my dad."
Dottore choked on his water. “It’s not that simple.”
"Why?" Scara leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You're already here all the time."
Dottore laughed it off like a joke, ruffled his hair, and changed the subject.
You hated it when Scara brought that up. The thought of your dad dating Ei, sharing a house with her, and Scara becoming your stepbrother made you want to throw up. Sora hated it too, but for different reasons. Sora hated it too, but for different reasons. He may have liked Ei, but he didn’t want his father tied to anyone.
Time went on, and kids got bigger.
You, Sora, and the twins turned 10, then 11.
Things were still almost normal.
Sora and Kuni were still best friends then. They were the nerds in the corner, quizzing each other on math for fun, trading books, and talking about science projects.
Scara called them nerds. Kuni would just ignore his brother and roll his eyes at every comment.
Sora just tried not to draw attention to himself for Scara’s bullying, even though he was always around Kuni.
The summer between fifth and sixth grade changed everything.
Because Scara started recruiting.
He showed up at your house more, but not to visit you; he came only for Sora, and he wouldn’t let you join them in Sora’s room.
He spent a week there, hours at a time, every day, behind a locked door. He would tell Sora that he could be useful if he ditched Kuni. Told him that Kuni was boring, that all he did was read and think, and that Sora would have more of a purpose and be less… bland if he stopped being Kuni’s shadow.
"You're lame around him," Scara said, sprawled on Sora's floor, tossing a ball against the wall. “He makes you look just as boring as he is. You aren’t his little homework buddy. Homework is for losers who want to kiss up to the teacher's ass. You’re born rich, Sora. You don’t need school as much as you think." He caught the ball and sat up, grinning. "Have fun with me. There’s more out there in life than quiz cards and being polite.”
Sora was smart, but he was dumb enough to fall for it.
That entire week, he was just… gone. The door closed, locked, and both of them were playing music too loud in there.
You barely saw him, even though you lived with him. Dottore wasn’t around upstairs enough to care whether or not Sora was hiding himself in his room because it was the fucking summer. Dottore's not the type to annoy his children when they have breaks from school.
If you knocked, he’d yell and say he was busy. You’d hear your boyfriend snicker at you in the background, and when you went next door because you couldn’t stand the music anymore, Kuni told you that Sora hadn’t talked to him all week.
Eventually, you saw Sora's door open one night. You peeked in, smelled bleach, and saw Scara sitting on the bed, holding a box of blue hair dye.
Sora came out of the bathroom in the hallway, his hair wet and… blue. Light blue like your father's, but with black streaks. His clothes were different, too, even though it was just pajamas; you never saw Sora wear black before.
And the look in his eyes was something you’ve never seen before. Something that looked like malice on a face that used to be the sweetest thing you knew.
“What did you do to your hair? Did Scara do that?” you asked quietly, stepping away from his room door and towards him. “Why are you even with Scara now? He always bullies you.”
"Leave me the fuck alone, Muni," Sora said, brushing past your shoulder hard enough to move you.
It shattered something in you when you saw the change in your brother's behavior. It broke something in Kuni.
On the first day of 6th grade, Kuni walked into his first period, overfilled with quiet excitement. He scanned the desks, already planning where he would sit, probably near Scara and you, but primarily he wanted to be near Sora.
His eyes found Scara first at a desk, leaning back in his chair. Then, he saw a boy next to him, with bright blue hair, dressed in punk fashion.
It took him a full second to understand that it was Sora, and when he did, his heart went cold.
“What did you do to your hair, Sora?” Kuni asked, stopping just right by their desk, voice carefully steady. “Did you do that last week when you weren’t talking to me?”
Sora looked at him like they had never met once in their life. Like a stranger. Like they never studied together, hadn't slept over at each other's houses ten nights in a row, hadn't whispered about exams under blankets when normal kids would've been hiding phones.
“Fuck off,” Sora said, crossing his arms, rolling his eyes, already looking away like Kuni was below him.
Scara leaned back in his chair and smirked at Kuni. “Go find another seat. You clearly aren’t wanted here. Fuck. off.”
The words from Scara weren't anything Kuni hadn't heard before; Scara was always mean to him, mean to everyone. Family doesn't get a pass. The difference was that Scara wasn't joking this time, and Kuni could tell.
But the real loss wasn't Scara. Scara would still be attached to him at home, still sometimes crawl into his bed, and still watch movies with him at night, even though they were supposed to be sleeping.
The real loss was Sora.
Scara stole you from Kuni in pre-K. Claimed you before you even understood the word girlfriend. Kuni let it happen because he thought he still had his brother, and his brother would still have him.
Now Scara stole Sora, too.
Kuni walked past them and sat next to you instead. You'd watched the whole thing, so you knew. You didn't make him repeat it. You just patted his back, glared at both Scara and Sora across the room, and said, “I’m still your best friend, and I’ll be your best friend forever. I won’t let Scara dye my hair whatever color and recruit me into his weird bully crew. You still have me, and you always will, Kuni.”
Kuni smiled at you then, a real one. His heart grew 10 sizes just from hearing you say that.
Kuni didn’t become evil because of that. It would be a stupid, pathetic villain origin story if he did. He was always what he is. That betrayal just made whatever was already inside him worse.
He forgave Scara in his head because he understood why it happened. Scara never felt wanted or felt like he was the 1st option by anyone but his own brother. He blamed Ei for that, for never giving her other son equal love.
He didn’t forgive Sora.
He never would.
Ei stayed a good mom, with all her flaws, until the twins turned 13.
That's the year she ruined it.
It was a dreary night, not even a couple of days after the twins' birthdays. You were in your pink, messy room, watching a horror movie on an illegal site Scara recommended on your laptop, already loving it because you love horror.
Across the hall, Sora sat in his dark room pinning shit to his walls and blasting metal, ignoring homework because "homework is for nerds," a phrase he learned straight from Scara's mouth.
At the Raiden household, Ei stood at the front door with a big suitcase, breaking the news.
"I have to go away for work," she said. "It's a business trip for two weeks."
Scara stared at her as if she were speaking another language, because Ei had never been on a work trip before.
“What?” he snapped. “Why?”
“It’s an opportunity,” she said. “It pays well. Don’t worry, I’ll call every night. I will be back before you know it.”
Kuni didn’t yell; that’s not even in his style. You can’t name one time you’ve ever even seen Kuni raise his voice. He stood a little to the side, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and asked the questions Scara wouldn’t think of due to his… emotions.
“Who’s picking us up from school, Mom?” he said, listing even more questions, “What are we eating? Are you leaving money, or could we just use your card? Did you tell Zandik?”
“Yes, yes, food is stocked like always, you can use my cards however you want, and… I’ll text him,” she said in that brushed-off way of someone who’s a type B personality with zero planning but pretending to be.
Scara was silent until he wasn’t.
“Why do you even have to go?” he blurted, his hands moving as he talked. “You’re already rich; you could quit your job, and we could still live and spend as much as we want. You never worked this much before, not even late nights. You have us; does that not matter?”
“Scara,” she sighed, rubbing her temple. “Don’t be dramatic. This is normal and something you need to get used to. It’s my fault for not letting you both experience it sooner. Parents travel, and most kids your age would be overjoyed being home alone for two weeks.”
They went back and forth for a while. Kuni assumed Scara was doing it to stall Ei long enough that she'd miss her flight.
Ei eventually cut Scara off, telling him she needed to go now.
"Whatever," Scara muttered, crossing his arms. "I'm not hugging you."
"Okay," she said. "But you might regret it."
Kuni walked up to Ei and hugged her; he held on longer than 10 seconds, dragging it out on purpose, knowing Scara would get jealous and want to hug his mom.
Scara caved in and hugged Ei; she laughed as she patted his back, promising she'd call every day.
Then, she was gone.
The house went quiet the second the front door shut. Too big, too empty. The twins just stood there in the silent living room. Scara peeked out the window and watched Ei’s car pull out of the garage and onto the road.
They went to their separate rooms, quiet, not saying a word to each other because what was there even to say?
Scara tried to sleep, but he gave up at midnight. He walked to Kuni’s room, hair messy, dark circles as per usual. He didn’t even bother to knock; he just came in because he knew Kuni didn’t care.
“I can’t sleep, Kuni,” he said, sitting on the head of the bed.
Kuni was awake, of course. Scara wouldn’t bug his brother if he were. He knew his brother suffered from severe insomnia.
“I know,” Kuni said. “I can’t either, obviously.”
Scara looked around the room, at the humidifier, the white noise machine, the careful sleep setup Ei had built for Kuni. She never built anything like it for Scara.
"Let's just go to Muni's," Scara said. "She's probably still up. This house is fucking haunted without mom."
Kuni didn’t argue with that.
Scara walked out of the house without locking the front door. Kuni sighed and locked it for him, and they both crossed the lawn in socks. They used the spare key Dottore hid under a plant for them, because he trusts them in a way Ei never earned.
Your house felt alive compared to theirs that night.
All the lights were on because this was a house full of people who stayed up all night. Warm light, the smell of cooking even though no one is, the distant sound of Sora’s music, and the laughter from you upstairs.
Scara crept up your stairs and knocked once before just opening your door.
You looked up from your laptop, startled, hitting the spacebar the second you saw indigo hair. “Scara? What are you doing here? It’s late. You know you can’t sleep over on a school night… or ever. My dad is going to freak if he sees you.”
He didn’t answer your question.
“Can I stay?” he asked instead, standing half in, half out of your room.
“Ugh, Scara. You know my dad doesn’t let you sleep in here,” You sat up, pulling the blanket over your legs. “He thinks we’re going to do something weird in here together.”
“Rules are stupid, especially his, and he’s at the lab at this hour, remember?” Scara stepped inside, already scanning the room for the best side of the bed. “Don’t act like you don’t want me in your bed at night. I’ll be quiet. Besides, he’d be too focused on Sora blasting his music rather than hearing my voice in your room.”
You looked past him, squinted, and saw Kuni’s shadow in the hall.
“You’re not alone,” you said accusingly. “You said ‘can I say’ and not ‘can we stay’.”
Scara opened the door wider. “Kuni’s here too.”
You rolled your eyes, but you smiled and patted the bed. “Fine. Get in before Dottore walks by.”
Kuni shut the door behind them. You scooted over. Scara hopped on your bed, took your right side, and Kuni took your left, the three of you fitting together like you'd always belonged in one bed.
You were about to start yapping about the horror movie when Scara cut you off.
“Mom left today,” he said, staring at your ceiling. “She said she won’t be back for two weeks because of her work trip, which she never told us about until now.”
You closed your laptop, reading the room. “Oh… so that’s why you both are here. I’m sorry…” You set the laptop on your nightstand and turned on your side to face him. "That's weird, though. Has she ever even been on a work trip before?"
Scara shakes his head and stays silent.
"She'll probably miss you guys and come back early," you said. "Dottore comes back early from his trips all the time, but only because of his stupid lab."
“She’s just going to miss Kuni,” Scara cut in, voice sour. “She’ll forget I exist like always.”
You turned your face toward him, putting your hand on his arm in reassurance. “She won’t. That’s ridiculous, Scara. Yeah, she looks at Kuni more. I won’t lie about that because anyone can see that. But she loves both you and Kuni, and that’s clear enough for me.”
He didn’t agree.
He turned his face into your pillow and pretended that your bed felt safer than any bed at his house.
Kuni just stayed quiet and pretended to sleep.
Sora found out in the morning when he saw you walk out of your room with both twins. He snickered and kept his mouth shut. Scara trusted him to stay quiet because Sora didn't gain anything from telling Dottore.
It took 3 nights for Sora to snitch.
Dottore opened your bedroom door and found Scara and Kuni in your bed. He was confused at Kuni being there, since Scara being in your room at least made sense given that he's your boyfriend. Kuni didn't have that excuse.
And he was pissed after Kuni explained everything.
Ei hadn't told him she was leaving her 13-year-old sons alone for two weeks. She didn't call, didn't ask if he could take them. She assumed Kuni would handle everything she should've been doing.
Dottore left Scara and Kuni in your room, marched to the Raiden house, checked their pantry, then marched back and dragged Scara by the collar to the guest room, with Kuni walking beside them willingly.
"You're not sleeping in my daughter's room," Dottore said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't need to explain why. Both of you can sleep together in the guest room.”
