pairing: ঔঌ firelord! zuko x fem! fiancé! reader
જ⁀➴ sypnosis: You forgot that you didn’t just say yes to Zuko—you said yes to the Firelord. Now you’re stuck in wedding planning chaos, palace politics, and expectations you never asked for, all while trying to hold onto the pieces of your old life before they slip away completely (this is the sypnosis of the first part, this one is the wedding now).
mentions: established relationship, engagement, wedding, fluff,
part 1 —> here
The wedding was set.
After weeks of planning, arguing, reorganizing, and nearly losing your mind more than once—the date had been chosen, the ceremony finalized, and every last detail rehearsed down to the smallest movement.
You knew where to stand.
When to speak.
How to move, how to bow, how to exist under the weight of a hundred watching eyes.
Everything was ready. That was the problem. Because now there was nothing left to prepare. Nothing left to delay. Just the day itself.
And apparently—
getting ready for that day takes an entire lifetime.
Or at least it feels like it.
You’ve been standing—no, posed—for what must be hours, while an army of attendants moves around you with terrifying precision.
Layers.
There are so many layers.
Fabric draped, adjusted, pinned. Jewelry placed, removed, replaced again because “the symmetry must be exact.” Your hair has been redone at least three times already, each version somehow more intricate than the last.
You don’t dare move unless instructed.
Which is difficult, because your legs are starting to question your life choices.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“You moved.”
“I breathed.”
“That counts.”
You stare straight ahead. This is your life now. Somewhere behind you, you hear familiar footsteps. “Can we come in?” Katara’s voice calls gently. Before anyone answers, the door opens anyway. Toph walks in first. “Wow,” she says immediately, arms crossed. “This room is tense.”
Katara follows, offering the attendants an apologetic smile. “We won’t interrupt for long.”
“You already have,” one of them mutters under her breath.
Toph grins. “Good.”
You let out a quiet, relieved breath when you see them. “Hi,” you say weakly.
Katara’s eyes land on you—and she stops. Completely. For a second, she just stares. Then her expression softens into something warm. “Wow…”
That alone makes your stomach flip. “What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“You look…” she trails off, smiling a little wider. “You look amazing.”
You blink. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Toph tilts her head slightly, listening. “…Well, I’ve got nothing,” she says. “I’m sure it’s great though.”
You huff out a small laugh. “Thanks, Toph. Very helpful.”
“I could describe your heartbeat?” she offers.
“No.”
Katara laughs quietly, stepping closer. She carefully avoids the chaos of fabric pooling around you, crouching just slightly to adjust one of the outer layers. “Seriously,” she says softer, “you look beautiful.”
You glance down at yourself.
The dress—no, robes—are… a lot.
White, rich crimson and gold, layered like something out of history itself. The sleeves are long and flowing, embroidered with patterns that catch the light with every tiny movement. The collar sits high and elegant, the detailing intricate enough to make your head spin if you look too long.
And the skirt—
is absolutely ridiculous. It spreads out around you like a small territory of its own, layers upon layers cascading outward in heavy, ornate folds.
You shift your foot slightly. Immediately regret it. “I can’t walk in this,” you say.
One of the attendants gasps like you’ve committed a crime. “You will glide.”
“I will trip,” you correct.
“You will not trip.”
“I will absolutely trip.”
Toph snorts. “If you fall, I’m not catching you.”
“Traitor.”
“I’m blind, not a miracle worker.”
Katara covers a laugh with her hand.
You try to take a careful step forward. The dress does not cooperate. It resists. You freeze. “…This is bigger than me,” you say slowly.
“It is meant to reflect your status,” an attendant replies.
“I have too much status.”
Toph grins. “Yeah, you do.”
Katara shakes her head, still smiling, then gently fixes a small detail near your shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t have time to get used to it.”
“You have… today,” she offers.
“That’s not reassuring.”
Another attendant steps in, adjusting the final pieces—hair ornaments, delicate chains, everything placed with almost ceremonial care.
“Done,” she finally says.
The room stills. You don’t move. You’re almost afraid to.
Katara takes a small step back to look at you properly again. Her expression softens even more. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Now you really look like a Firelady.” That word again Firelady. It doesn’t hit as sharply this time. Still heavy. But not crushing.
Toph tilts her head slightly again. “…So are we done or are we still decorating her like a palace?”
“We’re done,” one attendant says with a sigh of relief.
“Good,” Toph replies. “Because if I have to stand here any longer, I’m rearranging something.”
You laugh—soft, a little nervous, but real. Your hands smooth over the fabric again, slower this time. Heavier. But not unbearable.
Katara reaches for your hand briefly, squeezing it. “You’re ready,” she says gently.
You inhale. Slow. Steady. “…I hope so.”
From somewhere outside, distant but unmistakable—voices. Movement.
The palace shifting into place. It’s time.
And suddenly walking in the dress is not the biggest problem anymore.
Sokka is pacing again. He has not stopped pacing. Aang is trying to breathe in a very intentional spiritual pattern. Iroh is winning at life by doing absolutely nothing except tea.
Zuko is standing. Very still. Very focused. Very obviously about to leave. “I’m going to see her,” he says simply.
Sokka immediately whirls around. “NO.”
Zuko pauses. “No?”
Sokka points at him like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “You can’t see the bride before the ceremony!”
Zuko stares at him. “…Why.”
Aang raises a hand gently. “It’s a tradition thing.” Zuko blinks once. “That’s not a reason.”
Sokka looks personally offended. “It’s BAD LUCK.”
Zuko does not look impressed. “I don’t believe in that.”
Toph’s voice comes from somewhere nearby. “I don’t believe in most things and even I think that’s a thing.”
Zuko ignores her. He turns again toward the door.
Sokka physically steps in front of him. “Nope. Absolutely not. You are the Firelord AND groom. You cannot break the rules AND the structure AND the cosmic balance of this wedding.”
Zuko deadpans. “Move.”
Sokka does not move.
Aang awkwardly smiles. “Maybe… we could compromise spiritually?”
Iroh hums softly from his seat. “Tradition exists to comfort people, not restrict love.”
Sokka points at Iroh immediately. “NOT HELPING.”
Iroh takes a sip. “I am helping myself.”
Zuko exhales slowly through his nose. “I’m not doing anything ceremonial,” he says. “I just want to see her.”
Sokka crosses his arms. “That’s exactly what the curse wants you to do.”
Zuko pauses. “…What curse?"
Sokka gestures vaguely. “The wedding curse.”
Zuko looks at Aang.
Aang slowly lowers his hand. “I think that’s more cultural metaphor than literal curse.”
Zuko looks back at Sokka. “So there is no curse.”
Sokka hesitates. “…There is emotional consequence.”
Zuko stares at him for a long moment. Then turns again.
Sokka immediately blocks him again. “NOPE. Not happening. I will physically stand here if I have to. I am the planner. I am the strategist. I am the only thing holding this entire ceremony together.”
From the side, Toph comments: “That’s depressing.”
Sokka: “THANK YOU, TOPH.”
Zuko closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, he is very calm (or atleast pretends to be). “I’m going,” he says.
Sokka gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
Zuko walks forward. Sokka does NOT move. Zuko keeps walking.
Sokka panics. “AANG—DO SOMETHING—”
Aang blinks. Then slowly floats a little higher, hands raised in front of him like he’s about to mediate world peace. “Alright,” he says carefully, “I think everyone needs to—”
Zuko keeps walking. Sokka lunges again.
Aang moves. Just… between them. And somehow it works. Zuko stops immediately. Not because he’s forced, but because it‘s Aang after all.
“Zuko,” Aang says softly, “I understand you want to see her.”
Zuko exhales. “Good.”
Aang nods. “But… I also understand tradition.”
Zuko deadpans. “I don’t.”
Aang smiles politely.
Then—
he lifts both hands slightly. And a soft gust of air gently pushes Zuko one step back. Not violently though. Zuko pauses. Looks at him. “…Did you just airbend me away from my own wedding.”
Aang looks mildly guilty. “Technically… yes.”
Sokka is still staring at Zuko like he’s trying to mentally calculate how to out-strategize airbending. Then he snaps his fingers. “Okay—new plan.”
Toph groans immediately. “Oh no.”
Sokka turns to her like he’s just had a genius idea handed down by the spirits themselves. “Toph. Describe her.”
Silence.
Toph slowly turns her head toward him. “…What?”
Sokka points toward the hallway dramatically. “Describe her! Zuko wants to know what she looks like right now!”
Zuko immediately: “That’s not what I said.”
Aang lowers his hands slightly, confused. “I think he said he just wants to see her.”
Sokka waves him off. “Same thing emotionally.”
Toph stares at Sokka. Dead still. “…Are you serious.”
Sokka nods eagerly. “Yes! Just tell us how she looks!”
Toph squints. “…I’m blind.”
Sokka pauses. Then very quietly: “…My bad.”
Toph exhales through her nose like she is rethinking every life choice that led her here. “I hate all of you,” she says calmly.
Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose. Aang looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Zuko exhales. Then, quieter—but firmer: “I don’t need to know what she looks like right now.”
A pause. Aang tilts his head slightly. “Oh?”
Zuko’s expression shifts just a little. Less annoyed. More worried. “I just want to know she’s okay,” he says.
Silence. That one lands differently. Even Sokka pauses for once.
“…Aww,” Aang says softly.
Zuko immediately: “Don’t ‘aww’ me.”
Toph suddenly perks up. “Ohhh,” she says slowly. “So you’re doing the whole ‘concerned fiancé’ thing.”
Zuko: “I’m not—”
Toph interrupts instantly, grinning. “She’s awful, by the way.”
Zuko stiffens. “What?”
Aang straightens. “Toph, don’t—”
But Toph is already fully committed to chaos. “She’s so anxious,” she says dramatically. “Like, really bad. Heart racing. Hands shaking. She’s convinced she’s going to trip on her dress, fall down the stairs, and break both legs before she even reaches the aisle.”
Toph continues, completely unfazed. “Yeah, and then she said if she breaks her legs she’ll have to be carried and it’ll be humiliating and you’ll probably leave her at the altar out of pity.”
Zuko stops. Completely still. “…She said that?"
Toph nods immediately. “Yep.”
Sokka looks horrified. “That’s horrible! Why would she think that?!”
Toph doesn’t even blink. “Oh, it gets worse,” she says casually.
Aang: “Toph—”
“She also thinks the sleeves are too long,” Toph continues, counting on her fingers now. “Like, dangerously long. She’s convinced she’s going to get tangled, panic, accidentally set something on fire, and then the whole ceremony goes up in flames.”
Zuko freezes again. “…What?”
Sokka gasps louder. “FIRE? At a FIRE NATION WEDDING? That’s….actually, that’s kind of on theme but still—”
Aang just looks stressed hearing what Toph was telling about your wellbeing.
Toph keeps going, fully committed now. “Oh, and she said something about the jewelry being so heavy it’s pulling her whole posture down and she might just slowly collapse mid-vow.”
You are, in fact—
completely fine.
Sitting like royalty. Literally. Back straight, chin slightly lifted, hands resting elegantly in your lap while attendants move around you with careful, almost reverent precision.
If anyone saw you right now, they’d think you were born for this. (You were not. But fake it till you make it.) Katara stands beside you, watching everything with quiet admiration.
“…Okay,” she says softly, “you actually look like you belong on a throne.”
You glance at her. “Don’t tell me that, it’ll go to my head.”
“It already has.”
“That’s fair.”
An attendant gently lifts a final piece of jewelry—something delicate but unmistakably important—and settles it carefully against your collar. Another adjusts the layers at your shoulders.
Everything is precise. Measured. Perfect. You barely move. Honestly? You’re kind of vibing now. Maybe it’s the acceptance. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s nothing left to panic about. Maybe it’s just exhaustion. Either way, you’re calm.
Then—
“—achoo!”
The sneeze hits out of nowhere. Sharp. Sudden. Echoing slightly in the room. Everything stops. Every attendant freezes like time itself just paused. You blink. “…Oh.”
Katara looks at you. “Bless you?”
Before you can respond, one of the attendants steps forward immediately, bowing her head with absolute seriousness. “May the ancestral flames recognize this as a purification of breath, and may no illness dare approach you on this sacred day, my lady.”
Silence. You stare at her. Katara stares at her. Then Katara and you stare at eachother with raised eyebrows, impressed.
It happens almost instantly—the kind of silence that only exists when everyone is paying attention.
At the center, beneath banners of crimson and gold, stands Zuko. Attempting to appear still and composed. Every inch of him looks exactly like what the nation expects.
But he hasn’t stopped looking at the doors. Not once. Aang stands nearby, hands folded, calm in that quiet, grounded way of his—but even he glances at Zuko for a second. “…You’re nervous,” Aang murmurs under his breath.
Zuko doesn’t look at him. “…No,” he replies.
Aang smiles faintly. “You haven’t blinked in a while.”
Zuko ignores that. His focus doesn’t waver. Because he hasn’t seen you all day. Not once. Every time he tried someone stopped him. (He’s still mildly annoyed about that.)
And now there’s nothing between him and this moment except a pair of slowly opening doors. He exhales.
But there’s something under it.
Something that wasn’t there before all of this—anticipation.
The doors open wider. Light shifts across the stone. The crowd goes completely still.
And Zuko, for just a fraction of a second, forgets how to breathe.
Because there you are. At the top of the steps. Framed in gold and firelight, draped in layers that should overwhelm you—but don’t. Not even close.
You don’t look unsure. You don’t look overwhelmed. You don’t look like the person who thought she might not be ready. You look like you belong here.
Aang notices it immediately—the way Zuko’s posture shifts just slightly, the tension easing in a way no one else would catch. “…Oh,” Aang murmurs softly.
Zuko doesn’t respond. He can’t.
Because you start walking. And suddenly nothing else matters.
The distance between you closes slowly.
Step by step. Measured. Controlled. Perfect. And Zuko is gone. Not physically. He’s still standing exactly where he’s supposed to be, posture straight, shoulders set, every inch of him composed the way a Fire Lord should be in front of his entire nation.
But none of that is what he’s aware of anymore.
Because you’re walking toward him.
And for a moment his mind doesn’t quite catch up with what he’s seeing. It doesn’t register as real. You look like something out of history. Out of paintings. Out of the stories people tell about moments that only happen once in a lifetime and never quite feel real even when they are.
The gold, the white, the red, the movement of the fabric as it follows you—it all blends together into something almost unreal.
But it’s not the dress. It’s not the ceremony. It’s you. And that’s what gets him. Because he knows you.
He knows the way you laugh, the way you complain, the way you definitely said earlier that you were going to trip in this exact outfit.
And now you’re here walking like you were born for this. Like you’ve always belonged in this place beside him. And his chest tightens. Not painfully. Just… suddenly. Unexpectedly.
His breath catches for a second—and he doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t taken the next one yet.
There’s a faint shift in his expression.
Barely there. The smallest softening around his eyes. A flicker of something warmer, something quieter than anything he shows the world.
Aang notices it from the side. No one else does. Because Zuko doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t break composure.
But his gaze..his gaze doesn’t leave you for even a second. And somewhere in that stillness—something in him falters. Just a little. His eyes sting. It takes him a second to even understand why.
And when he does, it almost startles him. Because he doesn’t cry. Not here. Not like this. Not in front of a hundred watching eyes. But the feeling is there anyway—sudden, overwhelming, impossible to push down fast enough. Not sadness. Not even nerves. Just… too much.
Too much of the moment. Too much of you.
Too much of the fact that this is real. That you’re here. That you’re walking toward him. That you chose this. Chose him.
He blinks. Once. A little sharper than necessary. And the feeling pulls back just enough for him to breathe again. Controlled. Steady. Contained.
No one notices. No one except maybe Aang— and even he looks away like he didn’t see anything.
Zuko straightens just slightly, grounding himself again, pulling that familiar control back into place. But something’s changed. It’s still there. That softness.
That quiet, overwhelming something he can’t quite name. And when you get closer, close enough that he can actually see you, not just look at you. It hits again. Softer this time. But deeper.
His voice, when he finally speaks, is low. Careful.
Like if he doesn’t hold it steady, it might give him away. “…You look—” He stops. Because nothing he says feels like enough. Not for this. Not for you. So instead, he exhales quietly, the smallest hint of a smile pulling at his expression. “…You’re here,” he finishes instead. And somehow that says everything he meant to say.
The distance between you disappears completely.
You’re standing in front of him now.
Close enough to see the way his composure is holding—barely. Close enough to notice the softness still lingering in his expression, even as he straightens again, even as the weight of the moment settles back into place around both of you.
For a second, it’s just quiet. Not the crowd.
Not the ceremony. Just… you and him.
Then—
voice breaks through.
A calm, steady and practiced one. A Fire Sage steps forward, robes shifting softly with the movement, presence grounding the entire space in something older than both of you.
“Fire Lord Zuko,” he begins, voice carrying clearly across the courtyard, “you stand before the people of the Fire Nation, before your ancestors, and before the one you have chosen.”
The words settle into the air. Heavy and intentional. Zuko doesn’t look away from you.
Not once.
“Do you take Y/N,” the Sage continues, “to stand beside you as your partner, your equal, and your Fire Lady—”
A slight pause.
“—to share in both the burden and the honor of the nation, and to walk with you in all things, as long as you both shall live?”
Silence. Not empty but waiting.
Zuko doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”
And somehow, that feels bigger than anything else he could have said.
The Sage inclines his head slightly, then turns to you.
“Y/N.” Your name sounds different like this.
“Do you take Fire Lord Zuko,” he continues, “to stand beside you as your partner, your equal, and your husband—”
Another pause.
“—to share in both the burden and the honor of the nation, and to walk with him in all things, as long as you both shall live?”
