xiao x siren!reader
content: when a siren and an adepti cross paths
fluff? somewhat angst but not really? reader is a troll
masterlist
The first time you meet Xiao, it is during a storm violent enough to drive ships back toward harbor and send fishermen cursing toward the shore with saltwater dripping from their clothes. You had always loved storms; loved the way the sea seemed to shrug off every soft thing mortals insisted on calling it and become, for a few brief hours, what it truly was. There had always been honesty in rough waters. The ocean was not cruel, no matter how often humans gave it that name, and it was not kind either. It simply was. It consumed and nurtured with the same indifference, and perhaps that was why you had never understood mortals particularly well. You had been resting beneath the surface, drifting lazily through dark currents and listening to whale-song somewhere far beneath you, when you felt something old standing at the shore. Not heard—felt. Something powerful enough that even through layers of sea and rain, your instincts stirred with recognition. Curious, you rose slowly through the water, emerging beneath a sky heavy with clouds and silver rain, and found a young adeptus standing on the cliffs overlooking the sea with a spear already in hand.
Young, of course, was relative. Mortals would never have called him that. Mortals would have looked at him and seen an immortal creature untouched by time, something ancient and untouchable and distant from themselves. But you had lived through wars older than their kingdoms, had watched gods rise and fall and landscapes carve themselves into new shapes beneath centuries of wind and tide. To you, there was something unmistakably young about him. Not in his face, nor in his power, but in the way conviction sat so fiercely inside him, untempered and absolute. His eyes found you immediately and narrowed, and without greeting, without hesitation, without so much as asking your name, he said:
"Stop killing humans."
You remember staring at him for several long moments afterward, not because you had not heard him, but because your mind genuinely struggled to process what had just happened. Rain slid down your skin and gathered at your jaw before falling back into the sea, and eventually you asked, with complete sincerity:
"...What?"
The expression on his face did not change in the slightest.
"Stop attacking humans," he repeated, with all the certainty of someone stating an obvious truth, and for a second you simply looked at him before laughter burst from you so suddenly you nearly slipped back beneath the water entirely. It was absurd. Entirely absurd. You had expected threats, perhaps violence, perhaps accusations or demands or grand declarations about justice and morality, but there was something almost unbelievable about the simplicity of it. He had walked to the edge of an ocean and asked it not to be an ocean anymore.
You spent the next several minutes tormenting him for your own entertainment. You asked whether he walked into forests and demanded predators stop hunting, whether he intended to lecture every shark and wolf and hawk in Teyvat next, whether he planned on throwing himself into the sea to physically prevent you from feeding if you decided not to listen. The more serious he became, the more delighted you grew, until eventually, after watching irritation gather steadily in his expression, you leaned forward slightly and smiled at him.
"And if I get hungry?" you asked sweetly. "Will you let me eat you instead?"
You had expected anger. Expected threats. Expected some sharp retort. Instead he simply stared at you for a long moment before turning around and walking away entirely, leaving you blinking after him in disbelief before dissolving into laughter hard enough to send ripples through the surrounding waves.
You think, later, that perhaps it should have ended there. Immortal lives crossed paths often enough, and there had been countless people you had known briefly before losing them to time or war or simple distance. Yet somehow he kept returning. At first your conversations remained practical, almost cold in their simplicity. You warned him of dangerous currents and disturbances beneath southern waters; he warned you of monsters in the mountains and remnants of old gods stirring where they should not have been. They were short exchanges spoken out of convenience more than anything else, two ancient creatures sharing information because doing so was useful. But centuries are strange things, and relationships built over centuries do not change suddenly. There was never a moment where you realized you had become friends. There was no grand revelation waiting for you one day. There was simply Xiao sitting beside you on the shoreline longer than usual one evening, staring out toward distant lanterns floating over Liyue Harbor before quietly saying:
"I remember when none of that was there."
You remember turning to look at him then. Really look at him. Moonlight had scattered itself over the sea in broken pieces, and for a moment his expression had softened into something almost distant.
"...I remember too," you had said quietly.
And perhaps that had been the first truly important thing between you, because no mortal could have understood what he meant. No mortal could understand remembering landscapes before they became landscapes, remembering old gods and old wars and old names worn away by time until nothing remained of them. But you understood. You remembered too. Somewhere after that your conversations stopped feeling like conversations between strangers and started feeling like something else entirely.
The trinkets began so quietly that neither of you ever agreed on who had started it, and you suspect now that this was deliberate—that some unspoken rule had decided early on that naming the thing would ruin it. The first was a pearl. You had found it lodged in the ribs of a sunken ship, half-buried in silt that had probably been settling there since before Liyue had a name worth remembering, and when you held it to the light it caught a strange grey-green color that reminded you, absurdly, of the particular shade his eyes turned when he was trying very hard not to look interested in something. You did not think about it for long. You simply pocketed it, found him sometime later sitting on a rock with his spear across his knees like he expected the sky itself to attack him, and dropped it into his palm without explanation.
He looked at it. Looked at you. Looked at it again.
"What is this for?"
"Nothing," you said. "I was bored and it reminded me of you. That's all."
He turned the pearl over in his fingers for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his expression, and then—without any further comment—closed his hand around it and put it away. You did not see it again for years, and you told yourself you had simply forgotten about it, the way you told yourself many things during that century.
Several weeks later he returned with a small carved bird, wings caught mid-motion, the wood worn smooth in places as though he had spent considerable time turning it over in his hands before deciding it was acceptable. He set it down beside you on the rocks with the elaborate casualness of someone who had rehearsed the gesture and was now furious at himself for rehearsing it.
"I happened to pass a market," he said, not looking at you. "It was there."
"You happened to pass a market," you repeated, "and a wooden bird happened to follow you home."
"It is not significant."
"Of course not."
"I am only telling you because you would have asked otherwise."
"I wasn't going to ask anything."
"You were already opening your mouth."
You had, in fact, already been opening your mouth, and the indignation on his face when you laughed at having been caught was worth every second of it. He looked, for one brief moment, genuinely offended—the particular offense of someone who has done something soft and been immediately punished for it with delight—and you had to physically restrain yourself from telling him how endearing he looked when flustered, mostly because you suspected it would end the bird-giving permanently.
After that it simply became a habit neither of you acknowledged as a habit. You brought him things from the ocean floor—sea glass worn smooth by decades of tide, shells with strange iridescent insides, a polished black stone you'd found wedged beneath an old anchor that you thought looked like something out of the deep trenches where even you rarely went. He brought you things from the mountains—wildflowers that wilted before you could press them, small carved figures from villages whose names you never quite caught, an old coin once from a kingdom that no longer existed, which he presented to you with the gravity of someone handing over a relic of considerable importance.
"Where did you even find this," you asked, turning the coin over.
"Robbed a tomb," he said.
You stared at him.
"I am joking," he added, after a pause too long to be reassuring.
"Xiao."
"It was already open."
You did not get a clearer answer than that, not that day or any day after, and you decided eventually that you preferred it as a mystery. The shelf in whatever dwelling you kept at the time slowly filled with these small offerings—stones beside carvings, shells beside coins, the pearl eventually reappearing on his side of things tucked into a pouch he thought you didn't know about—and neither of you ever called it anything. You noticed, somewhere along the way, that you had begun choosing things specifically because you thought he would like them, rather than because they simply reminded you of him. You noticed, too, that he had stopped pretending the things he brought you were incidental, though he never said so directly. He simply stopped performing the casualness, and one day handed you a small bundle of qingxin flowers without any preamble at all, watching your face carefully as though gauging whether the gesture had been too much.
It had not been too much. You only wished, looking back, that you had told him so at the time instead of simply tucking the flowers behind your ear and changing the subject, the way you did with anything that threatened to become too sincere too quickly.
Years later, when you finally decided to take human form and live among mortals for a while, you told yourself it had been curiosity that drove you toward Liyue Harbor. Humans had changed so much, after all. They had become clever in ways they once had not been. Their cities had grown larger and brighter and louder. They fascinated you. It had absolutely nothing to do with Xiao spending more time there. Absolutely nothing. You repeated this to yourself while standing in the middle of the harbor feeling utterly overwhelmed by noise and movement and warmth and people brushing against your shoulders every few seconds. You were considering whether dramatically throwing yourself back into the ocean would be excessive when Xiao found you standing there looking vaguely murderous.
His eyes moved slowly over you. Paused. Moved back up again.
"...You look strange."
You stared at him for several seconds.
"That was unbelievably rude," you said, very slowly.
"I meant it as an observation."
"It was an insult dressed up as an observation."
"You have two legs now. I was adjusting."
"You could have adjusted silently."
He opened his mouth, seemed to reconsider whatever he had been about to say, and instead settled on a look that suggested he believed himself to be the wronged party in this exchange, which only made the whole thing funnier. The horrified realization that crossed his face minutes later, once he understood exactly how badly that comment had landed, remained one of your favorite memories for centuries—up there with the wooden bird and the tomb coin and the day he discovered, to his great and lasting dismay, that human food had a tendency to stain.
The assumptions from others began not long after that. You thought they were delightful. Xiao thought they were baffling. Shopkeepers smiled knowingly whenever the two of you entered together; strangers looked at you both with amusement hidden in their expressions; a tea vendor once asked, with no small amount of mischief, how long the two of you had been courting, and watched with open glee as Xiao went rigid trying to formulate an answer to a question that had never occurred to him as a question. The worst of it—the best of it, depending on which of you was asked—came from a bakery owner who pressed a couples' discount on you both without waiting to be corrected, cheerfully referring to Xiao as your husband as though the matter were already settled.