Scara sneered, glancing at the bland room, then back at Dottore. “Guest room? We aren’t guests here. Guests don’t come over every day for breakfast and dinner.”
You watched all of this from the doorway of your room, kicking Sora in the leg the second he stepped out of his room for being a stupid sntich.
Kuni stepped in before Scara could say something he’d regret.
“We’re fine alone,” Kuni told Dottore, calm and too adult. “The house is stocked like you already saw. I can take care of us; we’ll still come over in the morning and for dinner. You don’t have to worry.”
Dottore believed him because Kuni has that effect on people. At thirteen, he already sounded like a credible man defending a thesis. It’s honestly hard to believe he’s the younger twin.
He let them go back home. You waved a sad goodbye when they passed your room, and you kicked Sora one more time for good measure before going back to bed.
Ei didn’t call every night like she promised the twins. She didn’t call at all for the first four nights.
Dottore's patience ran out. He snapped and called her himself, spammed her phone until she picked up. You heard him yelling from his study, words like irresponsible, children, and CPS bouncing off the walls.
Scara pressed his ear to the door. You joined him, both crouched together in the hallway. The door opened, and you almost fell inside. Scara caught you by the shirt.
Dottore looked down at the two of you and sighed. “Here,” he said, handing the phone to Scara. “Your mother wants to talk to you.”
Scara pressed the phone to his ear, and his posture changed immediately. His shoulders pulled in, his chin dropped. He looked smaller.
“Hi,” he said.
"I'm sorry, Scaramouche," Ei's voice cracked from the other end. She already knew which twin it was by his voice alone. “I’ve been so busy… I should've called more, but I never had the time, and I was too tired by the time I could sit down. I forgot to tell Zandik about the trip. It's been crazy."
“You forgot?” Scara repeated, getting mad at his own mothers incompitence. “You forgot your kids?”
“That’s not what I said, Scara,” Ei's voice shifted into that careful, walking-on-eggshells tone she used specifically with Scara because he took everything the wrong way. "It's just been hectic. The only time I get to myself is when I need to sleep, and I barely have time for that. I'll make it up to you and Kuni when I get back."
He wanted to scream at her. Tell her that if the trip was so stressful, she shouldn't have gone. He didn’t. He knew he’d just talk in circles with his mom for hours, so he closed his eyes and just listened to the sound of her voice because he missed it.
She didn’t call again for a while.
Two weeks had passed. The day she was supposed to come back, Scara and Kuni sat by the front window, watching every car that drove down the street.
She never showed up.
Scara fell asleep on the floor by the window. Kuni adjusted him so his head rested on his shoulder, and he spent the rest of the night staring out at the empty street.
Scara spam-called Ei the next morning. No answer.
A week later, the house phone rang, and Kuni was around to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Kuni, it’s me,” Ei sounded tired. "I'm sorry I didn't show up. I dropped my phone in a drain, and I've been too busy to replace it. I couldn't remember your numbers without it, so I'm calling on the house phone." She paused, and Kuni could hear her breathe. "I'm not coming back yet. A second opportunity came up. My boss offered it because it was convenient for where he already placed me. I'm so sorry, Kuni. I'll be back in a month."
Kuni gripped the receiver so hard his knuckles went white.
He didn’t say, "Are we not convenient enough for you?" or “Is work more convenient to you than we are?” because that’s something Scara would say.
“When were you going to tell us, Mom?” he asked, voice dull, lacking emotion because he refused to show it. “When we turned eighteen?”
“Don’t be dramatic like he is, Kunikuzushi,” she said. “You boys are both very strong. You have Zandik next door. You’ll be fine.”
He almost said, We'll be fine without you.
Instead, he hung up carefully, put the phone back in its cradle, and walked upstairs.
He told Scara exactly what she said, word for word. And Scara went nuclear.
Even the word pissed is small compared to what went through him. It was not just anger. It was betrayal, humiliation, pain. Years of second place, first to be blamed, last to be held.
He stormed into Ei’s bedroom and tore it apart. Ripped clothes from her closet, threw jewelry across the floor, tore framed photos off the walls. Glass shattered everywhere. A shard got stuck in his hand, and he didn’t even flinch or wince in pain; he just tore it out and continued ruining what he could.
Kuni stood in the doorway. He didn’t do the mature thing and tell him not to stop, because he felt that Ei deserved worse.
He walked back to his own room, opened Ei’s banking app on his phone, and started spending. Expensive furniture he didn't need, tech he'd resell, luxury items he'd never touch. He hit checkout over and over, ran the card close to a hundred thousand in under an hour, and only stopped when transactions started getting declined.
It barely made a dent in her account. It made a dent in his hate.
That night, Scara came into your room without asking. He was holding a pillow, his eyes wide open, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely.
"We're staying," he said, voice scratchy. "I don't give a fuck what your dad says in the morning."
Kuni followed, silent, clutching his own pillow and phone.
They locked your door. Kuni slept on Scara’s side that night, with Scara in the middle. He hugged his twin all night in a way Ei never had.
"You cannot stay here forever," Dottore said the next day, pulling Scara into his study while Kuni walked in willingly. He told you to go to your room. This time, you obeyed.
“Why not?” Scara shot back. “That house is fucking cursed without her in it. This is my second family. It feels better here.”
"I'm not saying you can't stay. You're welcome here as long as you want, in the guest room or Sora's room." Dottore leaned against his desk, his arms crossed. “You are a teenage boy, and she is a teenage girl. I’m not letting two teenage boys sleep in my daughter’s room. That is inappropriate.”
“It’s not like that. I’m barely even touching her,” Scara snapped, his voice getting louder. “I just… I don’t want to be alone. We don’t want to be alone. And I don't want to stay in a guest room made for people who come and go. We aren’t those types of people. We’re family to you guys.”
Kuni sat up in the chair in front of the desk, hands folded, posture perfect, and he finally spoke up.
“We will follow whatever rules you give us,” he said. “Curfew, shared spaces, whatever you want. But we don’t want to stay next door anymore. It’s… not safe for Scara.”
He did not mean physically. He meant in his head.
Dottore understood, in his own way. He saw how Scara had stopped laughing since Ei left, saw how much weight it was putting on him. He saw Kuni trying to hold everything together with logic alone, like a 13-year-old running damage control on a situation no 13-year-old should have to manage.
He let them stay, as he had wanted to in the first place, but only in the guest room.
He cleared out a guest room. The twins moved some clothes in there, halfheartedly. Somehow, their things still migrated to your closet, their pillows to your bed, and they snuck out the minute they heard the door to the basement close, which meant Dottore was in his lab.
Most nights ended the same way. Scara in the middle, Kuni draped half over him, you on the other side pressed into his arm. Sometimes you ended up in the middle, head on Scara’s chest, Kuni’s head on your shoulder, all three of you tangled in the same blanket in your big soft bed.
Sometimes you and Scara kissed, which shouldn't be surprising, but Kuni would either put on headphones or quietly leave the room and come back when you were done.
Dottore grumbled about it, but he couldn't ignore how Scara's shoulders slowly dropped, how the boy slept better in your pink room than anywhere else.
So he stopped forcing them to sleep in the guest room. He trusted Scara as your boyfriend, and he knew Kuni well enough.
Nobody talked about what happened in your room. What happened in Muni's room stayed in Muni's room.
It grew the bond between the three of you. Them living in your room became normal. Sometimes you got annoyed and wanted alone time, but they always knew how to give you space. Scara would go to Sora's room for a couple hours, and Kuni would do schoolwork on your computer, or take it to the living room without being asked.
Weeks stacked into months.
Ei sent digital signatures when Dottore emailed her school forms and threatened legal action if she ignored them. She never picked up the phone when he called.
He avoided calling CPS because he knew exactly how that would go. Two abandoned boys, technically not his, would be swallowed up by a system that didn’t know what to do with kids like them. Getting them back would mean paperwork, hoops to jump through, and explaining why he wanted another woman's sons.
He chose to make do. He signed where he could, forged where he had to, and pretended not to notice when Scara started calling him “dad.”
The first time it slipped out, it was an accident.
“Dad, can we go to the movies after school?” Scara asked, leaning against the wall in the kitchen.
Both he and Sora froze. Dottore slowly looked up from his coffee.
Scara’s face went red, then defiant. “I mean. Zandik. Whatever.”
Dottore didn’t correct him. He just went back to stirring his coffee. “Sure, be back before 10 tonight.”
You and Sora hated it. Sora never said it out loud, but you'd share silent glances, and both of you knew how weird this was.
Kuni never called him that. Not once. Zandik, always. He refused to give that word to anyone who could also leave.
By the time the twins turned 15, Ei had been gone for two years.
She missed two of their birthdays. She came back a week after the most recent one.
They were getting ready to come to your room with more clothes to hang in your closet when they heard the Raiden front door unlock. The sound was so foreign that both of them stopped.
Ei walked in, dragging a suitcase, expecting the scene she'd left. Two little boys running to her, falling over each other to get there first.
Instead, she found two teenagers standing stiff in the hallway.
Puberty made them not so… little anymore. They were taller, still short for boys their age, but they didn't look like children anymore.
They both watched her, waiting for her to say something first.
She spread her arms slightly. "My boys."
Scara didn’t move. Kuni didn’t move.
She tried again. "I'm back. I'm staying this time. I know I was gone for too long, but work was-"
“Why are you even here?” Kuni asked, voice calm with clear, true disappointment in his tone. “Did you suddenly remember you have sons? What have you even been doing? Work trips don’t normally last 2 fucking years. Was it worth it? Did you make enough money from it? Do you even have an excuse apart from being busy? I don't see you on any Forbes list, so was whatever you made even worth abandoning your children for?"
She stared, thrown by the tone; even Scara was surprised. She looked to Scara for an easier audience and found only cold fury.
He exploded.
“You left,” he shouted, his voice straining against the volume. “You said two weeks, then a month, then fucking nothing. You didn’t call. You didn’t visit. Not even for our own birthday. We didn’t get a call that day either. You didn’t show up for anything. We were just… here. Waiting. Like fucking idiots.” His voice dropped, cracking in a way that would make any mother's heart break. “What kind of fucking mom are you for abandoning you, only two sons for… work?”
“Don’t curse at me, both of you,” she snapped. “I don’t care what language Zandik allows in that house, but you don’t speak that way to me. I’m still your mother.”
“You’re a stranger who has our faces,” he said.
She turned to Kuni, expecting her quieter son to fix it, to smooth things over like he always did. “Kuni, tell him to stop. I know you understand. How are your grades? Are you still at the top of your class?”
He stared at her, and something behind his eyes was dead. He couldn't even believe her audacity.
"How am I?" he said. "I'm wondering why you think you can walk back in here and talk like you never left. And don't get mad at Scara. How he's acting is minor compared to what you did to us."
She flinched at the profanity coming out of his mouth. This was supposed to be Scara's behavior. She'd never heard Kuni like this, and it was the only thing that actually scared her.
She stammered about regrets, about being sorry, about wanting to make it right, about staying this time.
Scara scoffed so loudly it bordered on a laugh, shouldered past her, and walked out the door. You saw him a minute later, stomping up your stairs, his eyes red in a way he'd kill you for noticing. Kuni followed behind him, calmer, and put their clothes in your closet while Scara ranted about everything to you on your bed.
You listened. You held his hand when his voice cracked, and you didn't say "it'll be okay" because you knew he'd snap at you for lying, so you just squeezed his fingers and let him talk until his throat was raw and his words ran out.
Kuni sat at your desk chair and pretended to read, but his eyes weren't moving across the page.
Ei, across the yard, was pissed at Scara, hurt by Kuni, but decided she would unpack and talk to them in the morning. Have dinner with them and Dottore and settle everything.
She walked up to her room and opened the door. She didn’t even step inside.
The destruction Scara had left months ago was still there. Torn clothes, broken frames, glass everywhere. It looked like a break-in, or a storm, or exactly what it was.
Her sons, tearing her out of the house.
She knew it was Scara who did this. She also knew Kuni let him.
She stood in the doorway for a long moment. Then she turned around, walked back downstairs, picked up her suitcase, and left.
Again.
She didn’t tell anyone.
Typical Ei.
That night, you fall asleep first. Scara is on your right, Kuni on your left, your blanket pulled up to your chin. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the strip of light from under the door.
Scara couldn't sleep.