Your breath steadies. Your thoughts don’t spiral this time. You don’t overthink.
Because standing here, looking at him, everything feels… clear. “I do.” Your voice doesn’t shake. Not even a little. The Sage nods once.
Then steps back.
And for a fraction of a second, nothing happens.
Like the world itself is holding its breath.
Then—
“You may step forward.”
You already are. Just slightly. Close enough that there’s barely space between you now.
Zuko’s hand finds yours—not part of the ceremony, not instructed, just instinct—and his grip is warm, steady, grounding. His other hand lifts slowly and carefully. Like he’s still half-aware of the world watching—and half completely gone from it. His fingers brush lightly along your cheek.
And for a moment, everything fades again.
No crowd. No expectations. No titles. Just this. Just him. He leans in. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Certain. And when his lips meet yours, it’s soft. At first.
Like he’s still grounding himself in the reality of it. Like he’s making sure you’re really there.
Then it deepens, just slightly, warm and steady and full of everything he didn’t say out loud.
The world comes rushing back in all at once.
The sound of the crowd rising. Applause, cheers, something louder than either of you expected—but distant, like it’s happening somewhere far away.
Because you’re still there. Still close.
Still holding onto him like none of that matters as much as this does. And when he pulls back just enough to look at you again, there’s that softness. That same quiet, overwhelmed look he had when he first saw you.
The silence after the kiss doesn’t last long.
It never could. Because this isn’t just a private moment between two people—it is a declaration, witnessed by an entire nation held in breathless attention.
Zuko lingers only for a second longer, forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s reluctant to fully step back into the world again.
Then he does. Slowly and reluctantly. But he does. His hand remains in yours.
The Fire Sage steps forward again, voice steady as he turns toward the crowd. “Behold,” he announces, and his words carry like flame across stone, “the union of Fire Lord Zuko and Y/N, Fire Lady of the Fire Nation.”
A pause.
Then—
“May their rule bring balance. May their bond bring strength. May the Fire Nation stand renewed in their joined flame.”
The courtyard responds immediately.
A synchronized movement ripples through the gathered crowd as nobles, officials, and attendants begin to lower themselves.
One by one. Then all at once. A wave of bows. Heads lowered. Bodies bent in respect. Acknowledgment.
Not just of a marriage—but of a future.
Zuko turns slightly with you still beside him.
And together you both bow. Not deep enough to diminish either of you.
Not performative. But equal. Side by side.
Firelord and Firelady.
When you rise again, the sound returns fully—cheers now, filling the courtyard with something closer to celebration than silence.
But Zuko doesn’t look at them. Not for long.
His gaze finds you immediately again, like it never left. And for a moment, everything else fades back into distance.
Aang is somewhere off to the side, smiling softly like he’s relieved the universe didn’t collapse.
Sokka looks like he’s arguing with reality itself about whether that went “correctly enough.”
Katara is watching you with a small, proud smile.
Toph looks mildly offended that she can’t “see” the ceremony but still declares, “Yeah, that felt dramatic enough.”
But Zuko. Zuko only sees you. He leans slightly closer, voice low so only you can hear. “…You didn’t fall.”
You let out a quiet breath, almost laughing. “I was very close,” you admit.
His thumb brushes your hand once, subtle, grounding. “I would’ve caught you,” he says.
You glance at him. “…That’s reassuringly confident for someone who also almost cried earlier.”
His expression flickers—just slightly. “…I did not almost cry.”
You raise an eyebrow. A pause.
Then, quieter: “…I blinked.”
You smile. “Sure you did.” And for the first time all day, he actually lets himself smile back.
Not for the nation. Not for the ceremony.
Zuko doesn’t let go of your hand. Not even when the formal part of the ceremony finally loosens its grip on the courtyard. Instead, he simply shifts—slightly closer to you, closer in a way that feels less like protocol and more like instinct—and offers his arm. You take it with no hesitation, because of course you do. And just like that, you’re linked.
The weight of your dress makes the movement feel almost ridiculous at first, layers of fabric shifting and trailing behind you like a slow-moving flame. It should be hard to walk in. It should be overwhelming.
But Zuko adjusts without thinking, slowing his pace just enough to match yours.
Like he’s done it a thousand times already.
The doors open again. Not the ceremonial ones this time. The larger ones. The ones that lead out toward the terraces overlooking the capital.
And the sound changes immediately.
The controlled silence of nobles and officials is gone. Replaced by something louder.
Living.
The Fire Nation capital stretches out beneath you—rooftops, streets, gathering crowds already forming in anticipation. People are looking up before they even see you, sensing something is happening.
Then you step into view. And everything erupts. Cheering floods the air. Not formal applause.
Not polite acknowledgment. Real sound.
Real people.
You pause for just a moment at the top of the steps, taking it in—thousands of citizens gathered below, faces turned upward, banners hanging between buildings, sunlight reflecting off fire-lit architecture.
Zuko doesn’t stop beside you. He just stays with you. Then, together, you begin to walk down.
Step by step. Arm in arm.
The dress moves like molten gold and flame with every motion, heavy but flowing, commanding attention whether you want it or not.
Zuko leans slightly closer as you walk. “…You’re doing fine,” he murmurs.
You glance at him. “I feel like I’m being slowly swallowed by fabric.”
“That’s normal,” he replies.
“That is not reassuring.”
“It’s accurate.”
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.
Above you, small bursts of firelight begin to rise.
Like floating lanterns made of flame itself—soft glowing fireballs lifting into the sky one after another, drifting upward above the city like stars being returned to the air. The crowd reacts immediately, louder now, cheers echoing off stone and rooftops.
You tilt your head slightly. “Did they plan that?”
Zuko watches the firelights for a second. “…Yes,” he says. A pause.
“…Probably uncle.”
That earns a soft laugh from you. Of course it’s Iroh‘s idea (and a good one).
As you walk further along the terrace path, the people below shift, waving, calling out, celebrating. Zuko raises his free hand slightly in acknowledgment—not grand, not distant. Just enough.
And you follow his lead. A little slower. A little uncertain. But you do it, because they’re looking at you too now. Zuko leans closer again, just enough that his voice disappears into the noise of the crowd. “I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this,” he says quietly.
You glance at him. The firelight reflects in his eyes. “…Me neither,” you admit.
A beat. Then softer—
“I’m glad it’s you.” That makes him pause.
Just slightly. Like it lands deeper than expected. He doesn’t look away from the crowd when he answers. “…Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’m not letting go of you now.”
You smile a little, squeezing his arm gently. “Good,” you echo. “Because I don’t think I’d let you.”
For a moment, just a moment, the noise fades again. And as the firelights rise higher into the sky above the cheering city, Zuko leans just slightly closer to you. Just for you.
“…I love you,” he says quietly but certainly.
Like it was always meant to be said here.
You don’t hesitate. “I love you too.”, you whisper back, smiling.
It‘s finally done. And very long. Oops. Hope y‘all liked it. As always hit the request box and thank you all for the appreciation for my fics.💗
pairing: ঔঌ firelord! zuko x fem! fiancé! reader
જ⁀➴ sypnosis: You forgot that you didn’t just say yes to Zuko—you said yes to the Firelord.
Now you’re stuck in wedding planning chaos, palace politics, and expectations you never asked for, all while trying to hold onto the pieces of your old life before they slip away completely.
mentions: established relationship, engagement, soft angst but pure fluff at the end
part 2 –> here
He says it so simply you almost miss it.
For a second, all you can do is stare at him.
Zuko doesn’t look away. He never does when it matters. There’s something steady in his expression—uncertain, maybe, but certain about this.
Your brain doesn’t catch up.
Your body does.
You step forward and throw your arms around him before you can even form a proper answer, gripping him tight like if you let go too soon the moment might disappear.
For half a second, he goes still in surprise.
Then his arms come up around you, slower, careful but firm.
“Was that—” he starts, slightly muffled against your shoulder, “—a yes?”
You let out something between a laugh and a breath.
“Yes!"
If you had known what it really meant to marry the Firelord, you might have taken a second longer before saying it.
“—the ceremonial procession must follow Fire Nation tradition precisely—”
“—and the guest list will require approval from multiple councils—”
“—you will, of course, need to be briefed on appropriate conduct as Fire Lady—”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
There are too many voices.
Too many people telling you so many things at the same time.
Scrolls are spread across the table in front of you—thick, official, important. Every single one seems to carry expectations you didn’t realize you had agreed to.
You nod at something someone says.
You’re not sure what.
“—the symbolism of the ceremony is deeply tied to Fire Nation history—”
“Right,” you say automatically.
“—and your role will be observed not only domestically but internationally—”
“Of course,” you hear yourself respond.
“—as Firelady, you will represent—”
You stop listening. Not because you want to. Because suddenly, you can’t.
Firelady.
The words don’t sound like you.
They something distant. Fixed. Something people look at.
Judge.
Expect things from.
“—and we will begin etiquette training immediately—”
You stare down at the scroll in front of you.