"Husband?" Xiao repeated, as though the word itself required translation.
You did not give him the chance to recover. You grabbed his hand, thanked the woman with entirely too much enthusiasm, and felt him go completely still beside you—the particular stillness of a man encountering a disaster he did not have the tools to address. He stared down at your intertwined hands as though they belonged to someone else entirely, and you spent the remainder of the afternoon refusing to let go, partly to torment him and partly, you admitted only to yourself, because his hand was warmer than you expected and you found you did not especially want to give that up.
He did not pull away. You noticed that, too, and filed it away with everything else you weren't yet ready to examine.
The problem, you would realize much later, was that somewhere along the way it stopped being a joke. Somewhere between centuries of shared conversations and exchanged gifts and familiar footsteps beside you, his hand in yours had begun feeling natural. Somewhere along the way your eyes had started seeking him out automatically in crowded places, picking his stillness out of a sea of motion before you had even consciously decided to look. Somewhere along the way Xiao had become the one constant thing in your life, more permanent than tides, more permanent than the harbor lanterns or the mountains or your own restless wandering. After thousands of years spent watching everything else change, that should have terrified you more than it did.
You only realized the full depth of it in the Chasm, when someone told you Xiao was gone and the world seemed to narrow with sudden terrible clarity around those words. You had lived through wars and destruction and grief beyond counting; you had buried people and watched kingdoms disappear beneath history; you had thought yourself long accustomed to loss. Yet none of it prepared you for the possibility of losing him. Nothing prepared you for seeing him fall, or for the unbearable relief that followed when he was caught before disappearing forever. You barely remembered reaching him afterward. You only remembered pulling him into your arms and holding him with enough force that it almost hurt, remembered your hands shaking against his back and your voice breaking as you called him an idiot over and over again because anything else felt impossible.
Very slowly, almost hesitantly, his arms had lifted around you in return.
"I thought I would never see you again," he said quietly, his forehead resting against your shoulder.
Only then did you understand that perhaps you had not been the only one waiting all those years.
synopsis. it’s been about two years since you married lohen. in that time, he’s been a perfect gentleman — leaving you to ponder if the rumors about his uncouth behavior are true, and if you ever will truly know your husband. all of a sudden, two years of a perfect marriage unravels in a single night, and it all starts with you catching him watching you in your sleep.
— content. arrangedmarriage!au, suggestive, takes place in the context of canon, stalking/stalking encouragement (but its okay cuz its him), like one or two phrases romanticizing murder and cannibalism (but its okay cuz its him) 🌚, jealousy, implies intimacy with reader being lohen's first time, mutual yearn, reader wears a loose tank top to sleep but no pronouns are used
— notes. 3.1k words, oh and he cries a little bit . we on some freak shit 2day. art by @/kanann_x on twt!
You never knew that red eyes could look pink underneath the pale moonlight.
It makes sense, since you and Lohen have never even shared a room (much less a bed) since you got married, and he’s rarely even in the house when the sun sets, so you wouldn’t know what your husband’s eyes look like at night. The last time you saw his face this close up was two years ago, at the altar. His eyes reminded you of cherries, then — ruby red like blood against pale skin, an intense presence that seemed like they could burn you if you got too close.
They’re softer, now. A gentler flush of light swirled in his irises.
Your voice comes out hoarse.
“… What are you doing in my room?”
Lohen has always been beautiful, even from the distance that he’s put you at. He’s beautiful every time his lips brush your knuckles at dinners with powerful families in Mondstadt, still beautiful when he forsakes you by your lonesome for the rest of the night, leaving you to entertain yourself in other ways. He’s beautiful when you’re strolling the gardens, and you catch him sparring against other knights, and he smiles like it’s the happiest he’s ever been.
Hell, he’s beautiful now — his bangs fallen over his forehead, eyes widened in shock, his chest rising mid-inhale. He’s moved your vanity chair to the side of your bed, elbows perched on the stand right above your previously sleeping form. Lohen's lips move in response to your question, but he doesn’t answer.
You have to blink yourself awake, try to force your words to come out less groggy.
“Did I oversleep?”
He actually answers this time, his tone with the veneer of professionalism.
“No.”
“… Is there an emergency, then? Has someone passed?”
“… No.”
Your heart thuds dully in your chest, confusion swirling in your head. You shift, your head lifting up from your pillow just a little, and Lohen scrambles. The chair falls to the floor with a thud in his hurry to leave, his voice uncharacteristically wavering as he fumbles, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to come in, please have a good night—”
You prop yourself up in a panic, your hand reaches for his just barely enough to grab his wrist, and he freezes. Your mind races because Lohen hasn’t turned around to face you yet, but you grabbed for his wrist in a hurry, and you had no plan of action for this. With all your might, you tug him backwards — he yelps, forearms falling back on your sheets, his back landing on your lap.
“You are not leaving that easily.” You pant out, scowl on your lips, “What the hell, Lohen?”
He doesn’t respond again, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes blown wide. You watch in real time as the heavy flush at his ears spreads to his cheeks, red blossoming all over his face.
… Ah.
This is Lohen’s first time in a bed with you, you realize.
(And suddenly, your face feels warm too. You wonder if he notices.)
Slowly, you shift again — your thighs raise ever so slightly, so his head is brought closer to you, so you can sit a little more upright.
He's beautiful from this angle, too, and it only steels your resolve more. You’ve been denied the excuse to touch your husband for two years; you might as well take advantage of the opportunity while you have it.
Cautiously, your hand creeps towards him. A part of you is worried he’ll lunge — bite at you like a dog, or run away — but he stays frozen in your lap.
Your palm ghosts the cusp of his chin, tilting his jaw to face you. His skin is so much softer than you imagined, warm and getting warmer — he feels human underneath you.
Your hand travels to the side of his jaw, thumb on his cheek, tracing the deeper red on the apples of his cheek.
Lohen flinches, like your attention on him burns.
He should leave. He should lift himself from your lap, excuse himself to sleep in his cold chambers for the rest of the night so he can think about your touch without going rabid. He should cook you your favorite breakfast tomorrow, apologize profusely with a brilliant excuse for what he was doing in your room the night before.
Lohen knows himself enough to know that he should go. You're the one that stepped into the lion's den — a mouse keeping such a beast under it's paw is unheard of, and it's up to him to be strong enough to retreat back into the shadows, but he's never been strong when it comes to you.
So he stays there, drinking in the sight of you above him with half-lidded eyes, gazing at your lips as they move.
“Were you … watching me in my sleep?”
If only you knew.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
Warmth floods your chest, and your lips move before you can even process your next question. “Do you watch me often?”
Lohen feels like he might die, out of the pure ecstasy his heart can’t take being held by you, or the utter embarrassment of being caught.
“Almost every night.” He spits out, “Whenever I get the chance.”
“… Do you watch me when I'm not sleeping?”
Almost every day, whenever he gets the chance.
He's seen you in every state you've been in — it's not difficult to shrink his duties as the Vice Captain, and it's so easy when he already knows your daily schedule.
He used to chalk it up to keeping you safe. As his partner, you'd automatically be put in more danger than you normally would be, so he'd watch to keep an eye out for any attacks. The only attacks that he'd find out, however, were flirts and eyes from other men.
He wouldn't know what the feeling was when it happened — the something ugly that broiled in his chest, made his bloodlust that much more potent. He'd think about ending them all if he could for a moment — carve out their eyes for looking at you, flay their lips so they couldn't speak, butcher their hands for touching you.
But then you'd laugh. You'd wave your hand to show off the ring on your finger, speak of him, your husband, and all those thoughts would disappear. Because you were his, and he was yours.
Lohen would later find out (through rants with Varka of all people) that the fleeting emotion that overtook him was jealousy, and the emotion he felt towards you was love.
Something sick, tainted and unsure — but love nonetheless.
Lohen feels a rare bout of disgust towards himself. The bear trap he's placed himself in has finally clamped down on his crus, and like any wounded animal, he scrambles for absolution.
A gasp escapes your lips as his head rams into the fat of your stomach, his nose buried into your thigh, arms awkwardly wrapped around your waist. This is certainly the closest he's been to you — he can smell your bodywash through your silk top, just enough to send his panicking mind into overdrive.
“Please don't—” He chokes out, “Please don't leave me — I can be better, I can change, so please don't—”
You can only watch in shock as Lohen babbles on, manic pleas flying from his lips faster than you can process them. His arms squeeze around you, twisting the fabric bunched at your skin, pressing further closer to you. He'd reach past your skin if he could — have his teeth tear into your flesh, burrow into your bones, sink into the fibers of your muscle — he's happy to be a parasite if it means he can be with you—
“Lohen, stop.”
His teeth clamp down on his tongue at your command, just enough to draw blood.
It's embarrassing. The Vice Captain of the Knights of Favonius’ Fifth Company, trembling in his partner's lap, cowering like a child. He can't help it; he can't think properly with you so close to him. Any normal man would knuckle under your warmth, lurch on their axis at your touch, and he is all but just a man—
Your hands cup his cheeks, forcing his face to yours, your noses just inches apart.