He was staring at the ceiling for over an hour, his arm behind his head. Kuni's breathing was even, but Scara didn't check if he was actually asleep because it didn't matter. What mattered was the thing that was sitting in his chest, the thing that wouldn't stop moving no matter how many times he swallowed around it.
He said horrible things to his mother, things that he meant, things that he didn't mean. He doesn't know how to separate the two. It made him feel worse that he was comfortable in your bed, while she was next door, alone, in a house he destroyed.
He knew he needed to talk to her. And he knew that if he went over there without planning what to say, he'd start screaming again, and nothing would change. That she would leave, and he'd spend another two years pretending he doesn't care.
He needs to write it down.
He slid out of your bed carefully, one limb at a time. Your body shifted toward the warm spot he left, and you mumbled something that isn't a word. He froze and waited till your breathing evened out again.
He stood up, padded across your room in his socks, stepped over the pile of Kuni's shoes by the door, and sat down at your desk. Your desk was cluttered the way it always was, makeup palettes stacked on textbooks, a half-empty water bottle, your cat-shaped pen sitting in a cup with four other pens that didn't work but you kept anyway.
He picked up the cat pen. It was pink, and the ears wobbled when he wrote, and it was the most ridiculous thing to write an apology with, but it was the only pen that he could find.
He pulled a sheet of lined paper from the notebook you kept in the desk drawer, the one for school, and he started writing.
The first line came out too honest, so he crossed it out. The second came out too angry, so he crossed that out too. He wrote a sentence, scribbled through it, wrote another one underneath, and the page started to look like a conversation he was having with himself, half of it blacked out.
He signed it "-S." and folded the paper once. Then unfolded it and read it again. Then folded it back up and held it in his hand.
He looked at you sleeping. Your face was soft, your mouth slightly open, your hand curled near your chin. He looked at Kuni, motionless on the other side of the bed, his back to the room.
He slipped on his shoes by the door and left.
He slipped on his shoes and left your house, crossed the lawn, and went back into the Raiden place that no longer felt like his home.
He went up the stairs quietly, heart pounding. His hand was tight around the folded note, the paper already warm and damp from how hard he was gripping it. He rehearsed the first line in his head, the one that wasn't crossed out, the one that started with "I meant what I said, but I shouldn't have said it like that." He'd read it to her face, and she'd either listen or she wouldn't, but at least he'd have said it, and at least he'd have said it without yelling.
He was ready to apologize, say he missed her, that she was horrible, that he loved her anyway, that he would take whatever crumbs of presence she gave him.
All he wanted was his mom back.
He gently opened the door.
Empty.
The ruined room stared back at him, and he realized she hadn’t touched a single thing. She hadn't tried to clean it, hadn't tried to salvage anything, hadn't even stepped inside.
He checked the closet, the bathroom, and the guest room because that would’ve been the more logical place for her to stay if she were the mature one.
Nothing.
He checked the garage, and it was empty too.
She had taken her suitcase and left. Again.
She broke her promise twice in one day - the one from years ago, and the one from that afternoon.
Scara walked back into her bedroom and sat down on the torn comforter. The mattress was bare underneath where the sheets had been pulled off and thrown across the room, months ago, by his own hands. Glass crunched under his shoes when he shifted.
He unfolded the note.
He read it one more time. Every line, every crossed-out word, every sentence he agonized over at your desk with your stupid cat pen. The apology he wrote for a woman who wasn't there to hear it. The word "Mom" at the bottom, with "Ei" crossed out beside it, because he chose her, even after everything, and she chose to leave.
He folded it back up, set it on his knee, and put his hands in his lap. He didn't throw anything, break anything, because there was nothing left in this room to break.
He just sat there and shook.
Kuni wasn't asleep.
He'd felt Scara leave the bed, heard the desk chair creak, heard the scratch of pen on paper. He kept his breathing even and his back to the room because whatever Scara was doing at your desk at midnight, he was doing it privately, and Kuni respected that enough to let him think he was alone.
He waited an hour. Scara didn't come back, and his texts went unanswered.
Kuni slid out of your bed and put on his shoes. He didn't bother being quiet; you were a deep sleeper, and he knew exactly how much noise it took to wake you, and this wasn't it. He crossed the lawn, stepped through the unlocked front door, and followed the silence upstairs.
He found Scara in Ei's bedroom, sitting on the torn comforter, staring at the wall with his hands in his lap. A folded piece of paper sat on his knee, the edges crumpled from being held too tight.
"She left?" Kuni asked from the doorway.
Scara didn’t look up. “Yeah.”
Kuni’s jaw flexed. His eyes moved from Scara's face to the note on his knee.
"What's that?"
Scara looked down at the paper like he'd forgotten it existed. He picked it up and held it out without a word, arm extended, the paper slightly shaking between his fingers.
Kuni took it. He unfolded it carefully, smoothing the creases, and read. He read every crossed-out line, every sentence that started angry and landed soft, every failed attempt at vulnerability that Scara scratched through because it was too honest and then wrote again because it wasn't honest enough.
He got to the bottom. He saw "Ei" crossed out. He saw "Mom" written next to it, deliberate, the ink pressed harder into the paper than any other word on the page.
He folded it back up along the same creases and handed it back to Scara.
"She doesn't deserve that," Kuni said. His voice was steady, and that steadiness made it sound final. "She isn't our mom anymore. She doesn't deserve that title." He looked at the destroyed room, at the glass, at the empty closet, at the open door she walked out of for the last time. "She's just Ei."
Scara said nothing. He just sat there holding a note his mother would never read.
Kuni watched his brother for a long moment, then sat down beside Scara on the torn comforter and said nothing else. They sat together in the ruined bedroom, shoulders touching, and the quiet between them was the kind that didn't need filling.
Eventually, Kuni stood. "You're not sleeping in here."
Scara didn't move.
"Scara," Kuni said, not up for negotiation. "Get up. We're going back to Muni's."
Scara shoved the note into his pocket, stood, and followed Kuni out of the room, down the stairs, across the lawn, back through your front door that Kuni locked behind them.
He crawled into your bed, between you and Kuni, his shoes kicked off by the door. The mattress dipped under his weight, and you shifted toward him in your sleep, your forehead pressing against his shoulder, your hand finding his arm without opening your eyes.
He stared at the ceiling and made a quiet promise to himself.
He would never call her mom again.
It took him longer than Kuni. It was harder for him.
For a while, sometimes it slipped, in his head, in his dreams. But out loud, the word died.
Mom wasn’t a title for a worthless egg donor like her.
The twins moved out of your room after they turned 16, and by then, Dottore didn't care when Scara or Kuni slept over.
She didn't come for their 16th birthday either. They stopped waiting long before that day anyway.
Ei was a good mom.
Was.
She was a good mom until the twins turned thirteen.
Then she stopped being anything at all.
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I have a Discord now! 18+, for readers, writers, and anyone who wants early wips and a place to chat!! (link)
random post but I think post sumeru and nod krai aq Scara wouldn’t keep 100% of his feelings towards his crush to himself. As he becomes closer to others in and out the akademiya he’d be more open about his feelings. He wouldn’t be singing praises or creating sonnets but he would let a little “they’re so cute when…” or “they looked quite nice earlier” slip out every now and then and it would annoy his newfound friends all the same if he were obnoxiously singing your praises because of how much affection is so obviously stowed away in such little words.
They would hear the gentle intonation in his voice compared to his usual sharp and blunt way of speech, and even the slight up in pitch too. Not to mention just how fondly he looks at you from afar because I don’t think he would know exactly how to go about as strong of an emotion as love. So there he would be, sitting just a few rows behind you during lectures so he could steal glances while writing down his notes, or maybe even offer you help if he “happened to overhear you struggling” (he was actually listening the whole time). He may even brush some leaves or stray hair away if ever you two decide to review together outside, putting his hat on you if it starts to rain mentioning that he can’t get sick.
this turned into more of a yearning Scara post LOL
i dont even watch porn like that guys but i found this absolute GEM like i haddd to share with the class
fem/afab!reader, impact play (slap dat ass🙌), nicknames (baby, princess, lwk good girl)
the sounds of skin against skin fill up your boyfriend's bedroom as he rams into you from behind, his hand slapping your ass for a dizzying mixture of pleasure and pain.
you scream into the pillow below you - the only thing semi-grounding you on your trip to pound town -, taking in full force how his pillows smell just like him. this only added to the allure, for all of your senses are full of him and him alone.
the thought makes you mewl, your cunt squeezing around him impossibly tighter as he grips into the crumpled up blanket holding your ass up.
"fffffuck, you're so tight baby." his voice deepens as he rocks into you even faster. you could only respond with open-mouthed moans as his tip grazed the parts of you that had you seeing galaxies.
you were cumming soon, and he knew that.
"you g'nna cum for me, princess?"
",,yes,," you manage to say from the top of your high. looking back at him, his furrowed face meeting your teary eyes and drooling lips, you ask him, "can i?"
he almost stops entirely. he wanted to launch himself onto you and kiss that blissful expression on your face, but he had to finish what he has started. with one last slap to your ass he commands,
"cum."
and like the goodest girl in the world, his princess, you obey.
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, implied codependence, and mild spoilers for the Luna Archon Quests.
Word count: 2k.
It hits you with the impact of a meteor.
Concentrated, blunt. Absolution hammered down as if it were a gavel. The parameters that define reality dissolve and reform, collapsing inside itself with the magnificence of a supernova. Your immolation is imminent. A fate delayed yet inevitable. The lively scene before you flickers, various landscapes superimposing over it like pages of a book hurriedly being skimmed through. Some sights are foreign, others familiar. All carry an unfathomable weight.
Something shatters, but it isn’t you.
Scintillating shards of crystal clatter about, earning you numerous stares. Your breath catches in your throat. Aether, who seemingly has a sixth sense for people in crisis, strides over. Remembering yourself, you join him on your knees and collect the jagged fragments of your celebratory drink. The mess resolves itself in record time. After quietly expressing your gratitude, you await an opening to slip away, but he hovers by your side like a second shadow and asks the worst possible question:
“Are you alright?”
The muscles in your throat seize. You try to mouth an affirmative response, only for your tongue to lie limp in your mouth. Settling on the next best option, you nod, mustering your most convincing smile. The Descender considers you. Every second of his appraisal is torture, the genuine concern on his face like gas near an open flame. There’s a disconcerting quality to its intensity.
You have to get out of here. You’re rapidly approaching your limit, a threshold that promises no return.
Realizing you’ll have to do better to convince him, you squeak out, “I’m fine.”
The thin, raspy quality of your voice is detrimental to your cause. If he was uncertain before, he’s going to be hellbent now. He speaks your name like he’s approaching a wounded stray. You play the part well, flinching back when he extends his hand, a reaction that surprises you both. Panic hits like a flash flood. You shrink back, muttering a lame excuse about needing air.
You navigate the Flagship with the grace of a newborn fawn. Given the locale, your stumbling doesn’t raise any suspicion. You’re grateful to leave the packed tavern behind you. There’s a certain serenity to Nasha Town at night, the cool air heavenly on your clammy skin. You spot an alcove and establish yourself there. It’s a balcony overlooking the main square, high and lonely, perfect for your purposes. Squeezing your eyelids shut, you grip the railing painfully tight.
In a matter of seconds, footsteps approach close behind. You don’t need to look to guess the culprit. Instead, through chattering teeth, you raise a painful question of your own.
“Who is the Balladeer?”
Aether exhales sharply like the inquiry stabbed him.
“You remember?” he asks, tentatively.
“Bits and pieces,” you hug yourself. “I remember…”
What it is to not live, but exist. Luggage cases. A revolving door of masked attendants. Custom clothes. The scent of incense and tea. Crimson, indigo, lavender. Static. Cotton sheets and silk pillows. Frigid nights in Schenzaya, tepid days in Inazuma. Roaring fireplaces and the thump of the shishi-odoshi. Pine trees, sakura petals, fire-water, engawas, sunless winters, summer fireworks viewed in solitude. So, so much solitude. Hours whittling you away. Unanswered prayers, futile plotting.
“... I remember enough.”
Aether begins to say your name, but you spin around, the expression on your face stunning him into silence.
“You knew?” you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly. “You — Nahida too — you knew and— and— he’s still…!”
“I understand you’re upset—”
“You understand nothing!” you snap. Hot tears stream down your face. You wipe them away with your sleeves, but it does nothing to staunch the flow, like a wound that refuses to clot. “Space. I need space, please. This isn’t… what am I supposed to even do with this…?”