At the neat, precise ink. At the life that’s already being written out for you in careful, deliberate strokes. Just a few months ago, it had been simple. Just him and you.
Now—
“—there are also expectations regarding public appearances—”
“—and your presence during council gatherings—”
“—and diplomatic responsibilities—”
You swallow. Smile. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet thought slips in— soft, but impossible to ignore.
You’re not just getting married.
You’re becoming something else.
You keep nodding all along with what the advisors are telling you because what else are you supposed to do? Somewhere between saying yes and sitting in this room, the responsibility had… shifted. Not officially. No one had said it outright. But it was there.
Zuko was Firelord.
That meant council meetings, political disputes, rebuilding a nation that had spent a century at war. It meant decisions that couldn’t wait, problems that didn’t pause for something as small as a wedding.
So the wedding—
fell to you.
Not entirely. Not technically.
There were advisors. Planners. Servants. Entire groups of people whose job was to assist.
But every decision still circled back.
Every question still landed in front of you.
Every expectation quietly settled on your shoulders like it had always been meant to.
“—the final approval will, of course, be yours.”
Of course it will. You force a small smile. “Right.”
Because Zuko trusts you. And that should feel reassuring. It does feel reassuring.
…doesn’t it?
“—additionally, there are several traditions you will need to familiarize yourself with as Firelady—”
Firelady.
Again.
You inhale slowly.
Before you can respond, the doors to the chamber swing open with enough force to make half the room flinch.
“GOOD NEWS—!”
You don’t even have to turn around.
Relief hits before you can stop it. “Sokka,” you say.
“—we got your letter!” he continues, striding in like he owns the place, waving a slightly crumpled scroll in the air. “Well—his letter, technically, but I’m counting it as yours because this is clearly a joint life decision—”
Katara is right behind him. “We came as soon as we could,” she says, breath a little rushed but smiling.
Toph walks in last, hands in her pockets. “Took you long enough,” she says.
The tension doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, like someone opened a window and let actual air in.
The advisors look… concerned.
Confused.
One of them clears their throat. “This is a restricted—”
“They’re with me,” you cut in immediately.
And for the first time since this meeting started, that feels like something solid. Something yours.
Sokka makes it two steps into the room before stopping short, staring at the table. “…Why are there so many scrolls?”
You look at him. Then at the table. Then back at him. “Wedding planning,” you say flatly.
He narrows his eyes. Then, slowly, like he’s recognizing a battlefield layout: “…Oh no.”
Toph snorts.
Aang tilts his head. “It looks… organized?”
“It’s not,” you and Sokka say at the same time.
Katara steps closer, scanning the papers, her expression shifting as she takes in the details. “Oh,” she says quietly.
Not overwhelmed. Not confused. Understanding. And somehow that’s worse. Because now it’s real.
All of it.
You glance down at the scroll in front of you again. Then at your friends. And for a brief second, something tight in your chest loosens.
Just a little.
“…So,” Sokka says, rolling up his sleeves with way too much confidence, “where do we start?”
You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Honestly?” You gesture vaguely at everything.
“I have no idea.”
“Alright,” Sokka says, clapping his hands together like he’s about to lead a war council. “New plan. We divide and conquer.”
“No,” you say immediately.
“No?” he repeats.
“No.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate because I already divided things,” he says, gesturing to the table. “Seating arrangements, ceremonial flow, decorative symbolism—”
You blink. “Why would there be emergency backup scenarios for a wedding?”
Sokka gives you a look. “Have you met people?”
“…Fair.”
Katara steps in before he can escalate further. “Maybe we should start with something simple,” she suggests gently, picking up one of the scrolls. “Like the ceremony layout.”
“Great,” you say. “Simple. I like simple.”
One of the advisors immediately leans forward. “The layout must follow traditional Fire Nation alignment, of course—”
“Of course,” you echo weakly.
“—with the Fire Lord positioned at the eastern axis to symbolize renewal and—”
“Or,” Sokka cuts in, grabbing a brush, “we make a better system.”
He starts sketching something aggressively onto a blank sheet.
Toph tilts her head. “That looks stupid.”
“You can’t even see it!”
“Exactly,” she shoots back. “And I still know it’s stupid.”
Sokka gasps. “This is tactical brilliance!”
“Pretty sure you just invented a traffic problem,” Toph says.
Aang leans over the table, trying to follow along. “Maybe we can combine both ideas? Keep the tradition, but also make it… flow better?”
“That’s what I’m doing!” Sokka insists.
“That’s not what you’re doing,” Katara says, not even looking up.
Meanwhile, you’re staring at two different scrolls that both say completely different things about where you’re supposed to stand during the ceremony.
“Why are there three versions of this,” you ask no one in particular.
“Because the Fire Sage council hasn’t finalized their recommendation yet,” one advisor replies.
“Of course they haven’t,” you mumble.
Sokka suddenly grabs two fabric samples from the side of the table and holds them up.
“Okay, important question. Red or darker red?”
You stare at him. “Those are the same color.”
“They are not the same color,” he says, offended.
He turns to Toph. “Which one looks better?”
Toph doesn’t even hesitate. “I don’t know, Sokka. I’m blind.”
A beat.
Then—
“…Right,” Sokka says.
Toph smirks. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Aang lets out a small laugh before catching himself. “Okay—okay, let’s stay focused. This is supposed to be a happy thing.”
“IT IS A HAPPY THING,” Sokka says, still holding the fabrics. “It’s just also a complicated thing.”
Katara finally sets down the scroll she’s been reading and looks at you.
“Hey,” she says softly. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time, okay?”
You nod.
Because that’s the right response.
Because she means it.
Because you want to believe it.
Across the table, two advisors start quietly arguing about ceremonial timing.
Sokka is now somehow negotiating with them like this is a war council.
Toph has abandoned her spot and is leaning back in her chair, clearly entertained.
Aang is trying—really trying—to keep everyone calm.
Katara is reorganizing the scrolls into something that almost resembles order.
And you—
you’re still standing in the middle of it all.
Watching. Listening. Trying to keep up as the voices start overlapping again.
“—the Fire Lord’s entrance must precede—”
“—no, the sequence requires—”
“—if we adjust the timing here—”
“—that disrupts the symbolism—”
“—what if we just move the chairs—”
“THE CHAIRS ARE SYMBOLIC—”
Something tight pulls in your chest.
You inhale. Then exhale.
Slowly.
It’s fine. It’s just planning. It’s just one day.
Just a wedding.
…right?
Your gaze drifts down to the scroll in front of you again.
Firelady.
The words sit there, unmoving. Heavy. Permanent. And for the first time since everyone burst into the room, the noise doesn’t feel funny anymore.
You find Zuko in a corridor that definitely wasn’t meant for stopping and talking.
He’s mid-step when you call his name.
He turns immediately anyway.
That alone does something to your chest that you don’t have time to examine.
“You’re busy,” you say, already knowing.
“I can be unbusy,” he replies, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
It makes you smile before you can stop it.
You fall into step beside him. “No, you can’t.”
He glances at you. “I can.”
“You literally have three council meetings and whatever that thing is with the northern delegates.”
He pauses. “It’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“…It’s a thing,” he admits.
You both walk for a few seconds in comfortable silence. Then you clear your throat.
“So,” you begin carefully, “about the ceremony—”
Zuko slows slightly. “What about it?”
You hesitate. Suddenly it feels stupid. Small. Like you’re interrupting something important—which, technically, you are.
But he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the hallway that matters, so you continue anyway.
“I was thinking… do you care about the seating order? Because Sokka is trying to redesign it like it’s a battle strategy and I don’t think the Fire Nation is ready for whatever he’s doing.”
A faint flicker of something like amusement crosses his face. “I trust you,” Zuko says simply. “Do what you think is best.”
That should feel like pressure. Instead, it feels like warmth. You exhale a little laugh. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
“I know,” you say softer.
He slows to a stop, just briefly, and looks at you more directly now. “If it’s too much,” he adds, voice quieter, “you don’t have to handle everything alone.”
For a second, the noise of the palace fades.
Just him. Just that steady tone like he’s trying to hold the world still for you, even for a moment.
“I know,” you repeat, but it comes out softer this time. And you almost lean into him properly.
Then—
“Your Majesty!”
Of course. A messenger appears at the end of the corridor like a curse given form.
Zuko straightens immediately. “Yes?”
“Council emergency meeting has been moved forward. They require your presence immediately.”
Zuko closes his eyes for half a second.
Then he looks back at you. Something apologetic flickers there, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has to go. “I’ll come back,” he says.
“You always say that,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite in it.
“I always do,” he replies.
That earns you a small, helpless smile.
He reaches out briefly taking your hand just long enough to squeeze it once.
Then he lets go. And is gone. Just like that.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the empty space he left behind.
Somewhere far down the hallway, you hear another door open, another problem being born.
You inhale slowly.
“…I am going to hit someone,” you say quietly to no one.
Behind you, a voice calls out.