It pisses you off — how absolutely angelic he looks, knowing he has so much to apologize for. Tears lace the corners of his eyes like poison on a sharp knife, arched right to your heart. There's a waver of his lips, small knit in his brows, pink in his eyes, the color of love, that makes him that much more pitiful.
“You're acting insane.” Your eye twitches, “I've never met anyone like you.”
“’M sorry,” he mumbles glumly, “I didn't mean for it to go this far.”
(You've never seen a man look more desperate in his life.
And now your heart feels soft again.)
For a moment, there's just silence. Pregnant and heavy, fallen over the two of you. There's not even a rustle on his side, like he's terrified that if he moves, time will go forward again.
“Can I ask why?”
What other reason would there be?
For the first time since being caught, his eyes meet yours wholly. Like you're the only person in the whole world, and his answer is the only truth.
His breath feels tepid on your skin, the shaky inhale and exhale as you await the answer.
“I just like being around you.” He breathes, “… Even when you're unaware of it, I just like you.”
And then his head dips, his cheek nuzzling into the palm of your hand. Like a dog at the heel of its owner, he bathes in the attention you've given him while still begging for more.
“I like you,” he confesses again — it’s not any easier to say it, even now that it's already out in the open. You feel his lips on your skin, not daring to enunciate more than needed, shielding your bare palm from his teeth. “And I’ve been holding back all this time, so please forgive me.”
There's something scrappy in his tone of voice — raw on his tongue, with something frenzied that you can't quite place.
So this is the real Lohen.
Normal? No. Well-adjusted? Certainly not. Like a wolf starving for a meal, he’s gotten himself through with instinct and madness alone. Polite greetings can't quell such a fire, and kisses out of duty will only ignite it further, so he's been staving it off by watching you — but that can't simulate what he truly desires either. He's just as obsessed as you are, to the point where it's debilitating.
Something stirs in your heart.
(Is it bad that this only makes you want him more?)
So you adjust your grip — you sit both of you up straighter on the bed, resting his chin between your propped-up knees.
“I forgive you.” You murmur, finger absentmindedly circling around his cheek, brushing his bangs back. You're impossibly close to him now —enough to see the flutter of his blue eyelashes, the faint freckles that dot his nose.
Your head tilts to the side, moving closer. “And…”
Lohen's breath hitches.
“I'm sorry you felt that you couldn't be yourself around me.”
A peck on his cheek, before you pull back. Far too brief, he'd think he imagined it if you weren't holding him right here.
“I wish you would've told me instead of going to such lengths, y'know.”
Another on his forehead. His neurons feel frayed, sent to death by overstimulation at your touch, his self-control tumbling further and further away, straight to the bear trap shut tightly around his heart.
“It's funny, isn't it?” Your laugh sounds like music to his ears — the crystalflies’ hum that floats around the grapevine at night, the songbirds that wake him up in the morning. “I guess anyone else would be worried about the logistics — how long you've been watching me, what you think about when you watch me, but…”
Your thumb brushes against his eyebags, faint and discolored. And your heart aches for him, because you know the countless hours and dedication he puts into his work, and you know what he puts his body through to keep you safe.
“I'm here worrying if you’re getting enough sleep like this. So now I’m wondering if we were made for eachother.”
He flinches as you kiss him right under his eye, right at the mole — your teeth scrape at his eyebags just lightly, and he shivers. You don’t separate from him completely this time — no, your head tilts until your forehead presses up against his, your noses bumping against the other, your breath on his lips.
You're brighter than the moon outside could ever be, and he can't help but stare with ricochet wonder.
“I just want you as you are. So please don't hide from me.”
Lohen used to imagine what it'd be like to kiss you. Hell, he was thinking about what it'd be like when he was watching you a few minutes ago — for you, he'd be a respectable man, the best he could be.
The second your lips actually touch his, though, the last thread of self-restraint snaps.
His fingers tighten at your shoulders as his face presses against yours, until the back of your skull hits the headboard and he's crawled up over you, caging you between the bed and his body.
It's a foreign feeling — his tongue licking the inside of your lips, teeth bumping awkwardly at how messy it all is — and he tries to keep his thoughts into reign again, tries not to think about how he'd unhinge his jaw to swallow you whole if he could, how he doesn't need another sip of wine ever again if it means getting drunk off of you for the rest of his life.
His partner, his precious partner, mewling vibrations against his lips, thunder in his heart and clouds in his head. Lohen could die happily here, he thinks — you could stab him in the back right now, and he'd have the pleasure of bleeding out in your arms. What an honor it would be to seep into the crevices of your skin, so that no amount of soap or water could ever rid you of him.
You're too sweet, though. Too good for him, so he'll have to stand to sticking his tongue down your throat instead, peeling you open from inside out until the nonsensical sounds you make with your lips learn to form his name instead.
Something carnal bubbles in your chest, like animal to animal alike, saliva in your mouth, melted iron on your tongue.
It's something in the way he laps up your attention, kisses you with a reverence only a devil could, like there's nothing else he'd rather do.
Lohen’s lips separate from yours far earlier than he'd like — his hands weaker on your wrists, chest heaving as he pants.
He's not nearly good enough at this yet, but he wants to be. He wants to be better for you in general, if you'd let him.
And it seems like you want to, with the way you lay your forehead on his shoulder, slowly gathering yourself the same way he is, letting him feel your uneven breaths on his collarbone. Your cheek feels warm on his skin as you turn, a contrast to the nip in the night air.
“So,” you look at him with all the unlocked adoration he used to dream about, “Was that everything you've ever wanted, my dear husband?”
He nods.
If he's being honest, he's still half-expecting you to throw him out now that you've had your fill of him at this point, to let him rot in the dungeons below you where he belongs — but you just laugh, and his heart skips a beat again.
Your lips curve into a teasing smile.
“… Stalker.”
Lohen flushes.
“I didn't—” His protest is cut off short by another kiss on his lips. Softer, this time. Sweeter.
Enough for him to want to go back in and capture yours properly again, but then you sigh contentedly, flopping back down on your mattress.
“You'll stay the night, won't you?” You ask innocently, running your hand up his thigh, “Unless you're content to just watch me until the sun rises.”
(As if on cue, one of the straps to your tank top slips off your shoulder, revealing your bare skin.
Lohen thinks that maybe he's been the one walking into the lion's den this entire time.)
“I…”
“Perfect!” Your hands promptly grab his forearm, pulling him down to you.
This is twice that you've thrown him to the mattress, he thinks, another three or four times more that you've manhandled him just this night alone. Is this what he should expect from married life from now on? Should he invest in a new mattress?
He scarcely has time to think before you're by his side again, arms wrapped around his waist, your lips pressing kisses to his clavicle.
“Y'know … we never consummated the marriage, Lohen,” you murmur, unable to hide the mischievous tone in your voice, “Shall we make it official tonight?”
You're going to be the death of him, but he doesn't mind.
lowkeyyyy hate the way this ended but couldnt think of anything else so . idk i just wanted to make out with him
i think the funny thing is that bro isn't sleeping when u share a bed either 😭 he just gets to stare closer now
Blade and you get into a heated argument that begets no winners, only two irked lovers. Things are icy until Blade finally swallows his pride and is the first to apologise—but you’re too stubborn to listen to him yet.
“Oh, please,” you scoff, checking out your nails, “unless you can give me a star plucked from the sky, I don’t want to hear anything from you.”
It’s meant to be a figure of speech to imply that he won’t be able to apologise, at least for tonight. You’ll probably be fine in the morning to talk things out maturely.
But you forget; you’re talking to Blade.
Furnace Master Ying-motherfucking-Xing.
The entire night Blade spends tinkering away in his little workshop, much to your confusion and chagrin. What in the world is he doing? Part of you wants to demand him to come to bed, but you’re still bitter from the fight. So you simply lay in bed in silence, arms crossed and eyes gazing at the ceiling while you listen to the occasional thunk of a hammer, whirr of a drill, and hushed whoosh of fire.
You huff. Honestly, even his dedication to his craft is ticking you off right now. Who does he think he is?!
After a long while the door opens, and in steps Bladie, torso bare and slick with sweat, his crafting goggles still on.
Holding a literal star in his hands.
Ignoring your flabbergasted expression as you sit up in bed and ogle, he deadpans, rather redundantly, “I brought you the star you asked for.”
The silence is only filled by a soft vibrating hum from the small celestial ball of light, fiery-gold in its lustrous sheen. You have it in you to sputter, “What—how—huh—”
Blade immediately launches into explanation. “Obtaining the star was the simple part. Given its original temperature and size, I had to smelt it down into a more mortal-friendly miniature through rigorous rearrangement of its gaseous particles, turning them malleable enough to reshape.” He holds it up. “Now it’s safe to touch and can also be used as decoration.”
“Wh-what..?”
The man takes this as avenue to go into detail about melting points, platinum and gold calibrating, and de-vaporisation, but you’re still sputtering in shock and disbelief. Everything’s going in one ear and out the other; your mind is buffering too much to process anything. And the damn star hums and flickers all the while.
“So do you…” he fidgets with the gleaming nova, shifting from one foot to the other, “forgive me now, my sweet?”
One night, Rex Lapis returns to your shared chambers after an evening of revelry with his fellow Archons—tipsy.
The god opens the doors to your bedroom with a grander flourish than his usual gentle-natured disposition, beaming.