His lips part and close. You sense that you’re being unfair, lashing out at the wrong person. A heavy silence engulfs you both. You witness Aether’s resolve crumble one piece at a time. He takes a step forward and freezes, his eyes darting from you to the left. You follow his gaze, your soul discerning who it is far before they’re visible.
“Dottore made good on his promise, I take it?” the new presence wonders. You look at him like he’s a ghost, terror seizing your heart.
“Should I…?” Aether trails off, his attention flitting between you both.
“You can leave us,” he reassures. You take note of his refusal to look at you. It’s a slight so insignificant compared to his other sins, yet it manages to stoke your wrath into something profane. The rage is nauseating. Primal in essence, burning with the fury of a thousand stars. And yet words fail you. Even as Aether leaves, glancing over his shoulder before he heads back inside, your mind goes blank, like a canvas stolen of its colors.
Finally, your eyes interlock.
This incarnation — the Wanderer — has the courtesy to maintain his distance. All you can bring yourself to do is stare. Weighing the similarities, judging the differences. He doesn’t shy away or wilt beneath your scrutiny. Your inability to decipher his stone-cold countenance inspires frustration. Where is your catharsis? His shame, your triumph? Is he not guilty before you? Why won’t it show — why don’t you want it to show? What do you want? How can the scales ever fall in your favor, after everything he’s stolen?
You pity that girl he kept locked away like a prized jewel. It’s strange, mourning for a you that was but no longer is. Her fear, despair, and helplessness; it washes through you, coming and going in waves. She was forgotten. Her suffering erased alongside the memory of the Balladeer, no justice ever achieved. There’s no metric to measure inequity on such a cosmic scale. Even now, if you were to end his life, it would do her no good. She no longer exists. You, her afterimage, can’t deliver proper retribution.
Your knees buckle. You collapse, the fabric of your skirt billowing out alongside you.
“Say something,” you demand.
Nothing.
“Kunikuzushi,” you try again. Finally, he flinches. It feels right. Divinely ordained. You want more. “Have you been mocking me all along?”
He takes a few moments to think over his response. “You’re not going to get what you want out of this.”
Sensing your confusion, he clarifies, “I’ve seen this moment coming for a long time. I had no way of knowing for certain it’d happen, yet… it felt inevitable. A fitting penalty for my shortsightedness. So, trust me when I say I’ve imagined this moment countless times, taking into consideration how you are, and… there is no outcome that will satisfy you. This might come across as cruel, but I consider it the greatest mercy I can offer.”
“What do you know about mercy?”
“Not much. But I know you,” he reassures. “Every quirk, character flaw, and inclination. For instance, right now, all you can think about is how to make me hurt. That’s fair. Do and say what you will. I’ll take it all.”
You regard him warily. Who is this? He looks like Scaramouche, from the sharp, piercing quality of his eyes to the aesthetics of his clothes, though the palette is different. His speech pattern is similar too. Wry, vaguely derisive. Yet a critical component is absent. Or is it multiple? You reflect on his behavior in Nod-Krai. Had it not been for him and his willingness to participate in Sandrone’s plan, Dottore would’ve triumphed, upsetting the balance of Teyvat and guaranteeing oblivion. He is, in every definition of the word, a hero. Your intestines twist into knots at the thought. Aether has faith in him, as does Sumeru’s Archon, whose domain is wisdom.
Slowly, you rise on your own strength.
“Do you regret what you did?”
He pinches his eyebrows together. “I regret my weakness.”
“Weakness?” you repeat back, incredulous.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he closes the distance, stalking toward you with a steady gait. And there it is — hints of his depraved nature rising to the surface like a bloated corpse. You turn your chin up, daring him to pull anything. Energy crackles between you. “You’ll be pleased to learn I’m still, at my core, that awful bogeyman worthy of your loathing. Ah, I can see it. You were worried what it’d mean for you if I’d been redeemed. I get it.”
He fiddles with the rim of his hat. “It’s funny; Lesser Lord Kusanali posed the same question. ‘Do you regret what you did to her?’ she asked, leaving unsaid the expectation that I should. And well… I regret much, but I don’t regret you.”
You ball your hands into fists.
“You closed me off from the world.”
“A rotten world.”
“You took my life, my— my future, my aspirations—” nearing hysterics, you have to pause to regain your breath, “I lived in complete fear! I never knew what might set you off, or why, and it was fucking terrifying!”
“I know.”
You want to claw his eyes, rip into his jugular with your teeth, and tear open his chest cavity with your hands. You want him to cry, beg, and blubber, pleading for forgiveness that will never be his. You want revenge. A punishment worthy of the crime. You pounce, roughly grabbing his collar and tugging, vision blurry with tears. He goes limp, not offering up the slightest resistance. His gaze is unblinking, drinking in the sight of your ruination. Perhaps there’s a hint of pathos on his features, but it’s fleeting, like a passing breeze.
You’re not going to get what you want out of this, he warned.
Scaramouche (the Wanderer?) is many things, but he was never a liar.
You push him away with all your strength. He barely budges, forcing you to scurry back to make space.
“It’s not going to happen again,” the words come tumbling out like the ravings of a madman, “You don’t have the power anymore— the authority.”
“I don’t,” he admits.
You derive some satisfaction from his flat acquiescence. That has to sting, right? The knowledge that once was never will be again? In that life, he was a Harbinger, given impunity by the Tsaritsa. Certainly, he has his own strength, but it’s no longer uncontested. He has Aether and Nahida to keep him in check. Given their knowledge of his past wrongdoings, they must be monitoring him. Theoretically, this should grant you solace. You’re not alone. This time, you have formidable allies that will come to your aid.
He laughs. It’s a choked, bitter sound, worse than a person gurgling on blood. You wince, terrible memories teeming forth.
“The past is set in stone,” his voice takes on a melancholic character. He shakes his head, dismissing the thought that inspired his rumination. Squaring his shoulders, he changes the subject.
“You wondered if I’ve been mocking you all this time. I haven’t. If anything, it’s been… refreshing. Speaking to you without encountering resentment, that is. I’d forgotten what it was like. If I tried hard enough, I could almost put our shared history behind us and pretend I didn’t know what I did.”
His lips curve into a soft smile. Goosebumps dot along your skin, shudders accompanying them. You never thought he was capable of a tender expression like that. It doesn’t last long, like a shooting star streaking across the night sky. His countenance contorts back to its usual deadpan.
“But… I think I prefer you like this,” he decides. “This is how you’re meant to be; lost and vulnerable. A testament to my influence.”
You break eye contact, unable to withstand the weight of his stare any longer.
“I won’t always be this way. A day will come where I put you behind me,” you back the lofty declaration with as much confidence as you can. “And then you’ll be truly alone. Forgotten by me twice.”
Darkness clouds over his brilliant eyes.
“We’ll see,” he responds to your challenge in a sing-song lilt. “I won’t make it easy for you.”
That night, though you return to the Flagship alone, you’re struck by the feeling he never truly left.
I really didn't think people would like the scara x escort reader... But rejoice part 2 is coming.. we haven't even met scara again yet and that is the word count...
You love Wanderer but sometimes you have the craving for a little Scaramouche.
Wanderer x reader x Scaramouche // wc: 3.4k // n\sfw
CW: established relationship, implied cheating, dubc0n, spanking, fingerf\\cking, HUMILIATION, pinching, praise, degrsdation, fear play, edging/org@sm denial, face f\\cking, spit k!nk, overstimulation, choking, breath play, thunder makes Reader hrny, Scara s1ut shames Reader then gets insanely hrny from it and accidentally edges himself lmao, breeding k!nk, sub/d0m vibes, Reader is a masochist, Scara is a sadist, happy ending
a/n: This is Part 2 but can be read as a standalone pwp!!
Part 1 is here.
Thunderstorms are rare in Sumeru.
You would like to think that is what keeps you awake at this hour, shifting restlessly beneath a blanket. The brief flash of light illuminating your bedroom is the only warning before every crack of thunder that rattles the window. You squirm every single time, legs running against each other, slick with sweat.
Wanderer is beside you. His back faces you, solid and inhumanly still as he “rests.”
You both know it is an act. Wanderer is not human and puppets do not need to sleep.
Another loud crack has your thighs squeezing together tight.
You would like to think the staccato pounding of your heartbeat is from fear but—
Crack!
The Balladeer was a fearsome villain.
Manipulating the element of electro,
He could bend anyone to his will.
Your mind conjures vivid images of those torturous purple sparks so easily controlled by the delicate fingertips of a cruel puppet. He revels in the way your back arches in shock when he just lightly grazes your sensitive nipple—
Crack!
A whimper escapes your throat as your hand mindlessly slides down the soft skin of your belly and beneath the loose waistband of your sleep shorts. Your finger tip brushes against your own wetness and you softly gasp, eyes fluttering shut. One shaky finger glides against your clit, frictionless with your slick and you whine. Just the thought of him has you soaked. Your middle finger dips down to the small hole below, too impatient to tease as you press inside—
“You are so goddamn loud.”
You squeal, eyes snapping open to find a pair of piercing blue glaring down at you.
“If you’re going to fuck yourself next to someone you should at least try to be subtle.”
You flounder for something to say, hyperaware of your sticky fingers still pressed against yourself.
He reaches over you to grab the edge of the blanket as if to remove it and you panic—
“Wait, Scaramouche—”
Wanderer goes unnaturally still and your heart drops.
“Wanderer,” you attempt to correct.
But the damage is done.
He stares down at you with an unreadable expression, voice eerily calm when he speaks.
“That name… Is that who you wish was here right now? Is that who has you so desperate that you’re fingering your own cunt right beside your boyfriend?”
Yes—wait, no!
Your brain lags for a second as you struggle to remember what the right answer is but that moment of hesitation is all he needs.
All at once his demeanor changes, his eyes dark and soulless in an unfamiliar way that makes your blood run cold but ignites a warmth deep in your gut.
He rips the blanket away, ignoring your startled protest as he grabs the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your shorts to pull those off as well. The hand you were using to pleasure yourself now futilely attempts to cover you in some form of modesty.
“Roll over,” he commands. “and don't make me repeat myself.”
The order catches you off guard but you scramble to follow, bare chest pressed against the mattress with your butt exposed to the chilly air. He roughly grabs both of your wrists and holds them together behind your back with one of his hands, the other hand softly trailing down your spine to make you shiver.
“W-Wanderer, what—”
“Wrong name.”
Smack!
You gasp, right ass cheek stinging.
Wanderer had never done this—even in his most passionate moments he is always holding back, never daring to elicit pain or leave a mark.
But this isn’t Wanderer, is it?
With equal parts terror and exhilaration, you realize the one behind you is no longer your lover but instead Scaramouche.
Smack!
The second spank hits the exact same spot causing your eyes to well up with tears. A whimper is caught in your throat.
Scaramouche’s hand returns to soothe the aching skin and you tremble because you know his tenderness will not last.
“Tch, so ungrateful,” he pinches, hard, and you yelp. “What we say when someone gives us exactly what we wanted?”
“Th-thank you?”
Smack!
You squeal and he pinches your ass again in warning.
“Thank you!”
"Who?"
“W-wander–”
Smack!
“Scaramouche! Ahn—th-thank you!”
He spanks you repeatedly, striking either side at random and sometimes the same side many times in a row. He spanks you until your songs of gratitude are incomprehensible mumbles.
By the time he stops both of your cheeks are hot and throbbing. When he finally releases your arms your body melts into the bed, boneless and thankful for a moment of reprieve.
But then you feel his hands again, lifeless and cold, brush up the backs of your thighs before reaching the curve of your ass. He grips the globes of flesh, kneading them like dough before spreading them apart. You swear that you can feel the weight of his gaze on you, scornful as he observes your most private part. Your skin prickles when you feel yourself drip onto the sheets.
Scaramouche scoffs and your face burns.
“A few light spanks and your pussy’s leaking like a faucet. You’re fucking disgusting.”
A wave of heat rushes through you so suddenly that you get lightheaded. You whimper, hands gripping at the sheets and squeeze your eyes shut. You feel embarrassed, ashamed, and so hot.
Scaramouche cackles loudly behind you.
“That made you twitch like crazy down here—don’t tell me you’re actually getting off to this?”
You shake your head no because you’re not, you can’t be, this is weird and Wanderer would never do this and—
Your hole clenches around nothing.