“Who are we hitting?” Sokka asks eagerly.
You turn your head slightly.
“…Everyone,” you answer.
Toph snorts somewhere off to the side.
Katara sighs. “Don’t encourage her.”
Aang, gently: “Maybe we should take a break?”
You close your eyes. Yeah.
A break sounds nice. Unfortunately, a royal wedding planning does not believe in breaks.
The room is quieter than it was earlier.
That’s the problem.
The chaos didn’t end—it just split into smaller conversations, softer voices, scribbling pens instead of shouting arguments.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Because now there’s space to think.
You sit at the edge of the table, staring at a stack of scrolls you didn’t ask to exist in your life.
Fire Nation etiquette. Royal protocols. Ceremony sequences. Diplomatic expectations.
You try to focus on Katara’s voice as she gently organizes something beside you.
“Okay,” she says carefully, “this part isn’t mandatory. It’s more traditional than required.”
“More traditional than required,” you repeat faintly.
“Yeah,” she nods. “So if it feels like too much, we can—”
“It’s all too much,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The room pauses. Not dramatically.
Just… subtly. Like everyone heard you, even if they’re pretending they didn’t fully register it.
You force a breath in. Then out.
“It’s fine,” you add quickly. “I just—yeah. It’s fine.”
Katara watches you for a second longer than necessary, but she doesn’t push. That’s the thing about her. She understands without making it louder.
Sokka is arguing with an advisor about banner placement again. Toph has moved chairs around “for fun” and refuses to elaborate. Aang is trying to mediate a disagreement about ceremonial timing like it’s a philosophical debate about peace.
And you—
you’re suddenly not really there.
Because your eyes land on one of the scrolls again.
Firelady.
Not your name. Not really you. Just a role. A position.
Something you step into and never really step out of. You swallow. Hard. It hits you slowly at first, like a thought you almost don’t let finish forming.
This isn’t just a wedding. This is the point where everything changes and doesn’t go back.
No more just being part of Team Avatar.
No more disappearing into the world without consequence. No more being just… you. You stand up so abruptly your chair scrapes back.
“Hey—” Katara starts.
But you’re already shaking your head.
“I need—” Your voice catches. You clear your throat. “I need air.”
No one stops you. You don’t think they even realize how serious it is until you’re already halfway out the door.
You don’t go far.
Just far enough that the noise disappears.
A balcony. Stone cold under your hands as you grip the railing, staring out at the palace gardens like they belong to someone else.
Because soon, they kind of will.
Your reflection in the glass panel is faint, warped by lantern light. You look… the same. And not at all. “I’m not…” you start quietly. Then stop. Try again.
“I’m not ready for this.” The words feel ridiculous the moment they leave your mouth. Like you’re admitting something you’re supposed to have already accepted.
You don’t hear the door at first.
Or maybe you do—you just don’t react.
Because your hands are still on the railing, and your thoughts are still somewhere far too loud to compete with anything else.
Footsteps follow after a moment. Not rushed. Not loud. Careful in a way that already tells you who it is. Zuko doesn’t speak immediately.
He just stops a few steps behind you, like he’s trying to understand the shape of the silence before interrupting it.
Then, quietly: “They told me you came out here.”
Of course they did. Katara. Or Aang. Or both. You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t quite make it. “Of course they did,” you repeat flatly.
A pause.
Then Zuko steps closer, just enough that you can feel him there without needing to look.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says.
It’s not avoidance. That somehow makes your chest tighten more. You shake your head once. “I just… I thought I could do this.”
“You can,” he says immediately.
So simple. So certain. It almost hurts.
You finally turn your head slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “That’s not what I meant.”
Zuko’s expression shifts—not confusion, exactly. Recognition. He understands more than he’s saying. He always does.
You swallow. “I’m becoming something else,” you say, quieter now. “And I don’t know how to do that without… losing everything I was before.”
That lands between you both. Still.
Zuko doesn’t rush to fill it. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower.
“You’re not losing it.”
You let out a small, humorless breath. “It feels like it.”
He steps closer again, slowly, like he’s giving you space even while moving in.
“I felt that too,” he says.
That makes you look at him properly now.He meets your gaze without hesitation.
“When I became Fire Lord,” he continues, “I thought I had to become someone completely different. Someone perfect. Someone who made up for everything that came before.” His jaw tightens slightly. “But that doesn’t work.”
You should respond. You should say something. Anything. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you say. Your voice is thinner than you meant it to be.
Zuko doesn’t interrupt.
That alone almost undoes you more.
You let out a shaky breath, staring out at the gardens because looking at him feels too hard right now. “It’s not just a wedding,” you continue, words starting to spill now that they’ve finally found a way out. “It’s not just…just us. It’s everything. It’s being watched, and expected, and judged, and—”
Your throat tightens. You swallow hard, trying to push through it anyway. “I keep hearing it,” you say, quieter now. “Firelady. Firelady. Like it’s… like it’s already decided what I’m supposed to be.” Your fingers tighten on the railing.
“And I keep thinking…what if I’m not good enough for that?” You laugh once, but it breaks halfway.
“What if I’m just… wrong for it?”
That’s when your voice finally wavers for real.
Not planned. Just… gone.
“I’m trying,” you whisper, frustration creeping in now, sharp and exhausted all at once. “I’m really trying, but there’s so much and everyone just keeps talking like I already am this person and I’m not…I’m not there yet and I don’t know if I ever will be—”
Your breath stutters. You don’t even notice the tears until your vision blurs slightly. You blink. Hard. “…I can’t mess this up,” you say, quieter now, almost like you’re confessing it to yourself more than him. “I can’t. Not for a whole nation. Not for you. Not for—”
Your voice breaks. And you stop.
Because suddenly it’s too much to keep talking.
Too much to hold together. Your shoulders shake once, small and involuntary, like your body is reacting before your mind can catch up.
You don’t even fully realize you’re crying.
Not at first. It just feels like pressure finally finding a way out.
Zuko doesn’t say anything immediately.
Your fingers tighten against the railing like you’re trying to hold yourself together by force.
“I just need a second—” you start, but your voice betrays you again, cracking right in the middle.
You don’t get to finish.
Zuko moves. No pause. No hesitation.
One second there’s space between you—
the next, his arms are around you.
Firm and certain. He pulls you in close, one hand coming up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his shoulder before you can turn away, before you can hide, before you can pretend you’re fine.
“I’m fine,” you mumble into his shoulder, voice muffled, unconvincing even to yourself.
“Sure you are,” Zuko says. Flat. Dry. Blatantly sarcastic.
You let out a weak, offended sound against him. “I am—” Your voice wobbles again halfway through the sentence.
Zuko doesn’t even let you finish.
“Mm,” he hums softly, like he’s acknowledging something that is absolutely not true, his tone gentler now despite the sarcasm. “Completely fine.”
You huff, trying to pull back just enough to argue with him, but his hand at the back of your head keeps you right where you are. Not forceful.
“Zuko—”
“Stay,” he murmurs quietly. And something in the way he says it, soft, but certain, makes you stop resisting.
His other hand shifts slightly, coming up to your face. Careful. Slow.
Like he’s giving you time to react.
His thumb brushes along your temple, just lightly at first, tracing small, absentminded circles against your skin. The motion is so gentle it almost distracts you from everything else.
Almost.
“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath.
You didn’t even notice that either.
“I’m not,” you try again, weaker this time.
“Right,” he replies, that same faint, dry edge still there—but softened now, wrapped in something warmer. “That must be my imagination.”
You let out a quiet, frustrated sound, pressing your face further into his shoulder like that might hide the fact that he’s completely right.
Zuko’s thumb keeps moving, slow and steady against your temple. Grounding.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he adds, voice lower now. No sarcasm this time. Just honest.
You swallow, your grip on him tightening again despite yourself. “I’m not pretending,” you mutter.
Another pause.
Then, gently: “You are.” Not accusing though.
Your breath catches again. Because yeah.
You are.
Zuko shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head so his forehead rests lightly against yours when you finally look up, his hand still cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye now, catching the dampness there.
“…You’re crying again,” he says quietly.
You blink, like that’s news to you.
“Oh,” you manage, a little dazed. “I—”
You don’t even finish.
Zuko’s expression softens further—if that’s even possible at this point. “There it is,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking you through it. “You don’t have to hold it back.”
“I’m not trying to—” you start, but your voice breaks again immediately, ruining the attempt.
His thumb traces another slow line along your temple, then back again, unhurried, patient.
“I know,” he says softly. And he does.
That’s the worst part. Or maybe the best.
You let out a shaky breath, your forehead dropping forward until it rests against his again.
“I hate this,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I feel like I’m failing at something I haven’t even started yet.”
Zuko’s hand stills for a second. Then resumes, just as gentle as before. “You’re not failing,” he says quietly.
“It feels like it.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “It does.”
You glance at him, a little surprised by that.
He doesn’t look away. “But that doesn’t make it true,” he adds.