“My lord, you’re back!” You hop out of bed and bound over to him eagerly. “How was the- oof!”
Rex Lapis engulfs you in an intense bear hug, the smile never leaving his face. “Ah, my dearest sweet,” he hums, “how long has it been since I have embraced you like this? Decades have passed since our last meeting.” His horns and tail have manifested, the latter wagging intensely like an overgrown puppy’s.
You squirm in his tight grip, finally catching a whiff of the wine on him. That Barbatos… “No, it’s only been a few hours. If decades had passed I’d be old and wrinkly!”
“And I would still savour the taste of you every night,” the Geo Lord coos, relentless in his cuddling. His tail does not stop.
Your face turns hot. “A-anyway! Please let me go and I can help you with your…current state!”
“There is nothing that can sate my affection for you,” your divine lover declares, although his grip does thankfully loosen, “except by engaging in fierce, passionate lovemaking until tomorrow’s morrow’s dawn breaks.”
The day after tomorrow?! “My lord, you’re drunk!” you cry out. “None of that until you’re sober again!” Wriggling free from his grasp (and dodging his sloppy grabby hands), you usher him to the edge of the bed and sit him down, which he does so with surprisingly little resistance.
Rex Lapis lets out a huff. “Very well.” He crosses his arms and closes his eyes and waits silently.
You frown. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting until I am sober.”
“My lord…” You stifle a giggle. “Wait here while I get you something to eat, okay? And…perhaps a bucket in case you retch.”
“Are you saying I appear a wretch, my dear?”
“Retch!” you repeat. “As in, throw up.”
But the god droops and looks down at his palms. “Wretch…” he repeats morosely, tail thumping sadly against the bed.
You shake your head in exasperation and make to leave, but he grabs your arm. “Oh, what now, my lord?”
He fixes you with a gaze so intense, the gold of his irises gleam in the comfortable dimness of the room. It’s smouldering, the strict curve of his lip almost intimidating… “I demand a kiss before you go. I cannot remember the last time you gave me a kiss.”
“Oh, please. You have impeccable memory which should tell you I kissed you just before you left for the Archon gathering.” You roll your eyes but peck him on the cheek anyway, then worm out of his hold before he can demand another one.
“Fine, at least hear me out.” His gaze turns even more intense than before, an incandescent mountain.
You turn to face him again. “Yes, my lord…?”
He eyes you from head to toe. “I love you.”
“Awww! I love you, too!”
Giggling, you slip out of the chamber to bring back the necessary remedy, leaving a thoroughly disgruntled god sitting on the edge of the bed with his tail thumping petulantly.
The next day, Deus Auri vehemently denies any memory of the night prior.
Let’s not forget how blunt Blade can be most of the time, even when he’s making a joke.
Bladie loves to eat, just as much as he likes to cook. Give him second and third helpings of anything and there’s no way he’ll say no.
So, seized by a bout of playfulness, you ask him, “Bladie, if there were no food at home, and no ingredients to cook with either, what would you do?”
He doesn’t even hesitate with his deadpan. “I would eat you instead.”
You can’t help the warmth that seeps into your face. “M-me? No way. I’d taste like crap and you know it—”
“Quite the opposite, I would say.” Blade shakes his head, still as stone-faced as ever, though you can glean the faintest twinkle of cockiness in his eye. “With the correct amount of salt and seasonings, your tender flesh would be the perfect way to satiate my appetite. Not to mention the many times I have savoured you in other ways and enjoyed myself.”
You stare at him, jaw slack and at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing like a fish until you finally squeak out, “Well…that would never happen though, because you like me too much…right?”
He doesn’t even blink, as blunt as ever. “Dwindle our home’s food supply and you shall see.”
Only the subtle upward curve of his lip tells you he’s joking. Probably.
cw; gender neutral! reader, sfw with a sprinkle of winkwink, basically just a smooch from qiuyuan aha
For a man without eyesight, QIUYUAN can do a lot of things.
He can pierce the hearts of his enemies with ease, cook meals without batting a lid, discern both familiar and unfamiliar surroundings in an instant, read your emotions better than any man with two working eyes could ever hope to — you get the gist of it. He fares just like any other person.
You wouldn’t have known he was blind, really, not unless you looked close. Not unless curiosity got the better of you and you finally asked about his eyes — those elusive, cloudy things that never seemed to look directly at you, no matter how hard you tried to catch them.
(“What? You’re telling me you’ve been blind this whole time?”
He does not reply.
You were about to ask how a man who cannot see could cultivate such precise swordsmanship, until you remember something from a distant past.
“But you mentioned I had a fair face during our first meeting.”
He does not elaborate.
“... You have no sight and now you can’t speak?”
He does not make an excuse.)
And in that manner, you truly think it is strange.
For all his practiced, almost perfect ways of adapting to a life of a blind man, for all the subtle precision of his movements and the effortless grace that makes everyone else look clumsy — Qiuyuan always, always, seems to forget where your lips are each time he leans in to humor you with a kiss.
You like to think you know enough that you are not oblivious. In fact, you are well aware of how his forte functions in relation to his surroundings, having been… loved a lot… by him, yet this does not placate your confusion.
Qiuyuan is sharp and concise in everything he does. He never wastes time. He never rushes either. Every movement of his is deliberate, efficient. Most details are trivial to him; he only cares about the things that matter to wandering swordsmen — sharpening their blades, bathing in rivers, mending their coats by the firelight. He may notice everything, even the things in between, yet very rarely does he make them his business.
(Thinking about it, you recall the time he mentioned he liked the frequencies of your bold personality, that or it was the smell of your virtues. What did he mean by this?)
All in all, why would kissing you be any different?
If anything, he seems to take his time with it — tracing the ridge of your eyebrows, brushing the faint frown between them, mapping the moles scattered across your cheeks and neck as if they were constellations he needed to memorize. His fingers trail the bridge of your nose, linger at your lashes, circle your cheekbones in slow, unhurried motion, before resting the pad of his thumb on your bottom lip.
Your entire being feels like it’s on fire.
Qiuyuan is sharp and concise. He never wastes time. So what is he doing?
“Your thoughts,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that slides under your skin. “I sense chaos within it. Do you want to share?”
His eyes — that muted gray, misty and distant, as if trapped in a perpetual haze — are directed right at you. And for some reason, it's now you who can’t maintain eye contact. You look everywhere but him, at the stars stitched into the sky, at the restless trees swaying with the wind — anything to forget the feeling of the feather-light pressure of his thumb on your lip.
“D-don’t look at me like that.” You stutter against your will.
“I can’t see, nor look,” he replies evenly. “I am simply facing where a threat looms.”
Like lightning, your eyes are on him immediately, raising a brow at him. “What threat?”
He chuckles, rare and quiet, and your stomach flips at the sound. “That’s what it takes for you to look at me. Interesting.”
You glare, half annoyed, half flustered. “Qiuyuan, what are you trying to say?”
“Your temperament is truly a wonder I can never hope to comprehend,” he dismisses your glare like he always does — calmly, playfully, infuriatingly — and leans closer still. His breath ghosts across your cheek. “Do you not like it when I let my hands wander?”
He already knows what's bothering you. Of course he does.
Yet that tone teasing, deliberate — to make innuendos is not like him. Againt your better judgement, it sends heat curling through your chest, fueling the warmth of your face. Still, you force yourself to stay on track, to pretend you’re not already melting under his touch.
(You’d let him do anything he wanted to do to you, you realize with a dangerous clarity.)
“You always touch my face like that before you kiss me,” you say quietly. “Why is that?”
He pauses. Not long, but long enough for you to feel the shift in the air between you.
“Back when we first met, I did not lie when I called your face fair.”
You blink, unsure whether to laugh or fall apart. He senses your confusion, and treads further.
“Is it not right for me to appreciate it,” he adds, “now that we are much closer?”
When he leans in again, it is slow and unhurried. The air grows still, heavy with something unspoken. You can feel the warmth of him, close enough that your breaths tangle in the space between.
His hand moves slightly, fingers brushing against your jaw, lingering like a phantom.
The rest happens somewhere between thought and sensation. A shift forward, the briefest contact, so light you might have imagined it — and then stillness, a silence that hums louder than any sound could.
You do not move. Neither does he. And yet something in you has already unraveled.
For a man without eyesight, Qiuyuan can do a lot of things.
He can fight, cook, survive — even sense the smallest flicker of thought that crosses your mind.
But kissing you into a puddle of madness?
That, you think faintly, as his fingers slide into your hair and his lips tilt into a small, all-knowing smile against yours — might just be your favorite of all.
Wanderer sounded exhausted and you almost start to feel bad when you look at his expectant eyes, pleading with you to call it a night. He was at your door frame, frowning, this was the 3rd time he'd asked.
"I'm even asking nicely this time" he reasons, and it feels foreign for the both of you.
"I cant. I need to finish this off. Just go ahead without me" you mumble, waving him off, knowing well he didn't need to sleep at all - the only reason he ever did "sleep" was to lay beside you.
Wanderer is aching to give you a stern lecture about leaving akademiya papers till the last minute, but he bites down on his tongue instead. Berating you would only make you irritated, and being irritated with a lack of sleep is certain to sour your mood even more.
"You still have class tomorrow. I'll finish it for you whilst you sleep"
You still in your position, almost dropping the pen in your hands. You look to him like a fish out of water, astounded he would even suggest such a thing.