“You are—haha, how embarrassing," Scaramouche taunts.
A lewd sound is ripped from your throat as Scaramouche suddenly presses two fingers inside of you. His fingers are thicker than your own and you hadn’t properly prepped at all but you’re so wet that they slide in easily. He does not wait for you to adjust—not that you would even need to—and immediately starts finger fucking you.
His wrist twists with each thrust, massaging your gummy walls in a way that has you gushing around his fingers and sobbing into the sheets.
“Heh, I can’t even tell which is louder: that pretty little mouth or this filthy fucking cunt.”
Scaramouche emphasizes the last word by inserting a third finger with a particularly mean twist that has you seeing stars and proving his point when you wail. Even the crackling thunder outside is downed out by the wet schlick, schlick sounds of your sopping cunt.
Each press of his fingers has you tightening, driving you closer and closer to a breaking point.
His other hand moves up, thumb brushing teasingly against the wrinkled skin of your other hole and your whole body tenses up.
A stuttered protest falls from your lips as he applies a bit more pressure, threatening to breach that place that has never been touched before. Your brain feels like a muddled mess, strung between the mindnumbing pleasure ceaselessly assaulting your pussy and the terrifying pressure against your unprepared anus. Your chest seizes when you hear how nonsensical you sound even to your own ears as you desperately attempt to sputter for him to wait, stop–not there! But even as you protest your traitorous cunt is tightening around the fingers rapidly pumping in and out. You’re seconds away from cumming while tears roll down your flushed cheeks and you’re scared. Scared because Wanderer knows your boundaries, Wanderer would never push you too far but, Scaramouche, he—
He laughs and pulls away completely.
Your chest heaves in shaky breaths as you try to process the overload of emotions. The disappointment of the stolen orgasm overshadows any semblance of relief and the emptiness of your still dripping cunt nearly makes you want to sob.
You are flipped onto your back like you weigh nothing.
Through hazy eyes you see Wanderer—Scaramouche standing at the edge of the bed and staring down at you, his thin lips twisted in a smirk. His eyes—still that familiar pretty electric blue—seem to glow in the dark as they rake over your bare body. You can only imagine what he is planning to do with you but—
You lift your hand without thinking, sitting up to reach out and touch that familiar face…
Scaramouche frowns, snatching your hand away and grabbing your face instead. Your cheeks are smushed tightly between his fingers as he fixes you with a glare.
“You really enjoy pissing me off, don’t you?”
You try to protest but it’s muffled and he squeezes harder.
“Or were you hoping to be punished? Is that what you wanted, slut?”
The anticipation of what punishment from Scaramouche might entail has your breath hitching and he smirks before ordering you to your knees. You obey quickly, clamoring off the bed to drop down in front of him.
On your knees, you look up at him with palpable eagerness and the sight seems to please him because he allows himself to gently brush his fingertips against your cheek. You instinctively follow his hand, nuzzling into it like a kitten and his expression falls into something soft.
Scaramouche’s tone is low when he murmurs.
“Such a good girl for me.”
The reaction is instant, your gut clenches as your pupils blow wide as you whimper. You nod, frantic in your agreement that yes, you are Scaramouche’s good girl.
You don’t know which you like more: degradation or praise; If you are seeking punishment or reward.
Scaramouche makes the decision for you.
His tender touch becomes harsh as he grabs your face again, squishing your cheeks so hard your teeth hurt.
“Come on, good girl,” he taunts sarcastically, “it’s time for your punishment.”
His grip holds you still, forcing you to watch as his other hand pulls the waistband of his pants down just low enough to release himself. His cock is fully hard, swollen and heavy, and just as unhumanly pretty as the rest of him. A bead of precum slowly rolls down the flushed head and you swallow thickly.
You attempt to say something but it is again muffled between his grip.
“Hmm,” he hums as he steps closer, “what was that?”
He grips himself by the base and carelessly slaps his cock against your lips, chuckling as his precum is smeared across your cheeks. He finally loosens his grip on your cheeks just enough for you to speak and you open your mouth.
“Plea—mmph!”
Scaramouche shoves himself in, to the hilt, laughing when you choke.
His hand slides up from your jaw to the back of your head, gripping a fistful of your hair to control your movements. He forces your head forward at the same time as his hips so that he hits the back of your throat on every thrust.
Your face is a mess, wet with drool and precum and tears, and you can’t breathe the desire to please him overrides your every common sense. You hollow your cheeks as much as you can, running the tip of your tongue across the vein along his shaft and he groans, his head falling back in pleasure.
“That’s it—shit—being so fucking good for me.”
You moan against him, thighs squeezing together as you continue to let him use you. He doesn’t stop until your ears are ringing and your vision is swimming with black dots.
The moment he pulls out you gasp for breath.
Scaramouche allows you a moment to breathe, quietly observing while you cough and blink through the dizziness. He waits until your breathing is even, grip still firmly holding your hair.
“Open your mouth,” Scaramouche orders. “Wider.”
Your mouth opens obediently, expecting him to slide inside you again—but he doesn’t.
Instead, he leans down slowly until his face is hovering above your own. The angle forces your neck to crane back uncomfortably and you briefly wonder if he’s going to kiss you—
His lips fall open and you watch with bated breath as a thick glob of saliva rolls down his tongue.
It collects at the tip of his tongue, growing heavier and heavier until it eventually falls, splattering directly into your mouth.
“Swallow.”
You do.
You swallow Scaramouche’s spit and maybe it's the shock—the debauchery—but it makes you moan.
Scaramouche immediately cackles.
“Haha—fuck, you really are a slut.”
The words are so mean but his tone is nearly reverent and he’s suddenly pulling you on top of the bed with startling urgency. You are given no time to react as he spreads your legs wide, slotting himself between your open thighs.
His length slides between the puffy lips of your pussy, head nudging against the hood of your clit and you gasp.
“Shit,” Scaramouche whispers as he lines himself up, “I’m not going to last long.”
It is the only warning you get before Scaramouche pushes himself inside. You squeal, fisting the sheets while he stretches you open around his thick cock. He doesn’t wait at all, forcing you to take his full length in one slow motion, inch by inch, until he bottoms out.
“Your pussy is too fucking greedy,” he grunts. “Can barely fucking move.”
It’s not your fault, you think—but then Scaramouche is slowly pulling almost all the way out before splitting you open again all the way to the base and your eyes are rolling back. Within a handful of thrusts you’re already dazed and cockdrunk, babbling noisily beneath him.
One of his hands slips down to rub circles around your clit, hitting the sensitive bundle of nerves on every other loop just to watch how your hips uselessly attempt to jerk away from his iron grip.
You’re rattling out nonsense now, half sentences of his name and that feels so good, please don’t stop interspersed between the embarrassingly loud squelches of your sloppy pussy getting hammered.
“Shut up,” Scaramouche snaps even as he tilts his hips to drive his cock into the spot he knows will make you scream. Your gut is tight with a tension that’s rapidly approaching its breaking point.
“Always so fucking loud.”
A hand wraps around your throat and your eyes snap open.
Scaramouche holds your gaze as he applies pressure to the sides of your neck, just enough to cut off your air supply and you immediately fall apart.
Your pussy clenches hard around him, forcing his pace to stutter before he seems to punish you with even harder and faster slaps of his hips, fucking you through your orgasm.
It drives you to the brink of overstimulation, tears running down your cheeks as you make pitiful, choked sounds.
You feel pressure against your lips and it takes you a moment to realize he is kissing you, his hand still wrapped around your neck like a collar. It’s clumsy and wet, a desperate mashing of mouths. You don’t have the cognitive function to properly reciprocate but he doesn’t seem to mind.
Scaramouche breaks the kiss to gaze down at you and in your lightheaded state you can’t tell whether the curve of his lips is one of love or cruelty.
You hope it’s both.
He finally releases your throat and your lungs fill with oxygen so quickly you get a headrush.
“I think you deserve a reward,” Scaramouche murmurs, his hips erratic and voice strained in a way that tells you he is nearing his own release. “—but only if you beg for it, of course.”
His words, combined with the sadistic smirk, has the tension in your gut returning.
You’ll do anything for him.
“Please,” you whimper weakly.
Scaramouche scoffs and the fingers rubbing against your clit pinch meanly.
“Please, Scara—”
Scaramouche suddenly pulls out and you sob at the emptiness before he grips your hips and lifts them up, up, up—the breath is nearly knocked out of you when realize he’s just bent you into a mean mating press. He settles on top of you, crushing you beneath his weight as he presses himself back against your hole.
From this position you are forced to watch your own drooling cunt getting split open for a second time. You stare as your puffy lips are stretched open obscenely wide around the girth of his cock.
In this position it feels like a much tighter fit and yet he reaches deeper, so deep you swear you can feel him in your lungs.
Your walls cling to him pathetically as he begins to pull out, your creamy pussy leaving a milky ring around his shaft.
Scaramouche immediately sets a brutal pace and you’re forced to just take it, completely immobilized beneath his bodyweight.
“Sc-Scaramou—ah–please!”
“Please what?” Scaramouche sneers. “How am I supposed to give it to you if I don’t even know what you’re begging for.”
He’s so fucking mean, you think.
But you’re the one creaming around his mean cock.
“Please—your c-cum, fill me up, Scaramouche,” you stutter with flushed cheeks, “I want you to breed me, please pleasepleaseplea—!”
He curses and presses his face against your neck, his movements faltering before he drives in as deeply as he can.
He’s pressing into the deepest part of you, tip nudging something that has never been touched before. Your cervix, you realize and it sends you over the edge.
Scaramouche moans, unexpectedly pitchy and loud against your ear, before you feel warmth burst inside of you in quick spurts, coaxed by your walls milking him greedily.
It fills you thoroughly, nearly threatening to overflow but the position ensures it stays inside, deep in your womb.
He ruts into you a few more times, responding to the pulsing of your walls, before he finally pulls back and you flop onto the mattress.
Your heart is still racing as your body slowly comes down from the high but you know he has no such physiological effects.
And indeed, when you gather the strength to roll over onto your side, you see him sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks completely normal, hair just barely mused but expression indifferent, as he adjusts his clothing.
His head turns towards you and you freeze, feeling vaguely like a small mouse being spotted by a housecat.
“Um,” you start awkwardly, “Wanderer?”
The uncertainty in your voice is obvious and he raises a brow in question.
“Are you angry?”
“Always,” he replies cooly, “you’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Are you angry at me for, um, cheating on you?”
His lips curl with amusement.
“Cheating on me? With myself?”
Well, if he puts it like that…
“Still,” you persist, “I know you have a lot of… regrets about that time in your life and I don’t want you to relive those bad memories—”
Wanderer suddenly leans over to pick up your forgotten blanket from the floor before laying it on top of your body. You are suddenly aware of the heaviness in your eyelids and the soreness in your limbs.
The orange hue outside the window tells you it is nearly sunrise but you have no intentions of getting out of bed anytime soon. Your eyes are already beginning to droop when he finally speaks.
“Obsessing over the past is a waste of time–I’ve done enough of that. Tonight was… fun—"
Wanderer says it as if it physically pains him to use the word in relation to himself and you have to bite the blanket to stifle your giggles.
“—so I would not protest if you called me that again. But only when we are alone, got it? If people hear that name they’re going to start asking questions.”
You have a feeling “people” just means Nahida and Traveller but you nod in agreement anyway.
You extend one arm out from under the blanket, making grabby hands toward him and he scoffs.
Wanderer mutters something about how childish you are but he obediently draws closer anyway, slipping beneath the blanket with you and allowing you to ready your head against the crook of his neck. His hands, cool against your warm skin, settle on the curve of your waist.
You close your eyes, falling asleep as his finger taps the rhythm of your heartbeat.
is it okay, to ask for an request? (╥﹏╥) i've just readed some of your fics! after seeing the new one you posted about genshin boys and oh i so fall in love in your writings and especially how you gotten Wanderer 🥺🥺 just chef kiss
so uhm, yeah my soul wish for an req from you(・∀・) if its acctualy okay
an wanderer x s/o / reader but its fine if you want to add others boys to it!
and what if their found their s/o crying? realy crying crying, heartbroken on kness before bed with face hidden but yeah also feel free to suit yourself in what way you like ;D
Hope this doesnt sounded cringe cause i got shy meanwhile typing on the keyboard.