Your lip trembles again, and you look away this time.
Zuko doesn’t push. He just leans in slightly, pressing a soft, brief kiss to your temple—right where his thumb had been tracing circles moments before.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin.
Your eyes close without you meaning them to. Your shoulders finally drop, just a little.
“…You’re annoyingly calm,” you mumble weakly.
Zuko huffs the faintest breath of a laugh.
“I’m trying very hard,” he admits.
That pulls the smallest, broken smile out of you. And without thinking, you lean back into him again.
His arms settle around you like they were meant to be there, steady and warm, one hand still resting at your temple, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he’s memorized the motion already.
Then, softer now: “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs.
You don’t respond right away.
“I mean it,” he continues, a little more certain this time. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll… try to be there more. For the planning. Not just the important parts—the annoying parts too.”
A faint pause.
“I don’t want you doing all of this alone.”
That makes something in your chest shift again, less heavy this time.
“And…” he hesitates slightly, like he’s choosing his words more carefully now, “it’s not all bad.”
You huff quietly against him. “That’s a bold claim.”
Zuko’s thumb pauses for half a second, then resumes its slow tracing. “You’re not just gaining responsibilities,” he says. “You’re gaining… influence. A voice people will actually listen to. You can change things. Help people. Make things better.”
You go quiet, because that part, you hadn’t really let yourself think about.
Zuko shifts slightly, just enough to look at you properly again. “And you won’t lose everything you were before,” he adds. “You’re still you. Just… with more reach.”
There’s a small pause. "…At least I get to wear three outfits.”
Zuko blinks. Once. "What?”
You pull back just enough to look at him, still sniffling a little, but there’s something lighter in your expression now. “The ceremony. There are, like, three outfit changes. That’s something.
Zuko stares at you. “Ah,” he says slowly. “Yes. Of course.”
You nod, very serious now. “It’s important.”
“Clearly,” he replies. Then, suspiciously calm: “You’ll look gorgeous in—” He stops mid-sentence. His eyes narrow just slightly. “…Wait.”
You blink at him.
Zuko tilts his head a fraction, studying you like he’s trying to solve a very confusing problem.
“How is that your number one priority,” he asks slowly, “when I thought the best thing about this was that we’re getting married?”
You stare at him. Deadpan. “Nevermind—"
Zuko doesn’t even let you finish.
“Of course,” he says immediately, completely serious.
You blink.
He keeps holding you, thumb still tracing slow circles at your temple like nothing in the world is more normal than this conversation.
“The outfits are way more important.”
You squint at him. “Excuse me?”
Zuko nods once, very firm. “Yes.”
“…You’re joking.”
His expression doesn’t change. “…I am,” he says.
But the corner of his mouth twitches.
And that’s how you know. You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh that still has a little leftover shakiness in it, and Zuko finally relaxes a fraction more, like hearing that sound did something for him too.
“There it is,” he murmurs quietly.
You lean your forehead against his chest again, this time not collapsing, just… resting.
“Idiot,” you mumble.
“Mm,” he agrees softly. “But I’m your idiot.”
That earns him a small, real smile from you this time. His arm tightens slightly around you, just enough to pull you closer without forcing anything.
The palace, the scrolls, the expectations—everything still exists.
But for a moment, it’s all just… far away noise.
And Zuko’s voice, quieter now, settles above you like something steady. “I’ll make sure it’s not too much,” he says. “The planning. The advisors. All of it.”
A pause.
“And if it is,” he adds, “you tell me. Immediately.”
You hum faintly. “Immediately?”
“Yes.”
You tilt your head slightly to look up at him. “Even if you‘re having a Council meeting?”
Zuko pauses. “…Especially then.”
That makes you laugh properly this time.
And Zuko, still holding you, looks like he’s decided that whatever the world throws at you two next, he’s already where he needs to be.
You’re still tucked against Zuko, the world finally quiet for once. Your breathing has evened out just a little, and for the first time in what feels like hours, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s actively collapsing.
Then—
“AH THERE YOU ARE!!” Sokka’s voice slices through the balcony like a thrown spear.
You freeze.
Zuko… does not. He just closes his eyes for a second. Like a man accepting his fate.
Sokka appears in the doorway with the energy of someone who has been personally wronged by inefficiency.
“Hello!” he continues, marching in like he owns the palace now. “We still have a whole royal wedding to plan?? No time for being lovebirds—”
He stops mid-step.
Finally noticing the situation properly.
You, still in Zuko’s arms.
Sokka squints.
Behind him, the rest of the Gaang is visible in the doorway: Katara immediately putting a hand over her face. Aang looking politely fascinated.
Toph already smirking like she knew this was going to happen.
“Sokka,” Katara says flatly.
Just his name. Nothing else. Pure warning energy.
Sokka ignores it completely. “Right,” he says, pointing between you two like this is a tactical briefing. “Romantic emotional support moment? Very nice. Very important. BUT—we have seating charts, ceremonial banners, three competing traditions, and I have NOT finalized the emergency contingency plan—”
“Sokka,” Katara repeats. Same tone. Now sharper.
You slowly lift your head slightly from Zuko’s shoulder.
Still a little puffy-eyed. Still very done with everything. “…Really?” you say.
Sokka nods vigorously. “Yes! Really! This is a national-level event!”
Zuko finally opens his eyes. Looks at Sokka.
“…It’s our wedding,” he says flatly.
Sokka points at him like that proves his point. “EXACTLY!”
Silence.
Toph snorts. Aang tries very hard not to laugh.
Katara just sighs, long-suffering. “Sokka.”
He turns. “What?”
“You’re taking this more seriously than the two people getting married.”
Sokka pauses. Considers this. Then: “That’s because someone has to.”
You stare at him. Zuko stares at him.
Even the wind feels like it pauses for judgment.
“…I hate that he might be right,” you mumble into Zuko’s shoulder.
Zuko exhales slowly, still holding you.
“I also hate that he might be right,” he agrees.
Sokka points at her. “You can’t even see the situation!”
“I don’t need to see it,” she says. “It’s loud and stupid.”
Aang finally laughs.
Katara pinches the bridge of her nose.
Zuko just tightens his hold on you slightly, like he’s silently choosing peace over violence.
And you bury your face back into his shoulder again. “…I’m never getting married,” you mutter.
Zuko, without missing a beat: “You are.”
Sokka: “YOU ARE AND WE ARE GOING TO PLAN IT PROPERLY—”
“Sokka.” Katara says again in that familiar annoyed tone in her voice with her brother.
Toph: “Sokka is the worst part of this wedding.”
Aang who tries to be peaceful: “I think it’s kind of beautiful how passionate he is?”
Everyone: “No.”
Sokka is still talking when Zuko finally moves.
He adjusts his grip around you slightly, like making sure you’re steady, then gently guides you out of the balcony with him.
“Alright,” Katara says immediately, already stepping in like she’s reclaiming control of reality. “We’re going back to the planning room.”
Aang floats along beside them like he’s just happy everyone is still breathing.
You let out a tired breath against Zuko’s shoulder as you walk. “I hate all of them,” you mumble.
Zuko doesn’t even hesitate. “No, you don’t.”
“…Okay, I hate one of them.”
“No, you don‘t” Zuko says immediately.
“Alright.”
Then, quieter, almost like it slips out before either of you can overthink it—
“…I do feel a bit better,” you admit.
Zuko glances down at you briefly. “I know,” he says simply. And that should’ve been it.
But then his hand finds yours with no hesitation.
Just fingers slipping into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You look down for a second, then back up at him. He doesn’t look back immediately, just keeps walking like it’s normal, like it’s always been like this.
So you squeeze his hand once. Testing it.
He squeezes back immediately.
That does something to your chest.
Something soft. Something annoyingly warm.
As you reach the corridor, Sokka is already mid-sentence again about “optimal ceremonial efficiency.”
Katara is actively ignoring him.
Toph is walking backwards just to make fun of him. Aang is trying to keep peace like it’s his spiritual duty.
And you and Zuko?
You just keep walking.
Hands linked.
Swinging slightly between you as your steps sync without either of you trying.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
You lean slightly into Zuko’s side as you walk.
Still overwhelmed. Still nervous.
Still absolutely not ready for whatever “Firelady” is supposed to mean.
But his hand is warm around yours.
And for now that is enough.
I hope y‘all liked it. I can write a part 2 of their wedding if anyone‘s down for that. Don‘t forget to support the leaked movie when it actually gets released (for Avatar Studios—the animators, and writers obv)💗
Summary: The gaang realized there’s some…tension between you and Zuko, and what are good friends for if not setting you two up? What they don’t realize is that you and Zuko have been together for years.
Katara senses something off.
It wasn’t like anything seems out of the ordinary—the gang is out on some sort of life-threathening mission to save the world once again. But funnily enough, that’s not what she’s been noticing with the two people right in front of her. Walking along the clear night sky and talking about random things that come into mind.
That’s the thing—it wasn’t weird for both of them to interact.