"You would do that?"
Wanderer was mildly surprised you were questioning him rather than snapping at him entirely for breaching academic integrity.
"Of course" he shrugs,
"But why? That's troublesome to you" you scrunch your eyebrows in an adorable way unbeknownst to yourself. It allows him to lower his guard for the moment he speaks,
"Because i lo-" his eyes widen as he stops himself from saying further. His cheeks tint pink and he looks away, "don't mock me, this rubbish paper is easy, i can get it done without tainting my health like a mere mortal"
Ah, there he is.
Though Wanderer did save himself, he also let you know what was really on his mind - your health. Wanderer would grow anxious even if you were the slightest bit feverish, he would stress out if you grazed your knee or even burnt yourself whilst cooking. He would harp on and on about how mortals were inferior, but you knew him long enough to know he was deeply worried for you - that he saw you as someone as fragile as glass, one crack and you may break.
You never did ask him where his anxieties arose from, but you can only guess that someone dear to him may have passed right before his eyes.
"It won't be right... though i appreciate your kindness" you smile so softly that something in his chest begins to patter.
"You're being stubborn"
"You've already said that one" you hum out as you continue writing. Its true - he was running out of ideas to lure you to sleep.
"I didn't want to do this" he sighs, before striding to where you sat. You look to him with curious eyes as he bends down to you and takes your lips with his own. It was soft and tender, but all too quick - or was that just you wishing it would last longer?
"You didn't want to kiss me?" You say softly, aching for another.
Wanderer smirks as his eyes melts into yours, "looks like your brain isn't working well enough to think rationally when I did that. That's nice to know".
Of course he didn't mean that he "didn't want to kiss you", he simply meant that he didn't want to lure you in through shameless manipulation that involved kissing and, well, intimacy that you were clearly lacking after your sleepless nights working.
It was obvious to him that you were wanting more, he could read your eyes - you were practically pleading for it. Since he was kind, he would indulge in a few more, leaving you breathless and flustered, to say the least.
Its when you feel your body scooped up by Wanderer that you begin to realise you've been disarmed by his charm. You scowl and begin to push away at him, but he only chuckles and holds you tighter. When you're plopped on your bed you've been neglecting for days, you feel yourself sink into the mattress. You can't help but close your eyes - wow, was your bed always this comfy?
You snap your eyes open and try to fight the sleep that was already winning over your body, only to see your lover grinning on top of you.
"No use in fighting it sweetheart. You're clearly tired, you'll go out like a light in a matter of minutes"
"I'm not tired..." you groan, but Wanderer can only watch on, amused at your ability to remain stubborn even at your body.
"Really?" He teases and you're inclined to huff back at him,
"Really"
A dangerous sparkle glints his eyes as he whispers his next words, "I can always make you tired?"
"...huh?"
As expected, you dont understand a thing, Wanderer just scoffs,
"You would understand that if you weren't tired"
You attempt to scowl at him but pout instead. Your palms reach up towards his cheeks, pulling him closer. Wanderer is a little confused but goes along with it, only to feel your lips suddenly on his. Wanderer is quick to kiss you back, though he isn't the slightest surprised with how quickly it ends.
You're limp underneath him, your lips parted. He chuckles softly as he kisses you one last time,
; soft yandere, parent trap 2.0 but is it really babytrap if you lowkey told him you wouldn't mind a child (yes it still is), low-key delusional albedo, not proofread, throwback to fontaine's quest and albedo teaser #og,
the concept of breathing life into what was once an illustration is ludicrous. blasphemous, even. if the original hydro archon was punished for turning her familiars into a new race of humans, then is it not fair for an alchemist to be smithed down for a similar sin?
but the silence of the heavens has been going on for numerous centuries; it's hard for albedo to feel even a smidgen of fear, nevermind finding a speck of regret.
being born with special capabilities is rare. training under a great sinner of khaenri'ah is even rarer - it leaves him with skills that far surpasses even the average vision bearer. it grants him the power to tamper and play with the very notion of life itself.
a memory plays at the back of his mind as he settles down his painting materials, for once away from the frigid winters of dragonspine in favor of the fresh breeze found in windrise.
"the traveler told me of what happened in fontaine," albedo begins, gently taking the test tube you pass onto him. "of what became of their prophecy."
"oh?" you muse, now idly playing with the microscope lenses. "pray tell."
albedo settles his canvas down on the stable easel stand, taking out his paints and brushes in preparation. the ever-present wind blows through his messy hair, and he welcomes it.
"it would seem that fontainians were originally oceanids, only transformed into humans by the previous hydro archon." his eyes are trained upon the drops of sweet flower extract falling into the narrow test tube. "the prophecy was punishment for their sin."
"huh," you breathe out, placing down the lenses to look at him. he fights the urge to look away from his materials. "i can't tell if the arrogant one in this situation is the hydro archon or the heavenly principles themselves."
he swatches out each paint on his person, and he lines up the needed brushes for this personal project of his. the first brush, a round brush, is used to prime the canvas.
albedo finishes extracting the sweet flower and takes out a damp cloth to wipe his table's surface with. "why so?"
"think about it," you saunter up to him, leaning in unbearably close to survey his work. in this proximity, he can smell traces of cecilia flowers and windwheel asters on you. his grip on the damp cloth tightens subtly.
"the heavens think of themselves to be the absolute rulers of this world," you puff your cheeks out childishly. "yet they are more akin to tyrants. celestial nails, sins, punishments, the cataclysm... a creation of life is much tamer compared to the heinous acts they've committed!"
albedo mixes and matches his paints - a tint of red, a dollop of brown, tiny amounts yellow, and white added in moderation - in order to emulate the shade closest to your skin tone. his second brush, a flat brush, is used to lay down the overall shape of what he envisions.
"you think so?" he questions, relocating the test tube on its designated rack. he makes no move to inch away from you - not that he wants to, never. "but 'humans' who are not born from breeding are considered to be an anomaly. they are considered an outlier, are they not?"
not that he cares, may it be sinful or otherwise. he merely tells this to get a feel of you, to take a dive into your mind.
"i care little of how a human is produced," you huff out, leaning even more to disrupt his orderly workflow. he wonders how you'd react if he told you he wouldn't care should you trash his camp, so long as you continue to be shoulder to shoulder with him like this. "if it's sentient, it has life. i think all life should be valued, regardless of the creation method. the creations themselves didn't ask to be brought to this world, either."
his deft fingers scrapes paints together to match his hair next. only little tufts of hair for now. the brush dips into the water to be rid of its previous color, reborn anew into a clean slate. he pats it down with a spare cloth and goes back to painting once again.
"you're not wrong," albedo comments, eyes trailing after the flutter of your lashes. the body heat that emanates from you causes his synthetic one to gradually warm up, too.
he hesitates, then. licking his lips as if to buy time before he voices out the question stuck in his throat. you must have noticed his pause, for you peer at him in silent questioning. you nudge him slightly, and his body sways from the motion.
there is little he fears in this world. not when he was raised in the aftermath of the cataclysm, horrors unknown to normal people are found there. but the thought of your opinion of him souring slightly has his heart palpating in dread.
albedo leans closer to the canvas, intent on detailing the cherubic face as much as possible. focused on creating the perfect specimen that earns your adoration.
a beat passes.
"then," he looks down at his workspace, unable to find the strength to look you straight in the eyes. "what do you think of creating life artificially, from the likeness of your image?"
you blink once and tilt your head, though he does not see it. you crowd closer to him, now nearly chest to chest. if you inch even closer, he fears you'll fear the loud thumps resounding deep within his chest.
"a life... with my likeness?" you parrot back, still not comprehending him fully. then, your eyes widen, as if struck with realization. "oh! you mean your magical drawings, right? i still remember that vishap you created! i am dismayed at the poor thing's lower half, however."
his masterpiece is almost finished. sunset is near, and the wind is starting to pick up. it feels as if barbatos himself is advising albedo to stop with his actions. but not even the divine nail from celestia would tear him apart from this painting.
his mind was lingering more on the alchemical method. though, if this is the method that you prefer, then it will be what he goes through with.
"perhaps," still, he nods, "so, what do you think of it?"
you smile, a gleaming, precious one that surpasses crystalflies. "since it's a hypothetical, i suppose the idea would be cute."
the verbal 'hypothetical' is blocked out from his illusioned mind, for he locks onto your explicit agreement, even going as far as to call his idea cute.
he smiles, clearly pleased with your answer.
"i am glad to see you so enthusiastic about this," he parts away from you and begins to tidy up his workspace with renewed vigor, moving with a sense of purpose.
you confusedly look at his back, "about what?"
but you're met with no reply.
albedo finishes his painting with the last brushstroke being an eyelash of the infant. he steps back to observe for any errors made, but he finds none. excitement courses through his body, eager to bring life to this illustration. his mind is already running amok with all the domesticity he will soon witness you do.
his gloves hands reach into the canvas, surpassing the physical barrier as he reaches for the finished painting. it's similar to reaching into a void, but he knows how to navigate this power of his. when he tugs his hands back into reality, he is not empty handed.
in his hands is a crying infant, not just any infant, but his baby with you. within a few seconds after giving it life, the infant opens its mouth and wails.
he kisses the top of its head, endeared at the sight of pale blond strands.