Have nice day or night! hope this catches your attention
🫧 ⋅˚ . IF HE SAW YOU CRY
PREMISE . . . In which Wanderer finds you crying, unsure of what to do at first, he stays by your side to comfort you until you feel better.
ꫂ᭪݁ ﹕ STARRING . . . wanderer
⚠︎ WARNING . . . › sfw!!, wc: 1.7k / 1.745 words, established relationship, emotional vulnerability, crying and reassurance, mild angst, fluff, physical affection, wanderer being very gentle with you
note . i miss writing for angst (even if it's mild angst) thank you for the lovely request anon i hope this is to your liking hmm,, <33
Wanderer would stop the moment he found you like that. He might have come looking for you intending to make some casual remark, perhaps irritated that you'd disappeared without telling him where you were, only for the words to die before they ever reached his mouth when he found you on the floor beside the bed, sitting on your knees with your back and shoulder weakly leaning against the mattress for support.
Your hands would be pressed tightly over your face, your fingers trembling as broken sobs repeatedly forced their way through them, your whole body shaking with each breath.
Wanderer would stay frozen in place. The sight would be so far removed from the composed version of you he was accustomed to that it would catch him completely off guard. His expression would immediately change, the usual disinterest disappearing as his eyes fixed on you with intense attention.
He'd close the door behind him without a sound and approach slowly rather than startling you, lowering himself beside you as he tried to figure out what had happened. "Hey." His voice would come out quieter than usual.
You wouldn't respond, too overwhelmed by the crying to even notice him properly, so he'd crouch down beside you and look at your hidden face. "Hey. Look at me." He wouldn't demand it again when you couldn't.
Instead, he'd sit down on the floor beside you, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours, and remain there while watching your breathing. The crying would continue, your hands still covering your face as each breath came out unevenly, and Wanderer would visibly struggle with what to do.
He's not someone who naturally knows how to comfort people with elaborate words, so his first instinct would be practical.
He'd notice the cup of water nearby and reach for it, placing it within your reach. When you didn't even seem to notice, he'd pick it up himself and hold it out. "Drink." Your hands would be shaking too badly to take it, prompting him to pause before carefully holding the cup for you without saying anything.
He'd wait patiently between each small sip, keeping the cup steady while your breathing remained uneven. Another particularly harsh sob would shake through you, forcing you to bow your head further into your hands, and he'd click his tongue under his breath.
"You're going to make yourself sick." The irritation wouldn't be directed at you so much as at the fact that he couldn't simply make whatever had caused this disappear. After another moment, he'd reach toward your hands, hesitating briefly before gently catching your wrists and lowering them enough to see your face.
You'd instinctively try hiding again, but he wouldn't move away. "I'm not asking you to stop crying. Just breathe."
He'd wait until you managed even one shaky breath before quietly guiding you through another. "Again. Slowly." His voice would remain low and steady, giving you something consistent to focus on while the worst of the sobbing gradually began to lose its force.
Once the crying finally became quieter, Wanderer wouldn't assume that meant you were suddenly fine. He'd stay seated beside you on the floor, watching your breathing carefully as you wiped at your face and tried to collect yourself, your back still resting weakly against the side of the bed because you clearly didn't have the strength to sit upright on your own.
An apology for making him worry would immediately earn a frown. "Don't say that."
You'd probably look at him through tearful eyes, confused by the sharpness of his response, and he'd look away for a second before adding more quietly, "You don't need to apologize for this."
Eventually, exhaustion would make you lean toward him, and although he'd stiffen for half a second, he'd allow you to rest against his shoulder without complaint. His arm would come around you, awkward at first, before settling more securely around your shoulders once he realized you weren't pulling away.
His hand would begin rubbing your back in slow, absentminded motions, especially whenever your breathing hitched and threatened to start the crying all over again. You'd eventually begin explaining what had happened, and he'd listen without interrupting. He wouldn't fill the silence with unnecessary questions or immediately tell you how you should have handled things.
He'd simply let you speak, occasionally giving a quiet response so you knew he was still following.
The moment another person's involvement came up, however, his expression would change.
His eyes would narrow, his jaw tightening as he listened, and for a moment there would be something distinctly dangerous in his silence.
"They did what?" He'd let you finish before saying anything else, but you would be able to tell that he was already memorizing every detail.
Still, he wouldn't leave to confront anyone while you were like this. You'd remain his priority.
Exhaustion would eventually settle over you after all the crying, and rather than letting you remain slumped awkwardly against the bed, he'd gently pull you closer against his chest and keep you there.
One arm would remain firmly around your shoulders while his other hand slowly brushed through your hair, smoothing it away from your damp face whenever it stuck to your cheeks. He'd repeat the motion several times, fingertips moving gently through your hair before tracing down the back of your head and returning again.
His hand would occasionally drift to your back, rubbing slow circles whenever your breathing became uneven.
The room wouldn't stay silent for long, but Wanderer wouldn't resort to endlessly filling the silence with random stories either. Instead, once he noticed your breathing had begun to settle, his attention would turn toward you more deliberately, and he'd start talking about things he normally wouldn't bother saying aloud.
He might quietly mention some small habit of yours he'd noticed, recalling how you always did something a certain way or how you'd once complained about something so trivial that he'd secretly remembered it anyway.
"You know, you're actually terrible at pretending you're fine." He'd say it with the faintest hint of a smirk, brushing a strand of hair away from your damp cheek before continuing. "You always get quieter first. Then you start insisting nothing's wrong. It's not exactly difficult to figure out."
There'd be no mockery behind it this time. If anything, his voice would carry an unusual gentleness as he admitted the little things he'd noticed about you over time.
He might mention how you always tried to take care of everyone else even when you were exhausted yourself, or how you'd become so accustomed to putting your own problems aside that you'd sometimes forget someone else might actually want to take care of you.
He'd grumble about how frustrating that habit was, but his hand would continue moving slowly through your hair as he spoke. "You're allowed to have bad days, you know. You don't have to make yourself useful every second just so people have a reason to keep you around."
The words would come out more sincerely than he intended, and he'd briefly look away before adding something lighter to keep the moment from becoming too heavy.
He might bring up Nahida and how she'd probably tell him he was being unusually considerate, only for him to scoff at the thought. "She'd probably give me that look again. The one where she already knows what I'm thinking and waits for me to figure it out myself."
A small, tired laugh from you would earn the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn't point it out or congratulate himself for making you smile. He'd simply continue gently smoothing your hair back, occasionally resting his hand against the back of your head as you remained tucked against him.
As the last of your tears gradually dried, the conversation would become less about distracting you and more about reminding you of the things that were still there. He might quietly mention some place he'd like to take you someday, complain about something someone you both knew had done, or describe some ridiculous thing he'd witnessed earlier, but he'd keep circling back to you without even realizing it.
"You'd probably like it there," he'd remark casually before pausing, as though only then noticing that he'd started talking about taking you somewhere. He'd listen whenever you answered, occasionally correcting you, disagreeing just to keep the conversation going, or asking what you thought about something because he genuinely wanted to hear your opinion.
Whenever your voice faltered, his hand would instinctively return to your hair or slowly rub your back, grounding you without interrupting what you were saying. Eventually, your weight would settle more completely against his chest, the trembling almost entirely gone.
Wanderer would glance down at you, his expression noticeably softer than it had been when he'd first entered the room.
"There. That's better." His fingers would lightly brush through your hair once more before he added, quieter this time, "You don't have to talk anymore." He'd let the silence return naturally after that, keeping you securely against him.
Eventually, you'd become calm enough to rest fully against him without trembling, your weight settling against his chest while his arms remained securely around you.
He'd lower his voice and glance down at you. "See? You're breathing normally again."
Embarrassment over having cried so badly in front of him would earn an almost offended expression. "You're embarrassed?" He'd click his tongue and shake his head. "I've seen you covered in dirt, exhausted, half-dead after traveling, and making considerably worse decisions. This isn't exactly the most shocking thing you've done."
The dry remark would be deliberate, something familiar enough to make the room feel normal again. Another small laugh from you would visibly relax his shoulders, though he'd pretend not to notice.
He'd simply pull you a little closer and continue brushing your hair away from your face, his voice gradually becoming quieter as he talked about increasingly meaningless things just to keep you company.
Eventually, you'd settle comfortably against him on the floor, no longer needing the bed to hold you upright because he was doing it for you.
Wanderer would make no attempt to move you away. He'd remain there with you in his arms, occasionally smoothing your hair or rubbing your back, quietly talking until the heaviness in the room had finally lifted enough for you to breathe without having to think about it.
you sighed packing up your last bag at the lake house, zipping it shut. leaving your time in hiding behind you as you got ready to face the reck you left your career in. furina calling out for you snapped you back to reality, as you finally left for the airport to fly back to new york.
“so what’s the first thing your doing when you get back to new york?” furina was sat across from you on ayaka’s private jet. “well xiao’s having a concert tonight to celebrate the release of his new song… and i’ve been asked to be a guest.” furina’s eyes then widened slightly, “so your first public appearance after this scandal will be at a concert…?” furina was trying to understand the situation “yes.” “why?” you then paused. “because i want to.”
ayaka then sat down next to you, “how many songs?” “two.” she then grabbed her ipad, “which two?” “my collab with xiao, obviously. and i was thinking maybe sue me, or missing out. something off the album.” she then nodded, “okay good, i’ll let my brother know so the stylist can sort something out for you to wear.” “i actually have some idea of something i could wear.”
present:
walking of the stage, all the adrenaline left your system. making the reality hit you. furina immediately rushed to your side, enveloping you in a big hug, then albedo, then ayaka, then ayato. “oh my god you did so well im so proud of you.”
furina still hadn’t let go of you, hugging tightly. “oh my god i actually did that.” everything then blurred together for the next hour or two. everything until you were stood outside your apartment door. ready to face scaramouche but at the same time completely unprepared.
wanderer x fem!reader. smut. kissing. dry humping. wanderer cums in his shorts.
wanderer didn't know what came over him. once he started kissing you, he just couldn't stop. the entire time you'd been talking to him, his eyes were fixated on your pretty mouth. he is positive he didn't hear a word you said, your lips looked way too tempting.
he is blown away by how soft your lips feel against his. his hand gently cups your chin, adjusting the angle of your head slightly to make the kiss last longer.
he melts at how sweetly you part for lips for his tongue. he swallows your soft moans into his mouth, curling and gliding his tongue yours, groaning softly against your lips as you submit your tongue to his.
he always considered kissing a human interaction he has no use for. until he met you. kissing you feels so natural to him.
swept up entirely in you, his hands wander over your body, slowly pawing your clothes off until you are left in only your panties. the feeling that goes straight to his throbbing cock is undescribable feeling you respond to his touches, leaning into him like you crave him. shivering as his fingers connect with your bare skin.
"i'm sorry," he murmurs against your lips, "i just need to feel you more," the bed creaks softly as he positions himself on top of you. he didn't even care to remove his clothes, he needs to feel you underneath him that badly.
"don't apologize," you reply, giving him a quick kiss on the lips as you spread your legs to accommodate him. your cheeks feel flushed as you look at him, his eyes reflected with the same desire now swirling in your own. "i want you on top of me."
he lets out a shaky sigh as he kisses you again. his cock pulses harder the moment his tongue glides against yours again. you loop your arms around him, clinging to him. he is stunned being able to practically taste your passion for him in your kisses.
you are intoxicating to him.
needing to relieve the aching in his cock, wanderer rocks his hips down to grind against your clothed cunt. his kiss turns greedy, nipping at your lip as he ruts down into you again. "cling to me more. it's disgusting how much i am enjoying it," he scoffs as he pulls away.
you whine softly as his cock rubs against your clit, your panties creating friction against the throbbing nub. you grind back against him, tightening your arms around him as you tangle your fingers in his soft hair.
"fuck..i can't stand it anymore," wanderer growls as another unbearable throb courses through his cock. he puts his lips back on yours, his tongue immediately demanding entrance into your mouth. he reaches down with a shaky hand to unbutton his shorts.
grinding firmer against your panties, he swallows a soft moan as he pulls away. "you feel wet for me," he chuckles, feeling your panties start to soak his boxers, "did kissing me turn you on that much?" he puts a hand on the back of your head, lifting it so he can kiss you again.
you moan into his mouth, rocking your hips up into his grinds. your walls start to flutter around nothing, making you incredibly aware of how empty your cunt feels. you grind back against him with urgency as heat starts to sear in your core.
precum beads a wet spot onto his boxers. it feels way too good grinding against your cunt. he starts to tremble with the need to just pull your panties aside, and stuff his cock into your cunt.
you reluctantly tear your mouth off of his, letting out a whimper as your panties stick and unstuck to your throbbing clit. his hand slides down your throat, leaving goosebumps in its wake. you move your chest up into his hand as he folds his hand around it. he marvels at how soft your breast feels, squeezing harder.