Katara, you, and Zuko decided to look for food in the forest; and it’s been years that they’ve seen one another…it’s just, those two still feel close. Almost as if they’ve been seeing each other frequently. Or maybe they could just have a strong bond after all these years.
You touched the ends of Zuko’s hair, “Your hair has gotten so long,” you twirled a strand in your finger.
Zuko lets you play with his head as he tilts his head, “Has it? I thought you liked it?”
“Mhm…”
“Shall I cut my hair?”
You gasped and pressed your left palm to your chest, “Don’t you dare—”
“You wouldn’t like me without my hair?”
You rolled your eyes, “Now you are just putting words in my mouth,”
Zuko puts his hand up in surrender, “I would never do such thing,”
You move a little closer to Zuko, hands brushing, “And I would not prioritize such a thing—even if it’s your beautiful hair,”
“Not to say Aang is not handsome without hair, Katara,” you joked.
Katara giggled, “Oh, if only Aang heard that.”
You put your pointer finger on your chin, “Don’t you ever wonder what Aang would look like if he grew his hair?”
Katara shook his head, “I’ve seen him, once, when we were kids.”
Zuko turned to Katara, “I guess you’ll still stick with the bald look.”
Katara smiled and nodded at that. She wouldn’t have Aang any other way.
But Katara saw something that made her tilt her head.
You were never an outspoken person, it was difficult for people to read you unless they truly observed. And what Katara saw was the way you leaned a little too close to Zuko, even if you can hear him just fine normally. How a brush of a hand may seem accidental at first, but slowly settles and stays there. How your eyes never wonder off him, even if you need to.
You felt someone stare at you and looked away from Zuko, quickly realizing you were with someone else, you pulled back as quick as you could and looked at Katara.
You smiled at her, a little guilty, “It’s rare we get nights like this, right, Katara?”
She blinked slowly, and nodded absentmindedly.
You turned back to Zuko, unaware of the growing smile that the woman behind you mustered.
You’d thank her later, she thought.
Sokka believed that Zuko would be the last in the group to be…intangled with someone.
Every conversation ends the same way, “I’m an expert at love! Zuko, buddy, you should be asking me for advice when it comes to this. Don’t you need, what, fire baby heirs?”
Zuko would usually roll his eyes, “Didn’t your last girlfriend turn into the moon?”
He just couldn’t believe Zuko would fall in love with someone; after all, with all the fire lord duties and his awkwardness, how could he?
He squinted.
“Hey…Zuko?” He started, “Don’t you wanna get that check by Katara?”
He pointed at the bruised hand of Zuko.
Zuko looked down and inspected it, “It’s fine, ointment would do.”
Sokka nodded, he gets it, not everything has to be healed by Katara.
He tilted his head, “Wait, do we have ointment—”
“Sokka!” Aang called out.
He looked back as Aang waved at him. He walks towards Aang and shouts, “Wait, hold that thought! I’ll ask Aang or Katara,”
Zuko, however, was already heading somewhere. He went towards the sleeping Appa and saw the person who could just heal his wound.
“Zuko!” Sokka called out. He got no response.
“I got ointment, didn’t know Toph would carry some! You know, considering she’s blind!” Still no response.
He was just about to give up and leave the ointment in Zuko’s tent when he heard a voice. Of course, you might know where Zuko is.
He started approaching the sleeping Appa, but slowed his steps as he heard you talking to someone.
“Ugh, you fought those thieves hours ago. Yet, you still stayed silent.” You groaned.
Sokka froze on the spot. Now he knows where Zuko went. He should probably leave, but the chuckle Zuko let out made him stop in his tracks.
“It’s not that bad,”
As Zuko spoke, Sokka took a peak. What he saw was Zuko leaning against Appa, using it as a pillow, and you sitting directly in front of him, adding on the ointment. It was soft. Warm. Intimate.
“Of course you of all people would say ‘it’s not that bad.’ Seriously, we have Katara, might I remind you, a healer. You don’t have to even put on this.” You continued applying the ointment roughly.
Zuko winced, “Well, I’m just testing if you can become a healer one day, you have the potential—“
“Yeah, sure, a non-bender healing,” you cut off.
Zuko clamped his hand over your moving one, “Hey…a healer is not only here to save people, but to remind us that we can still keep going despite what has happened,”
You sighed, “I still don’t understand why you need me to put this on, your other hand is in good condition,” you motioned to his good hand on top of yours.
Zuko started to stand up and that’s Sokka’s que to move out of there. He turned back and sprinted towards the others.
He saw the campfire while the others were seated around. Aang saw him and grew wiry, “Are you okay, Sokka?”
“Yep. Never been better.”
Oh hoho, Zuko is gonna thank him later.
Toph doesn’t need two eyes to see there’s tension between two people. When it comes to feelings, people are blind compared to her. All she could hear was,
Zuko tied his hair into a ponytail, “I’ll be fixing the airship—”
You tilted your head, “Do you need help with that?”
Or,
You stood up, “I’ll get some wood,”
Zuko was already by your side, “I’ll come.”
It was driving Toph insane. Two people, who can see each other just fine, are blind to see what’s underneath the niceties and pleasantries.
So, she decided to have a game of her own.
While the gang was flying on Appa to relocate to their next destination. Aang and Katara were stirring Appa while the rest were in the back. Sokka was finishing up and yapping about his new invention, you braiding Toph’s hair, and Zuko staring into the clouds.
Perfect.
Toph poked your side, which caused you to giggle, “Can you describe the person on your right?”
You looked to the person on your right, “Zuko?” You squinted your eyes, “Why?”
“Bet you can’t say something nice about him.”
You look at Zuko and he looks back at you. Silently discussing what’s happening, Toph, Katara, and Sokka perk up their ears in anticipation of what you’re about to say.
“He…looks good in red.”
“Pfft. Basic!” Sokka exclaimed, “Anyone can look good in red.”
You furrowed your eyebrows, “He’s gotten buff—”
“That’s my compliment!” Toph sat up, “No one takes it. And no one says it better than I do.”
“But that’s a general compliment!”
“Not specific enough for Zuko,” Katara chimed in.
You sighed and rubbed your temples.
Zuko looked at you, his lips twitching, “Is it so hard to say something nice about me?”
You clenched your teeth, “Not helping.”
Toph put her hand near her ear, “What was that? Can’t hear you being nice!”
Zuko leaned in closer, “It can’t be that difficult, or are you just incapable of being nice?”
Your eye twitches and you sigh, “Okay, okay, I’ll spill it.”
The three slowly look at you while you come up with what you’re gonna say. Aang continues to look straight ahead.
Toph can hear your heart thumping, Sokka’s leaning in now, and Katara is staring daggers at you.
This is it, the moment they’ve all been waiting for.
“He’s—”
Appa shook violently and spun as you and Toph grabbed onto each other, Sokka let out a never-ending scream, Zuko shut his eyes, and Katara held onto Aang.
Aang stabilizes his grip on the lead, as Appa finally stops spinning. Toph and Sokka turned their heads to the avatar.
“Aang!” They both said in unison.
“Are you alright, Aang?” Katara touched his cheek.
Aang rubbed his nape, “Oh, sorry, I kinda lost hold on Appa—”
Sokka poked his forehead hard, “Aren’t you the avatar? How could you let go of that simple rope?”
“Yeah, twinkletoes, aren’t you supposed to save the world—that includes us, you know!”
While the others are arguing, you turn to face Zuko with a grimace written all over your face.
Zuko let out a sigh and shook his head. He looks to his right, and you follow his gaze. You move closer to him, sitting beside him as you watch the beautiful fiery sky slowly turn to a gentle and soft shade of the ocean.
Bonus:
As the crew got ready to unpack and set up camp. You find Aang still with Appa fixing his lead.
“Thanks, Aang,” you pet Appa while looking at him.
Aang smiled, “Don’t need to mention it…just, please don't bring up my hair to Katara again.”
You shook your head, “Okay, okay, I won’t.”
After securing the lead on Appa, “But seriously, you can’t even say one nice thing about Zuko? That would save us from, you know, dying.”
You waved him off, “You know if I do that, I won’t be able to stop.”
That’s true, after all, Aang witnessed it first hand.
“Right, just don’t bring the sensitive topic to Katara again,” he rubbed his head, “She’s been asking me non-stop how I’d look with hair.”
You started walking towards the camp, “seriously, though, why don’t you just grow your hair out?”
Aang went after you, “You know why I can’t!”
You looked back at him, “Then what will happen to you and Katara’s children? Will they also be bald?”
Aang flushed at this, “That’s a conversation we won’t be having!”
handsy.
۶۟ৎ ashveil is always touchy.
— around 1.5k words, nsfw (ageless blogs and minors will be blocked). established relationship, fem!reader, praise (use of pup, good girl, sweet girl), mild temperature play (cold hands), hand kink, unprotected sex, focus on scents and marking (he's a wolf..), choking very briefly, idk. tbh.