"shhh, your father is here now."
he understands the original hydro archon now. even he would endanger the lives of others for the creation of life.
fluff, established relationship, stubble varka cuz thats hot <3
before you can enter the knights of favonius headquarters, the guards stop you. the surprised look on your face is enough for them to hurry with an explanation.
“the grand master is in his office. he isn’t receiving visitors at the moment unless it’s urgent business.”
“and a partner bringing him lunch isn’t urgent business?”
they exchange awkward, uncertain glances.
“forgive us,” they say apologetically. “Jean’s orders.”
you barely stop yourself from smiling. of course Jean issued an order like that. you respect it, knowing how overworked that poor woman can be because of your husband.
this wasn’t your first rodeo bringing lunch to Varka, and every one of your visits during his working hours always ended the same way: Varka dodging work under the pretense of attending to his partner, because according to him, “there’s nothing more important in life than a happy wife.”
and truth be told, sometimes you did it on purpose, whenever your heart softened hearing his groans and laments about the mountains of paperwork in his office.
but seeing that you won’t accomplish anything more productive today and must abandon the idea of visiting your husband with the bitter taste of defeat, you hand the guards the bundle containing the still-warm meal for your partner.
“alright then, an order is an order. just give it to him. oh, and say hi to Jean for me!”
then you turn back towards the road home.
…
the sound of a heavy foot tapping restlessly mixes with the scratching of a pen on paper. drowning in piles of unfinished documents, Varka is slowly losing both patience and the will to continue signing and reading reports. hungry, thirsty, craving action, and above all craving to see you again, he’s already trying to figure out how to escape.
a knock on the door brings him a blessed distraction from his duties.
“come in,” he says, already setting the pen back into the inkwell.
when the knight enters, he salutes, holding a bundle against his chest. at the sight of the familiar thick cloth, unmistakably yours, Varka can’t hold back a smile. he doesn’t have to scheme anymore. opportunity has presented itself on its own.
“oh, what a wonderful gift,” Varka murmurs, reaching for the bundle. still warm and quite large, which greatly pleases his heart. “but why wasn’t it delivered personally?” if he had dog ears, they would probably droop to the floor in sorrow at the absence of your presence. he glances at the empty corridor trying to spot your hiding place. “where are they? I must personally thank my beloved for the meal.”
like a rocket he springs up from his chair, already intending to leave the office.
“grand master, please wait! they’re not in the headquarters! master Jean gave orders that only scheduled visitors are to be allowed in.”
at that, Varka’s brows lift in surprise for a second, but he quickly masks his disappointment with a wide smile. something flashes in his blue eyes, sparks of boyish excitement for action.
“huuuh, what a shame… Mika!”
the young blond man jumps from his chair like a spring.
“please take these documents to Jean.”
“grand master!” Mika calls out, despite the massive hand carrying the strength of ten men already resting on his shoulder and urging him toward the task. “I hope this isn’t an excuse to escape.”
“pffff, Mika.” Varka waves his free hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t leave this mountain of papers unattended. now go, and come back quickly.”
when Varka is finally alone, he wastes no time and immediately gets to work. clutching your gift tightly against his chest, he opens the window and glances around to make sure there are no witnesses to his little escape.
when he sees none, he jumps out without hesitation, landing neatly on the cobblestones below, his thoughts already filled with you and the moments you’ll soon share.
finding you takes him record time. the sight of you in the afternoon sunlight is like mead for his thirsty soul.
in a few long strides he reaches you and pulls you into a one-armed embrace, kissing all over your face out of longing, even though you saw each other this very morning.
“Varka!” you yelp when his short but already rough stubble scrapes your cheek. “weren’t you supposed to be drowning in paperwork today?”
“hey, there are important things and more important things,” he murmurs, placing one last kiss on your lips. “and it just so happens that anything concerning you carries the highest priority for me.”
“you snuck out and jumped out of a window, didn’t you?”
“pfff, please. that's too irresponsible, even for me,” he says, waving a dismissive hand.
“Varka…”
“I was going to take a break anyway,” he finally relents under the pressure of your voice and stare. “you just have impeccable timing, dear.”
he intertwines your fingers with his and starts guiding you towards the city gate.
“now come on,” he grins excitedly. “I know the perfect quiet spot for a picnic.”
In which you're a fresh recruit for the Knights of Favonius; you meet the Vice Captain of your unit for the first time.
❥ Lohen x gn!reader ₊˚⊹
—
words: 1k
additional info: written before Lohen release
Ah, Dornman Port.
You've never been here before; you had no reason to visit. Until now that is. You would likely be spending a considerable amount of time in this town for the foreseeable future.
Why?
Well, you recently joined the Knights of Favonius. You had been assigned to the Ranged Company on account of the skills you showcased in the practical examinations. Your talent with archery was something to be acknowledged.
As the Ranged Company was stationed at the Knights' base at Dorman Port, naturally, you had to be sent there.
You made your way towards said base, weaving through the hustle and bustle of the town. After some wandering, you managed to find it. Couldn't miss it with the group of knights gathered around it.
You were told to look for a blonde woman upon your arrival. Herstal of the Support Company if you recall correctly.
You glanced around, searching for her. Upon noticing your scouring gaze, a woman with a blonde braid waved at you.
She called out to you. "Over here!"
You walked towards her, assuming she was Herstal.
"I take it you're the new recruit?" The woman asked.
"Yes. And you must be Herstal." You stated.
"That's right. Allow me to help you get settled," Herstal said. "Today will be your first day of training. You ready?"
"Just raring to go," you replied.
"Great!" Herstal handed you a musket. "Ever used one of these?"
"Nope, but I'm sure I could learn easily." You had the utmost faith in your abilities.
"Well, that's a good attitude to have." Herstal pointed at a light-brown haired woman and a dark-brown haired man. "Ursula and Gunther will show you the ropes."
You glanced over at the two Herstal indicated.
They waved at you as you made your way over.
"Welcome to the Ranged Company, rookie!" Ursula greeted you upon your approach.
You offered a friendly smile. "Thanks, looking forward to working alongside you."
"Likewise!" Gunther said, enthusiasm evident.
With pleasantries out of the way, your training began.
Ursula and Gunther showed you how to load ammo and the proper way to hold a musket. They also gave you pointers on form and how to keep your aim steady.
After some brief trial and error, you were quickly getting the hang of using the musket. You didn't miss a single shot.
"Wow, you're a natural!" Ursula exclaimed.
You bristled with pride. "I figured that it couldn't be that hard."
"I admire the confidence! Best not to get too cocky though." Gunther laughed.
Before you could reply, another voice chimed in.
"How's the training coming along? I trust that our new recruit is being well taken care of?"
You turn to see a mint green haired man sauntering in. Judging by the way he was dressed and carried himself, he must be someone important.
As soon as the others caught sight of him, they all straightened up and saluted.
"Sir, yes sir!" Gunther shouted.
You raised a brow. "And you are...?"
"Why, I'm your Vice Captain! Lohen at your service."
"I see. Nice to meet you, sir." You addressed him.
You wondered if you should be saluting too. Seems a little late for that now, however.
"Well, how do you feel about your training so far?" Lohen asked.
"Full of confidence," you asserted.
"Oh, really? How about I assess your progress myself?" Lohen dared you.
"I have no qualms with that," you said, utterly unfazed.
Lohen tilted his head. "Oh? You have that much faith in your abilities?"
"You bet," you said with your head held high.
Lohen clapped his hands together. "Well, let's see what you got then!"
"What's going to be my target?" You asked eagerly.
You were buzzing with excitement at the opportunity to show off.
Lohen walked over to a crate and grabbed something out of it.
"You'll be shooting at this apple." Lohen casually tossed it into the air and caught it on its way down. "That I'll be holding in my hand."
"You want me to shoot at you?"
"Precisely," Lohen said without the slightest bit of hesitation.
Your eyes widened. "Holy shit, you're insane."
A challenging glint flashed in Lohen's eyes. "Got a problem with that?"
A wild grin spread across your face. "No, I like that."
Now, this Lohen guy is definitely interesting. He's caught your attention, alright.
Lohen made his way to the shooting range, positioning himself at a suitable distance.
"Well, go on. What are you waiting for?" Lohen watched you, expression unreadable. "Don't disappoint me."
Lohen barely finished his words when you aimed for the apple in his hand and fired without a second thought.
The apple exploded into bits, absolutely obliterated by your shot.
Lohen whistled. "No hesitation whatsoever. Brutal."
"Sorry, was I supposed to wait?" Your tone was the epitome of sarcasm.
Ah, perhaps you shouldn't be so disrespectful considering this is your Vice Captain you're talking to. You couldn't help that you had a mouth on you though. It was just the way you were.
Lohen chuckled. "No, no, not at all." Delight shone in his eyes. "Looks like I've got a feisty one on my hands here."
"What? Can't handle me?" You quipped.
A wide grin spread across Lohen's features. "Now, I definitely like you."
Nice, you're making a stellar first impression.
"Tell you what, how about I treat you to a meal after your training session?" Lohen grinned. "Think of it as a welcome to the Knights."
"Oh? Asking me out now, are you?" You teased.
"You could say that."
Huh? Now, this is not something you were expecting.
A laugh interrupted your thoughts.
"Just messing with you." Mischief twinkled in Lohen's eyes.
"Oh, really? How about I make it a date then."
You were feeling bold, and Lohen was definitely your type.