"can we stay like this, just for a little while?" you murmur, your lips hovering over his, "i am enjoying being underneath you like this," you grind up against him to further convey your words.
wanderer swallows a groan as his cock pulses. he can barely handle grinding on your cunt. "yeah, we can stay like this," he breathes against your lips, "but i want you to look at me when you cum," he practically growls the order before he kisses you again.
you writhe a little underneath him, chasing the sweet friction in your clit. your fingernails scratch at the back of his neck, making him groan as you grind against him. a line of saliva connects your tongue to his as you pull away. "y-you feel so good between my legs," you moans shakily as the searing heat in your core intensifies. you place a quick kitten lick of submission on his mouth.
"i fucking love it when you praise me," wanderer moans, pinching your nipple as his cock pulses harder. "i don't think you understand what you do to me," cum spurts into his shorts as he grinds firmer into your cunt.
he chuckles softly feeling you start to twice in his grasp. it's just too much for you. wanderer's eyes widen in anticipation as you whine again, and his hand flies to cup your jaw. "don't you dare look away from when you cum."
your panties unstick from your clit, and you sob softly in pleasure as your orgasm washes over you. wanderer tightens his grip on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "that's it, keep those pretty eyes on me," his thumb swipes across your jaw, watching your parted mouth as you shake in pleasure.
---
DO NOT plagiarize/translate/repost on tumblr or any other site without my permission. please do not feed my writing into ai bots.
PREMISE . . . In which they remain completely oblivious to the feelings they've already developed for you, even as their actions grow increasingly affectionate, attentive, and unmistakably devoted, while everyone around them can see exactly what's happening long before they finally realize that they've fallen for you.
ꫂ᭪݁ STARRING . . . lohen, dottore, tartaglia, wanderer, varka, kinich
⚠︎ WARNING . . . › sfw!!, word count : 700-900 each character, brief mention of blood, oblivious pining, mild protective/possessive behavior, physical affection, teasing, fluff!
note . I LOVED WRITING FOR WANDERER SO MUCHHH argh my baby ;; and I was actually contemplating whether to write for dottore haha I hope he's not so ooc,,
── ( 𝒍. ) lohen wouldn't intially realize he was falling in love with you because he simply wouldn't have the framework for recognizing it. He understands caring for people, protecting them, helping them, and enjoying someone's company, but the idea of 'love' as something separate from all of that isn't something he's ever spent much time examining.
His behavior toward you would therefore seem completely natural to him. He'd find himself looking for you whenever he entered a room without consciously deciding to, his eyes automatically sweeping across the people there until they found you.
The change in him would be subtle but unmistakable to anyone who knew him well. Lohen could walk into a room with his usual mildly distant expression, not particularly unhappy or irritated, simply looking as though his thoughts were somewhere else, and then he'd spot you.
His eyes would immediately brighten, his entire expression warming into a genuine smile before he'd even realize he'd done it, and he'd naturally make his way toward you. He might interrupt whatever conversation he'd been having just to greet you, or wander over after finishing his current task and ask whether you wanted to train together.
Training would become one of his favorite ways of spending time with you, he'd invite you to spar, teach you a new technique, help correct your stance, or ask you to watch while he practiced. Sometimes he'd deliberately challenge you just to see how much you'd improved, and other times he'd patiently demonstrate the same movement over and over until you finally understood it.
If you were already sitting nearby, he'd simply gravitate toward you between exercises, talking about whatever happened to cross his mind. None of this would strike him as unusual. When someone remarked that he seemed particularly happy whenever you were around, he'd genuinely look confused, because from his perspective he was simply enjoying your company.
He wouldn't understand that the way his expression changed at the sight of you, the way he instinctively searched for you, and the way he kept choosing your company whenever he had free time were signs of something much deeper.
Varka would be the one to finally put the pieces together for him. He'd eventually notice the pattern that Lohen himself remained completely oblivious to, the way his expression transformed whenever you appeared, how often he found reasons to train with you, and how naturally he gravitated toward you whenever you were nearby.
Eventually, after seeing Lohen practically light up when you walked into the training grounds, Varka would casually point it out. "You know you're always looking for her, right?" Lohen would initially dismiss it, genuinely unable to see anything unusual about what he was doing.
But Varka would continue explaining that it wasn't merely that Lohen enjoyed your company and it would leave Lohen unusually quiet.
He'd start thinking back over everything and, for perhaps the first time, actually examine his own behavior. He'd remember entering rooms and searching for you before he'd even realized he was doing it, the way seeing you could immediately brighten his mood, how he'd started looking forward to training sessions specifically because you would be there, and how strangely empty those same sessions felt when you couldn't make it.
The realization wouldn't arrive with some sweeping romantic epiphany. It would be much simpler and much more bewildering, Varka had given him a word for something Lohen had already been doing for months.
He'd stare ahead for a long moment before quietly saying, "You're saying I like her?" Once Varka confirmed it, Lohen would look genuinely stunned, as though someone had just explained a rule of the world he'd somehow never been taught.
He'd probably glance toward wherever you happened to be and watch you for a few seconds, noticing the same warmth spreading across his expression that Varka had been talking about.
Then he'd slowly run a hand through his hair, half laughing at himself. "So that's what this feeling is?"
From then on, he wouldn't suddenly become dramatically romantic, he'd simply become much more aware of what he'd already been doing. He'd still ask you to train with him, still teach you techniques, still wander over whenever he spotted you, and still smile instinctively whenever you entered a room. The difference would be that now he finally understood why.
── ( 𝒅. ) dottore would be particularly difficult to catch off guard because he would initially refuse to acknowledge that there was anything unusual about the way he treated you. He would regard his attachment as something that could be observed, analyzed, and eventually explained through reason, and for a considerable amount of time, that explanation would be enough for him.
Before realizing he has 'feelings' for you, he'd already be making deliberate accommodations that he would never bother making for anyone else. He'd allow you into laboratories and restricted areas where other people would be turned away without a second thought, tolerate you interrupting his work even when you arrived at the most inconvenient possible moment, and remember seemingly insignificant details about you with an accuracy that bordered on excessive.
He'd know which food you preferred, which subjects made you lose interest, when you were likely to become tired, and exactly how much patience you had for his experiments before you started complaining.
If someone questioned why you were permitted such liberties, he'd dismiss the matter with some clinical explanation about your usefulness or his own preference for your company over that of his colleagues.
Even his time would begin quietly accommodating you. He might postpone an experiment or a meeting because you were expected to visit, leave his laboratory earlier than usual because you had asked him to accompany you somewhere, or arrange his schedule so that you would encounter him during the few hours he was otherwise difficult to reach.
None of this would register as affection to him. He would simply categorize you as an exception, and Dottore was perfectly comfortable with exceptions when they were his to make. The more telling signs would appear in moments when his usual indifference should have taken precedence.
If you were injured, he would immediately notice. If someone endangered you, his attention would sharpen with a frightening immediacy. He would remember every detail surrounding the incident afterward, not because the information was scientifically interesting, but because he couldn't tolerate the possibility of it happening again.
Yet even then, he'd find some rational explanation for his behavior. You were a liability he needed to account for. Your safety affected his work. Your absence would be inconvenient. Your presence was simply preferable. He would keep giving himself increasingly elaborate explanations because admitting that he cared would require him to acknowledge that there was something about you he could not reduce to utility.
The realization would finally come when his own behavior contradicted every explanation he'd constructed. Perhaps he'd be in the middle of an experiment when news reached him that you'd been seriously injured.
Under ordinary circumstances, Dottore would finish what he was doing before allowing himself to be distracted, whatever problem existed could wait until the immediate task was complete. This time, however, he'd simply stop. His hands would go still over the equipment, his eyes lingering on the unfinished experiment for several silent seconds before he set everything aside without calculating the consequences.
He wouldn't even realize how strange the decision was until he was already on his way to you. Once he knew you were safe, the real disturbance would begin. He'd return to his laboratory and find himself staring at the abandoned work, mentally reconstructing what had happened and realizing that, for once, he'd made a decision without weighing its usefulness.
The experiment had simply stopped mattering the moment he'd learned you were hurt. That conclusion would irritate him more than the emotion itself. He'd begin examining the evidence with almost clinical precision, every precaution he'd taken specifically for your safety, every time he'd changed his plans because of you, every detail about you he'd memorized without intending to, every moment when his attention had instinctively shifted toward you even while surrounded by something more important.
Eventually, the pattern would become impossible to dismiss. He'd lean back, stare into the silence of the laboratory. "How inconvenient."
There would be no dramatic panic afterward. Instead, he'd become intensely curious about the realization, almost treating himself as another specimen to be studied. He'd test his own reactions, deliberately placing himself in situations where he could determine whether his behavior toward you was truly different from his behavior toward everyone else.
The answer would remain frustratingly consistent. He would continue insisting that nothing had fundamentally changed, even while becoming more deliberate about keeping you safe and maintaining your place within his life.
He wouldn't suddenly become openly sentimental or affectionate, that would be entirely contrary to his nature. If anything, he'd become more controlled, more attentive, and maybe even more possessive of the time and space you occupied in his world.
The difference would simply be that he now understood the reason behind it. You were no longer merely an interesting exception, a useful presence, or a variable he happened to tolerate. You had become the one variable he could neither explain away nor bring himself to eliminate, and for someone like Dottore, realizing that there was one person capable of becoming genuinely irreplaceable would be more unsettling than admitting he had fallen in love.
── ( 𝒄. ) childe would realize it almost accidentally, long before he ever thought to call it love, he'd already started treating you as someone distinctly more important than everyone else around him.
He'd invite you along whenever he had the opportunity, whether it was something as simple as wandering through the city or something more exciting that gave him an excuse to show off, and he'd turn nearly everything into some kind of game or challenge just to keep you entertained.
He'd constantly look for ways to make you laugh, deliberately exaggerating stories from his missions or pretending that some completely ordinary situation was far more dramatic than it actually was. He'd also develop the habit of bringing things back for you whenever he traveled, not necessarily expensive gifts, but small souvenirs he'd happened to see and immediately think you'd enjoy.
At first, he'd barely notice how often this happened. He'd simply return from a journey, spot something that reminded him of you, and think, you'd like this, before buying it without a second thought.
The difference would become more obvious in the way he treated your presence. Childe was naturally sociable and energetic, comfortable throwing himself into conversations and making friends wherever he went, but with you, there would be an extra degree of attention that he didn't give anyone else.
He'd remember things you'd told him weeks ago, notice immediately when something was bothering you, and instinctively check that you were alright whenever a situation became dangerous. If you were present during one of his fights, his attention would periodically flick toward you even while he was occupied with his opponent, and if you'd been left behind somewhere safe, he'd find himself wondering what you were doing before he'd even finished his mission.
He'd never consider any of this particularly strange. To him, you were simply you, someone he liked having around, someone whose company made even boring days more enjoyable. It wouldn't occur to him that he'd started measuring certain experiences by whether he could share them with you.
He'd return from an 'adventure' wanting to tell you about it first, encounter something amusing and immediately think about how you'd react, or catch himself looking through a crowd simply because some part of him expected to find you there. The thought would remain so ordinary in his mind that he wouldn't question it until one particular day made the pattern impossible to ignore.
The realization would probably hit him after returning from a particularly dangerous assignment, when he'd come back expecting the usual noise and bustle surrounding his arrival. He'd barely have time to step into the area before his eyes began moving through the crowd, searching automatically. He wouldn't even realize he was doing it at first.
His gaze would pass over familiar faces, fellow Fatui members, merchants, strangers, anyone standing nearby, until it finally landed on you. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd already been imagining the way you'd greet him, probably with that warm smile he had apparently grown so accustomed to seeing after every assignment.
But the moment you spotted him, that smile wouldn't come. Instead, your expression would immediately change with concern when you noticed the blood staining his clothes and the signs of a rough fight still visible across him.