It was Lohen's turn to be surprised. The other knights' expressions matched his.
They whispered amongst themselves. "What are we witnessing right now?!"
Lohen turned towards them. "What are you looking at? Get back to training." Lohen's voice took on a sadistic tone. "Unless you're hoping to participate in some special training?"
"No, sir!" Ursula and Gunther said in unison. They hurriedly busied themselves with their muskets.
Lohen smirked. "That's what I thought."
Lohen returned his attention back to you.
You simply watched him, awaiting his response.
Lohen leaned in close, looking you dead in the eye. "Well, let's make it a date then."
"It's a date then," you agreed, flashing a playful smile.
(Implied fem reader, really messy unbetaed drabble)
Having late night thoughts about kissing Illuga... how chapped his lips would be because of Nod Krai's cold weather... how his breath fans warmly against your skin every time you lean in for a kiss...
Imagine lying down next to him while staring at his lips in the middle of the night. He looks so peaceful while sleeping that you can't bear to wake him up for something as foolish as satisying your sudden urge for a kiss... so you reluctantly lay down by his side again, trying to suppress your impulses by pursuing your lips or rubbing it against the pillow covers. Hopefully by morning, the clinginess grinding against your mins and lips will fade away. After all, your lover is a busy man. You didn't want to interrupt him from during his morning routine just for a kiss. He barely gets enough time to himself, let alone for the two of you together.
(For a moment, you almost gave into the temptation of trailing your lips down his bare arms, another way to resist the desire to kiss him. Because why was he wearing a sleeveless shirt to sleep?? Don't his arms ever get cold when they get exposed to the frosty winter air?? Why must he look so alluring yet endearing even in his sleep?? This isn't fair. Illuga never plays fair.)
However, when dawn does arrive, what surprises you isn't the sun caressing your face, but the feeling of soft kisses being pressed into your skin, trailing up your neck until they reach just above your chin. And what greets you isn't the rays of the sun, but the gentle, bright smile of the man who holds your heart.
“Morning,” Illuga rasps, having barely just woken up before you and deciding to shower you with a starfall of kisses as a wake up call. A silent yawn slips past him right before he nuzzles his face back into the crook of your neck (when did he get there?), pressing another kiss above your collarbone before asking. “Mmm... what do you want for breakfast today...?”
“... Can I have more kisses instead of breakfast?”
“Mm... no.”
Despite his blunt refusal, one of his arms sneaks under the covers to pull you flush against his body, stopping you from pulling away from his kisses. The sudden onslaught of affection continues until you can feel your mind completely melt into a puddle. It doesn't help that it seems like he's purposefully avoiding your lips at all cost, waiting for you to whine in protest before finally landing one, just one kiss on your lips.
“Next time, don't wait until the morning... just kiss me when you feel like it. Alright?”
He looks at you expectantly, awaiting an answer. When your head nods, a smile stretches across his face before he places one more (but certainly not the last) kiss on your forehead.
“Good girl. Stay here, I'll go make something for both of us. It won't take long, I promise.”
(Just like how he promised himself to kiss you silly after being roused from his sleep in the middle of the night by your constant movements. Of course he knows what your thoughts were hiding at the time. Illuga never plays fair. Not when it comes to you.)
‧୧ ‧₊˚ 🍶 ⋅‧₊ ᵎᵎ nanami’s baby’s first disappointment is his father’s chest not giving him any milk >:(
the apartment was quiet in that soft, sleepy way mornings sometimes were, when the world outside hadn’t quite woken up yet and the city was still stretching itself awake. sunlight spilled through the curtains in pale gold streaks, warming the rumpled sheets and the blond hair of the man lying half-awake in the bed, one arm thrown lazily above his head in a pose that might have looked effortlessly graceful if not for the tiny human using his chest as a mattress.
nanami had survived curses that would make grown men weep. he had survived overtime at a company that viewed work-life balance as a mythical concept on par with unicorns. he had survived corporate life with all its soul-crushing meetings and passive-aggressive emails signed with smiley faces. he had even survived the horrors of public transport at rush hour, pressed so tightly against strangers that he’d had philosophical revelations about the true meaning of personal space.
but nothing— absolutely nothing, not in his wildest, most anxiety-ridden imaginings— had prepared him for fatherhood.
or, more specifically, for the tiny warm bundle currently lying on his chest like he was a piece of furniture that happened to be warm and breathing.
your baby made the softest little snuffling noises, squished against nanami’s bare torso with all the grace of a tiny potato, chubby cheek pressed right above his heart. the kid had zero concept of personal boundaries, which nanami supposed was fair since he’d helped create him, but still. it was a lot to process at— he squinted at the clock— 6:47 in the morning, when he had barely gotten any sleep that night.
nanami stared down at the small creature with a quiet, almost stunned softness that had become a permanent fixture on his face since the day they’d brought him home from the hospital.
“good morning,” he murmured hoarsely, his voice still rough with sleep.
the baby blinked up at him with wide, unfocused eyes that seemed to be attempting to process the concept of a face. then, like a determined little creature with a singular mission programmed into his tiny developing brain, he began to root around. his mouth opened and closed like a very small, very cute fish having an existential crisis.
nanami frowned slightly, still operating at about thirty percent cognitive capacity.
“…what are you looking for?”
the baby’s tiny hands grabbed onto his chest like he was scaling a small, hairy mountain. his fingers— so small they barely wrapped around nanami’s pinky— dug in with surprising strength for someone who couldn’t hold his own head up consistently.
then his mouth found nanami’s nipple.
nanami froze, laying utterly still.
his brain, which had handled high-stress situations involving special grade curses with remarkable composure, short-circuited entirely.
a very serious sucking noise broke the silence.
nanami stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly like a man attempting to reboot his own consciousness.
“that will not—”
slurp.
“—work.”
from the doorway came a quiet, muffled snort that sounded suspiciously like someone trying very hard not to wake the whole building with laughter.
you had woken up minutes earlier, had padded quietly through the apartment to the bathroom, and had arrived just in time to witness the scene unfolding like a nature documentary about a very confused predator-prey relationship(with the predator being your three-month-old and the prey being nanami’s nipple).
your baby, determined as ever, was enthusiastically trying to extract milk from their father’s chest with the single-minded focus of a tiny gold miner who had absolutely picked the wrong mountain to excavate.
nanami looked over at you with the calm, resigned expression of a man accepting his fate on the deck of a sinking ship.
“help,” he said flatly, not moving a single muscle, as if any movement might encourage the baby.
you leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, trying very hard not to laugh and failing spectacularly. your shoulders shook with the effort of containing it.
“he’s trying his best.”
“i do not produce milk.”
“well he doesn’t know that, does he? he’s three months old. his entire understanding of the universe is that warm things sometimes have milk and he should suck on them until something happens.”
the baby sucked harder, as if sheer determination could change the fundamental biology of the situation.
nanami closed his eyes briefly, the picture of long-suffering patience.
“i can’t believe this.”
“kento,” you said sweetly, making your way over to the bed, “you’re so cute when you’re being defeated by a three-month-old.”
he sighed, the sigh suggesting he was contemplating the meaning of existence and his place in a universe that would allow such indignities to befall a man who had simply wanted a quiet retirement.
“this is ridiculous.”
for a moment the baby paused, as if considering his father’s words.
then he sucked again.
and sucked.
and sucked.
nanami’s expression grew increasingly concerned. “is he… is he getting anything?”
“air, probably. and maybe some existential disappointment.”
finally, your baby stopped.
he leaned back slightly, his tiny face scrunching in deep, philosophical confusion. his brow— what little brow a baby had— furrowed in a way that was eerily reminiscent of his father’s most serious expressions.
nanami looked down at him with careful wariness as the baby blinked. looked at the nipple again. then back up at nanami’s face.
and suddenly his face crumpled.
the loudest, most offended wail burst from his tiny lungs, a sound of pure betrayal that could have woken the dead and probably did wake the neighbors on the floor below.
nanami panicked instantly, his hands hovering uselessly around the screaming infant like he was holding a tiny, furious bomb.
“why is he crying? what did i do?”
you walked over, laughing openly now, reaching to scoop the indignant baby into your arms.
“because you scammed him, kenny. he thought there was milk. he put in the work. he did the labor. and you gave him nothing.”
nanami looked deeply troubled, his brow furrowed in genuine distress.
“i feel like i’ve committed some kind of fraud.”
the baby continued crying dramatically, tiny fists waving in the air like he was protesting an unjust universe, his face the color of a very angry tomato.
you settled into the bed beside nanami and adjusted your shirt, bringing the baby to your chest with the practiced ease of someone who had done this approximately eight million times in the past three months.
instantly, silence fell upon the room. the baby latched happily, tiny contented noises replacing the world-ending wails, his whole body relaxing into you.
nanami watched the transformation with quiet awe, his expression shifting from panic to wonder in the span of seconds.
“…ah.”
the tiny sucking noises resumed, this time satisfied and rhythmic, accompanied by little happy squirms.
nanami rested a gentle hand on the baby’s soft head, brushing the faintest fuzz of hair that was just starting to grow in, the same blond as his own.
his expression softened into something unbearably tender.
“traitor,” he murmured to the baby, but his voice held no accusation, only affection wrapped in mild annoyance.
you bumped your shoulder against his.
“jealous?”
“no.”
you gave him a suspicious look.