You'd hurry toward him, asking whether he was hurt, your hands instinctively checking his arms and shoulders for injuries before he could even properly greet you. Childe would initially try to laugh it off, assuring you that he'd be fine and that most of the blood wasn't even his, but somewhere between your worried questions and the way you kept looking him over, his teasing response would gradually fade.
He'd simply stare at you. The warmth spreading through his chest would catch him completely off guard, almost like a flutter beneath his ribs, and for once he wouldn't have an immediate joke to cover it with.
He'd watch your worried expression, the way your brows had drawn together, the way you were still checking him despite his insistence that he was alright, and something inside him would suddenly feel impossibly light.
You were worried about him. The thought would make him stare at you with an almost bewildered fondness, his usual grin slowly returning as he realized just how much he liked being the person you cared about this deeply.
He'd blink only when you finally caught him staring and asked why he was looking at you like that. For a moment, he'd simply smile, almost dazed by the realization that had settled so naturally into place.
Then he'd laugh under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck as everything he'd previously dismissed began connecting at once, all the times he'd searched for you first after returning from an assignment, every souvenir he'd picked up because it reminded him of you, every story he'd wanted to tell you before anyone else, every excuse he'd invented to spend another afternoon together, and every time he'd found himself wondering whether you were safe while he was away.
It suddenly made perfect sense.
"Ah." The word would escape quietly before his smile widened. "How'd I not realize this sooner?" He'd probably find the whole realization almost amusing, especially after realizing how long he'd apparently been oblivious.
Yet rather than pulling away from the feeling, he'd simply let himself enjoy it, looking at you with that same soft, fascinated expression while you continued fussing over his injuries.
── ( 𝒘. ) wanderer would resist the realization longer than almost anyone because the very idea of being emotionally attached to someone would irritate him before he ever allowed himself to accept it. Long before he understood what was happening, you would already have become one of the few people capable of bringing out a warmth in him that he himself barely recognized.
It would almost feel like some forgotten part of him had resurfaced whenever he was with you, something softer and strangely content that he would immediately try to bury beneath his usual indifference. You could invite him somewhere as simple as wandering through the city, sitting somewhere quiet, or accompanying you while you talked about something that interested you, and his first response would almost always sound annoyed.
"Do you ever get tired of dragging me around?" Yet he'd still go. He'd complain about the destination, complain about how long you'd been talking, complain when you got distracted by something along the way, but he would never actually leave.
In reality, he'd be paying close attention to everything you said. He'd remember the details of your stories, ask questions when something genuinely caught his interest, and occasionally offer his own opinion before pretending he hadn't been listening that closely.
If you noticed how engaged he was and smiled because he was clearly enjoying himself, he'd immediately become defensive. "What? Don't look at me like that. I'm only listening because you won't stop talking." But he'd remain beside you anyway, sometimes so close that your shoulders nearly brushed, perfectly content to let you fill the silence.
He would especially enjoy the moments when you became animated about something you loved. He'd watch you talk, occasionally interrupting with a dry remark or challenging something you said simply to keep the conversation going, and then act irritated whenever you pointed out that he was clearly enjoying himself.
If you suggested doing something together again another day, he'd roll his eyes and pretend to consider it a nuisance. But he'd remember the suggestion perfectly and, when the day came, would somehow already be waiting for you.
His affection would also begin showing itself through physical closeness in ways that would be almost shocking compared to how he treated everyone else. Wanderer generally wouldn't tolerate unnecessary touching, but with you, the rules would quietly change.
If you were walking too slowly and he wanted you to follow him, he'd simply reach down and take your hand, tugging you along without even thinking about it. If you tried teasing him about it, he'd immediately look away and mutter that it was faster than waiting for you.
He might catch your hand again when crossing a crowded street, pull you closer when he wanted your attention, or casually keep hold of your wrist while leading you somewhere, all while behaving as though none of it were remotely significant. He wouldn't be affectionate in an openly sentimental way, instead, he'd simply become accustomed to having you within reach.
Sitting beside you would feel natural. Walking with your hand in his would feel natural. Listening to you talk for hours would feel natural. And the fact that he was genuinely happy during those moments would be something he stubbornly refused to examine.
The realization would therefore hit him not simply because he protected you, but because he would eventually recognize what being around you did to him. Perhaps you'd invited him somewhere he had initially called boring, only for the two of you to spend hours together talking about whatever happened to come to mind.
At some point, you'd laugh at something he said, and he'd catch himself smiling before immediately trying to hide it. Or perhaps you'd reach for his hand without thinking and he'd instinctively let you take it, realizing only afterward that he hadn't pulled away. Instead, he'd tightened his fingers around yours.
That would make him pause.
He'd look down at your joined hands, then at you, and something about the quiet familiarity of it would feel strangely profound.
He'd remember how often he'd allowed himself to enjoy these moments despite pretending otherwise, how quickly his mood improved when you appeared, how he'd started looking forward to your conversations, and how your absence left a peculiar emptiness that he would never have admitted existed. Most importantly, he'd realize that you brought out a version of him he had almost forgotten existed.
Around you, he could be irritated without being cruel, quiet without being distant, playful without feeling foolish, and genuinely happy without having to explain why. The thought would bother him more than he'd like.
"No." He'd immediately reject whatever conclusion had begun forming, looking away as though the realization itself were an insult. But once he started noticing it, he wouldn't be able to stop.
Eventually, he'd click his tongue, fold his arms, and mutter bitterly to himself, "You've got to be kidding me."
The realization would make him defensive, but it wouldn't make him pull away. If anything, he'd become even more attached while pretending otherwise.
── ( 𝒗. ) varka would probably be one of the last people to realize it because, for months, he'd have absolutely no reason to suspect that what he felt for you was anything beyond genuine fondness. He was naturally warm, affectionate, and generous with the people he cared about, so none of his behavior toward you would initially strike him as unusual.
The real problem would be that he simply talks about you constantly. You'd become an almost ridiculous fixture in his conversations, to the point that the Knights would eventually know far more about you than they ever intended to.
Someone could mention a meal they had recently eaten and Varka would immediately remember something you'd once said about that particular dish. He'd return from an expedition with some strange object he'd found along the way and immediately start telling everyone how you'd probably love it, or how you would have laughed at something he'd seen, or how he wished you'd been there to see a particularly beautiful view.
Even when he was hundreds of miles away, you'd somehow find your way into his thoughts. He'd be walking through unfamiliar territory and suddenly wonder what you were doing back in Mondstadt, whether you'd eaten yet, whether you'd enjoyed the weather that day, or whether you'd have liked the place he was currently standing in.
He'd talk about you so naturally that he wouldn't even realize how often your name came up. "She'd love this place," he'd remark while looking over some distant landscape, only to continue talking about you for another ten minutes without noticing he'd completely changed the subject.
The Knights would eventually exchange knowing looks whenever it happened. Varka, meanwhile, would remain oblivious.
If someone teased him about it, he'd simply laugh. "What? I'm allowed to talk about someone I like," (the other knights would be frustrated how easily he's throwing around those three words).
He'd insist that he was merely fond of your company, yet somehow another story about you would inevitably follow.
His affection would be just as obvious when you were actually nearby. At gatherings, he'd naturally keep you within reach, throwing an arm around your shoulders while talking to someone else or casually drawing you closer whenever the crowd became too dense.
If he noticed you becoming overwhelmed or uncomfortable, he'd quietly shift the conversation so you could participate, introduce you to someone you hadn't met, make sure there was a seat available for you, or bring you something to eat before you ever thought to ask.
He'd notice whether you were getting tired, whether the room was too cold, whether you had been standing for too long, and somehow solve each little problem without making it obvious that he'd been paying attention. None of it would feel particularly romantic to him. He'd simply be taking care of you in the same easy, instinctive way he took care of people he considered important.
Once someone finally pointed out just how often he talked about you, however, Varka would actually stop and think about it. He'd initially laugh, perhaps insisting that everyone was exaggerating, until someone began listing examples.
Varka would gradually fall quiet as he realized they were right. He'd think back to all those expeditions where something beautiful had caught his eye and his first thought had been that you should see it, all the meals where he'd instinctively remembered which portion you'd prefer, and all the gatherings where he'd automatically checked whether you were comfortable before settling himself down.
He'd realize that even when you weren't physically there, some part of his mind was constantly accounting for you. The thought would be almost absurdly simple once he finally saw it. He wouldn't merely enjoy your company, you had become part of the way he experienced the world.
Everything reminded him of you because, somewhere along the way, he'd started wanting you involved in everything he experienced.
Varka would stare into the distance for a moment before slowly rubbing his chin. "Huh." Then, as the realization finally settled, a deep laugh would escape him. "Well, I'll be damned." He'd find the whole thing more amusing than embarrassing, especially when he realized how long everyone else had probably known.
After that, his behavior wouldn't become dramatically different because he'd already been treating you with affection for months.
── ( 𝒌. ) kinich would take much longer to recognize it simply because he wouldn't spend much time examining his own emotions in the first place. Before realizing he was in love with you, he'd already be making countless small adjustments around you without ever thinking of them as affection.
He'd wait for you before leaving somewhere even when there was no practical reason to do so, automatically slow his pace when you fell behind, remember exactly how you preferred to train, and quietly step in whenever you struggled with something without making a point of announcing that he'd noticed.
If you were tired, he'd alter the day's plans without complaint. If you were carrying something awkward, he'd simply take it from you. If you were struggling with a technique, he'd demonstrate it again and correct your stance with the same patient precision he used when teaching anyone else, except he'd somehow always have more time for you.
His version of quality time would be particularly practical and understated, he'd ask you to accompany him on commissions, invite you to train with him, teach you techniques he'd learned, spar with you when you wanted to improve, or let you sit nearby while he prepared his equipment.
He wouldn't need constant conversation to enjoy having you there. Your presence itself would become something he naturally accounted for. Other people would begin noticing long before Kinich did. Mualani, especially, would find it amusing how easily you seemed to slip past the distance Kinich normally maintained with people, while Kachina would notice the quieter details, how he always seemed to know where you were, how he waited for you without mentioning it, and how naturally you could stand beside him without him ever seeming bothered by your proximity.
Kinich wasn't someone who allowed just anyone to become that close to him, which made your place beside him increasingly obvious to everyone watching. He might normally keep conversations brief or prefer doing things alone, yet with you, he'd tolerate you sitting beside him for hours, answer your questions, listen when you talked, and occasionally even start conversations himself.
His acts of service would be just as subtle. He'd check your equipment before a dangerous journey, make sure you had enough supplies, adjust plans if he knew a route would be too difficult for you, or silently position himself on the side closest to whatever posed the greater danger.
He wouldn't call any of it protective. It was simply efficient. At least, that's what he'd tell himself. Even his protectiveness around other people would become increasingly obvious. If someone began acting strangely toward you, standing too close, speaking to you in a way he didn't like, or making you visibly uncomfortable, Kinich's attention would immediately shift.
He wouldn't necessarily confront them outright. Instead, he'd quietly move closer, place himself between you and the other person under some perfectly reasonable excuse, or simply call your name and redirect your attention elsewhere. His expression would remain calm, his voice level, but there would be a subtle firmness to his presence that made it clear he was paying attention.
If Mualani happened to notice, she'd probably find the whole thing hilarious because Kinich would insist he was merely being cautious. "You don't usually do that!" she'd point out.
Kinich would simply look at her and dismiss what she said.
The realization would probably come from Ajaw after he'd spent far too long watching all of this happen. Ajaw would eventually become unbearable about it, loudly pointing out every time Kinich changed his plans because you were involved, every time he automatically searched for you in a crowd, and every time he positioned himself nearby when someone made you uncomfortable.
Kinich would ignore him at first, insisting there was nothing unusual about it, but eventually even he would start thinking about the pattern.
He'd eventually pause in the middle of whatever he was doing, staring ahead for several seconds as all those little observations finally connected. "So that's what this is."
While Ajaw loudly screamed at the back of his head, "THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU!!"
There wouldn't be much outward panic, Kinich would simply become unusually quiet, processing the realization with the same patience he applied to everything else. The next time you appeared, however, the difference would be almost imperceptible. His eyes would follow you a little longer, his expression would soften when you approached, and when you sat beside him, he wouldn't merely make room, he'd shift closer without thinking.
Ajaw would immediately notice and start laughing, while Mualani and Kachina would probably exchange knowing looks because, to everyone else, the answer had been obvious for quite some time.
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