“…perhaps slightly. he’s very enthusiastic about milk.”
you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder.
nanami leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the baby’s temple, breathing in that impossible new baby smell that still made his chest tight every single time.
“next time,” he said solemnly, as if making a sacred vow, “i will explain the situation beforehand.”
you laughed, the sound warm and bright in the quiet morning.
“let me know how that goes. i’m sure he’ll take extensive notes.”
the baby made a tiny happy noise, milk-drunk already, his eyes half-closed in bliss, one little hand reaching out blindly and grabbing hold of one of nanami’s fingers with the grip of a tiny vice.
his large hand curled carefully around their baby’s impossibly small one, marveling for the thousandth time at how something so tiny could hold so much of his heart.
in that quiet, warm morning light, with you warm beside him and your baby half-asleep against your chest, making those soft little sounds, his tiny fingers wrapped around nanami’s like he’d never let go, nanami felt something he had never quite known before.
peace.
not the absence of worry— he would always worry now, he’d accepted that— but a kind of settled contentment, a rightness, like all the pieces of a life he hadn’t known he was building had finally clicked into place.
“i suppose,” he said softly, “this is acceptable.”
you smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
“just acceptable?”
nanami looked at you, then at his son, his thumb brushed gently over his tiny knuckles, feather-light, reverent.
“perfect.” he corrected quietly, and meant it with every fiber of his being.
outside, the city continued its morning noise, the distant rumble of trains and the first stirrings of traffic. but inside that apartment, in that golden morning light, three people existed in their own small, perfect world.
the baby, now fully asleep, made one last little satisfied noise. nanami smiled. for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t think about curses or work or any of the things that had weighed on him for years.
he just was.
and that, he realized, was more than enough.
[ an. this was literally dying in my drafts begging to be let out ]
you were a virgin. well, for a reason. it was rooted in puritan traditions as well as an idealistic personal choice of wanting your first to be with someone you marry.
“this isn’t sex. so don’t worry” satoru flashed a puerile smile, showcasing his milk white canine teeth which dug in to his spit glossed lips.
his cock, colored in a deeper shade of wisteria with protruding veins woven around, slid on the thin layer of your dampened panties. your thighs were parted with his obstinate hands, both knees pressed right on the mattress; having you in full view.
your cotton panties, were too wet, clinging on to you—even more so, due to him caressing and pressing it on your skin with the help of his shaft to vividly showcase the lining of your pussy.
“relax cutie, this is within the rules” albeit, it actually wasn’t.
clearly not at all. but all you could do was let out indecent whimpers of bittersweet pleasure. satoru’s idea of celibacy was simple. anything but the intercourse—which was totally wrong but oh well. “come on, baby. don’t be shy”. his cheeky cadence trapped you in a profane dichotomy; left you teetering between a rebuke or an allowing of him to continue his orgasmic torture.
“’toru, mhm, n–no..” puny protests scrambled from your mouth earning a teasing chuckle from him. “haah—please” but it all simply met with complete disregard.
satoru’s bulky tip, a muted smudge of a pastel pink, was already salivating. a string of thick pre-cum on his slit, dispersed itself on the wetness of your panties. “hm, you sure say no but you are dripping for me” he uttered through clenched teeth, rubbing the underside of his length on to your clothed folds. “yeah, feel this huh?”.
a hedonistic smiled etched on to his porcelain face, the corner of his lips formed a torpid crescent. mischievously, his pale fingers guided himself in between your folds, his dick grinding itself between your puffed labia. “fuck, you seriously do grip like a damn virgin”.
he squeezed the bulbous head of his cock, his speed increasing with needy pantings. sweat beads laid artistry of webs on his forehead, temple and neck. his pearl luminescent face was flush with a spread of crimson from pure need and want.
his eyes had drooped, jaw tightened as he stretched the hem of your panties upwards till your naval. the movement caused the fabric to thin out—you could feel him. clearly. tangible even with the barrier of your soaked panties.
you let out a visceral moan when his tip nudged your clit with a soft, slow kiss. his cockhead traced the outline of your cunt, palpating red to stuff you full with his cum soiled dick.
“fuck, wonder what it’d be like inside this tight virgin pussy.” his lilt slowed, sensual as if aching with yearn. his blue-flamed orbs darkened in to a softer grey, half-lid, staring directly at you. “you ever wonder that, sweetie? this huuuge dick slowly filling you up, right inside this sweet little spot. would go all the way in yeah. mhm… ever think of so?”
“thinking about me bottoming out. you know what that is baby? every inch of me inside of you. inside your wet cunt. hmm, takin’ your virginity, corruptin’ every bit of your innocence.”
and there it was. with a few more incessant rubs against your outline, he spurted out thick loads of pasty-like cum on to you. his hand made sure milk all of it out, whorishly rubbing the cream all over your covered hole, giving your wet pussy a few slaps. “see, kept my word. didn’t i? no sex” an audacious statement formed with a complacent grin.
this wasn’t supposed to be.
the deal was simply to see what a penis looked like. not to have your best friend fuck you through your panties.
heavily inspired by a porn vid i saw ages ago on a sketchy website but oh boy—pantyfucking is so underrated
gojo's dick is huge and he loves watching you squirm on it, obsessed even. his smile huge as he watches you cum around him for the sixth time—he's been counting—your sweet cunt clenching down on him.
he's barely even had to move, simply feeding you more and more of his cock inch by delicious inch. you're just such a sensitive little thing, creaming around him like you're getting paid for it and at this point he feels like he owes you something for this show you're giving him.
you're shedding honest to god tears, overwhelmed and every nerve ending on fire, "please– hnn– just– hah–"
"just what, sweetheart?" he doesn't have it in him to tear his gaze away from your stuffed cunt.
pussy bulging around his hard dick, hole fluttering desperately. he can tell you're somewhere between coming down and working up to another orgasm.
"fuck me!– hah– please, just–" struggling to wiggle your hips up onto him, the position and his size making it far too difficult. especially in your state.
his eyes flick to yours, faux sympathy in his tone, "this is real cute, my little pudding but i gotta work you open properly." reaching his thumb up to swipe at the tears on your cheek, "you're so delicate, i don't wanna hurt you."
"you– hng– you're just too– ah!– biiig– hnn–" his dick rubs up against every one of your sweet spots without him even having to try, it's not fair.
gojo's smile grows at that and so does his cock, much to your shock. the sudden blood rushing to his already huge dick throwing you for a loop. his hips jut forward a tiny bit more at the same time and you're coating his length in more fresh cum, tummy flipping with your orgasm.
"you're doing great, pretty," he hums, "sucking me in so hot, bet i'll get you to squirt before this is over."
"you're such a mess," you whine at him.
"no no," he corrects, "you're the mess, creaming all over my dick, drooling on it even." and when your cunt flutters around him again he's losing his mind, teeth biting into his lower lip to stifle the whimper. "you like when i talk to you, huh?"
biting back, "noo– hnn– i prefer– fuck– i prefer when you're quiet."
"your sweet lil pussy disagrees with that," he grins, eyes a little unhinged. "watch this."
you don't get a moment to figure out what you're waiting for, gojo's immediately slamming into you all in one go. tip kissing your womb, his pelvis grinding into your clit. he gets the reaction he wanted, your mouth dropping as you squirt for him.
shivering through your eighth orgasm, brain melted in your skull. panting and whining as your cunt grips his cock, pulsing hot and desperate on him.
he giggles at you, "told you i'd make you squirt."
suguru’s buried deep, thicker than you’re used to, stretching you open with every lazy descent until your thighs tremble and your palms brace on his chest. you’re taking him inch by inch, savoring the drag, the way he fills you so completely it steals your breath.
his hands are on your waist, guiding you, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above your hipbones. his head tips back against the cushions, black hair spilling everywhere, eyes half-lidded and dark. he’s quiet tonight—breathing controlled, jaw tight—like he’s trying to last longer than his body wants to.
you sink down fully. he bottoms out with a low groan that vibrates through you both.
and then you feel it.
a twitch—sharp, involuntary—right where he’s pressed deepest. his cock pulses once, twice, thick and hot inside you, nudging against that spot that makes your spine arch. your walls flutter in answer, gripping him tighter, and his eyes snap open.
he looks down.
there it is: the faint outline of him under your skin. a soft swell just below your navel, rising every time you lift and falling when you grind back down. the sight hits him like a punch.
“fuck,” he rasps, voice cracking for the first time since you’ve known him. his hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “look at that. look at you—taking all of me.”
you glance down too. see the bulge move again when he twitches inside you, helpless and hungry. heat floods your face, your core, everywhere.
he loses it.
one hand slams to your lower belly, palm flat, pressing down right over the swell so he can feel himself move beneath his own fingers. the pressure makes you gasp—makes him feel even bigger, every ridge, every throb.
“shit—baby—” his hips snap up without warning, short, desperate thrusts that punch the air out of your lungs. “can feel myself… right here. fucking ruining you.”
he fucks up into you harder, faster, chasing the sight of that bulge appearing and disappearing with every brutal stroke. his other hand fists your hair, yanks your head back so he can watch your face while he watches your stomach.
“gonna come,” he growls. “gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me for days—fuck—look at it. look what you do to me.”
when he comes, he keeps pressing down, milking every aftershock, hips grinding slow circles like he wants to brand the shape of himself into you forever.
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
jacobvanloon
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