One thing has become clear to you the longer you spend with Ashveil—he's touchy. He likes to keep a hand on you, and he's always near enough that you feel his presence and warmth wrapping around you. It's not demanding, just unavoidable. Sometimes, it makes your stomach flutter, the small ways he instinctively protects you and places himself as a shield. It’s easy to get hooked on—the sensation of him bridging the gap between you two and guiding you forward with a hand placed on the small of your back, normally to bring himself closer to whatever he has deemed a threat to you (cars, the wind, Furbo tabloid reporters who pay no mind to their surroundings and almost barrel into you in during their chase of the next big story).
When the two of you are alone, in his raggedy apartment you're trying desperately to make more inviting, he's practically always wrapped around you. His favorite way to rest is to have you tucked in his arms, chin resting by his collarbone, where your voice drifts right into his ears and his fingers can trace up and down your sides until you shiver from how much the featherlight touch tickles.
That's another thing you've noticed—he has a thing with his hands and a specific admiration of how they look against your skin. Or, maybe you have a thing for his hands and he's just picked up on it. He is an observant detective, after all.
No matter. What matters now is the way the way his attention has turned hungry, heavy gaze trailing your features as his hand slips upwards to your jaw and tilts you to hold eye contact. He's unshakeable in moments like this, driven by a hunger that makes you feel exposed every time.
“Mm,” Ashveil taps a finger against the corner of your jaw, smiling when your lips automatically part as he slowly brings his thumb to trace the plush skin. “You're such a sweet girl, aren't you?”
You nod quickly, preening at the scent of his cologne and him that wraps around you as he shifts you to better straddle his lap—instead of where you'd been sprawled sideways across his thighs. “Of course I am,” you whisper finally, blinking up at him sweetly. You know he likes that, the flirtatious lilt to your voice and the pretty fluttering of your dark lashes.
“That's right.” His approval sends a shiver down your spine as his other hand slips through the neckline of your ill-fitting shirt to palm at your breast, greedy for the warmth of your skin. He's always cold, goosebumps prickling across your chest as his icy fingers tease and pinch your nipples into taut peaks. It's because of that damn fridge, you always complain, that you're so cold. He ignores the complaints from you at bedtime, bemoaning how much you shiver, because you appreciate the temperature difference at times like this, the rush of combating sensation that makes you dizzy. “Such an eager girl, too.”
When you press fluttery kisses to his jaw and neck, he just smiles, tilting his head to give you room to scent and mark him. He likes smelling like you—he always comments on how you linger on his skin, and laughs softly when you whine that you can't tell. He can. He notices the way your sweetness clings to him and it drives him crazy. Ashveil thinks about you most of the day anyways, but when he catches the smell of you mixing with him, he has to take a moment to recenter his thoughts.
Not that he shares most of this with you. He finds it cute how you pout and squirm and sulk, so he delights in not saying much at all, letting you guess and try to unravel what he's truly saying to you.
“Such a good pup.” He doesn't miss the way your thighs squeeze together and your knees press more insistently where they bracket his hips. He finally stops teasing your chest to remove your shirt and kiss you—too brief to satisfy, but with enough force you know he intends to devour every sound you make tonight. When you yelp softly at the blunt sensation of his teeth scraping between kisses that slowly move down your throat, he just laughs, gripping your chin to hold you still for him. “Sitting so pretty for me.”
You gasp softly when he bites a little harder, fingers twining into the hair at the nape of his neck for stability as he trails his other hand down to your shorts. “You’ll just sit and take it, right?”
When you shake your head stubbornly, he just smiles. “I’ll do the work too—” it’s a weak protest, trailing off into a small whine when he pulls back a little to study you. “All of it! Wanna ride you.”
“That a promise, sweetheart?” He croons, grin widening when you nod eagerly and tug at his shirt insistently. “Well, how can I refuse such a sweet girl?”
He obliges you, shedding layers without looking away, greedily watching as your lips part subtly in anticipation and you move your hands down to press against his chest, sliding over the skin eagerly.
When you wiggle out of your bottoms and lean in to kiss him, sloppy and excited, he smooths his hand down your spine and hums into it when you shiver from the cold trailing up and down your skin while the heat of arousal prickles up underneath it. There’s a small bite from his nails where they scrape bluntly, sure to leave marks when his hand flexes to steady you as you grind against his cock, slick and messy.
“Cute,” he whispers, holding your hips as you slowly sink down and whimper weakly at the stretch. It hurts, not having prepped, but you couldn’t bear the thought of waiting—you think the way his brows furrow together slightly and his eyes lid more, the long, deep inhale through his nose, and the twitch of his cock as he’s flooded with sensation justify the discomfort. “You look so pretty, baby. You okay?”
You nod eagerly, tucking your head down to leave a few bites on his neck to match yours. “Never been better,” you say it breathlessly, hips stuttering when his fingers press in tight, precise circles over your clit and his other hand palms your ass and tugs you into a slow, deep, filthy rhythm.
“That so?” Ashveil chuckles, but the way he twitches in you on a particularly deep roll betrays how affected he is. “Never?”
“Mm,” you kiss him, melting against him as he nips and bites at your lip and eagerly sucks on your tongue when you slip it into his mouth. “I know one thing that could improve it…”
Ashveil studies you for a moment, jaw dropping slightly when you clench around him. He hisses softly and raises the hand on your hip to your throat, fingers wrapping just slightly around your neck—there’s no pressure, but the spread of his fingers and the dark look in his eyes promises it.
“Work for it.” He whispers, pressing the fingers working your clit more savagely. He’s pleased when you curl in on yourself towards him, bounces getting more eager. “Be a good pup and make a mess for me.”
It’s mean, really, the way he leans back and studies you with that hungry expression without helping you. It’s so you’ll eat your words, you know this—you’d promised to do all the work, so he’ll hold you to it, lazily swiping over your clit in tandem to the rolls of your hips and encouraging you in a saccharinely sweet voice while doing nothing to help.
“That’s it, baby,” his voice at least sounds a little strained now, proof of your effect on him. “Doing so good for me. Go a little faster for me—” he flexes the fingers around your throat them, squeezing just enough you moan and clench down on him. “Gonna make us both cum, right?”
You can’t really nod with the strength of his hand holding your head there, eyes rolling at the mix of sensations and the dizzy, heady mix of your breaths as he sits up, shifting the angle of his hips to go just that much deeper as he kisses from your jaw to your ear.
“Going to make a mess for me?”
“Ashveil,” you whine weakly, knees and hips aching, your rhythm faltering from the effort. He finally meets your thrusts, keeping your previous pace and the pressure on your puffy, sensitive clit.
“I know, baby, I know,” Ashveil croons. “You did so well. But it’s just not enough, is it?” Your confirmation makes him grin. “That’s right, pup. You need me here.”
You moan softly, squirming as you get closer and his grip relaxes on your throat. You blink back the confusion and whimper when his thrusts slow.
“You promised,” Ashveil kisses you, deep and slow. “I’m doing the work though, hm?”
“I didn’t—”
“Shh,” he soothes, trailing his fingers down to your chest again. “You’ll cum. Just not yet.”
۶۟ৎ nyx's notes: probably very ooc i actually havent met him in game yet.. this was written solely for evie
in which your friend watches your streams (and you don't know it's him).
streamer!phainon x streamer!reader
reader is a small-time streamer who does educational streams for fun. written in both povs.
phainon uses a chimera vtuber model so reader doesn't know what he looks like.
author's note: hopping on the neikos496 bandwagon 👍 also idk how streaming works so bear with me.
"and that's all on microbiology. was that okay? everyone following?"
a couple of "yessss" and thumbs up emojis fill the chat, and you give a small smile in return.
"that's great guys! microbiology's honestly one of the topics i'm weaker at so i wasn't sure if i would explain it well."
samoyed_lvr donated 100 credits!
samoyed_lvr: don't sell yourself short! your lessons are really easy to understand. im passing bio because of you haha :D
"aw, thank you! glad i can help. and thank you for the donation too, i appreciate it."
"anyways, i gotta go now guys! don't wanna miss neikos' stream. go check him out if you guys have the time! see you guys!"
your viewers greet you goodbye and leave one by one, the viewer count dropping down to 1. as always, they're the last to leave.
samoyed_lvr: amazing as always (name). you never fail to impress (*＾▽＾*)
you chuckle.
"flattery will get you nowhere. were you even paying attention?"
samoyed_lvr donated 143 credits!
samoyed_lvr: why wouldn't i when the teacher is you?
"one of these days i'm gonna figure out how to donate the money back to you and we'll see if you like it then."
samoyed_lvr donated 520 credits!
samoyed_lvr: i'd like anything as long as it's from you. but seriously, keep it okay? treat yourself ❤️
you feel your cheeks heat up as you read the messages, warmth blooming in your chest.
"i will. i really have to go now, see you!"
you wave enthusiastically at your computer screen and finally end the live. flopping back into your chair, you let out a sigh.
to be honest, you never thought you would pick up streaming.
in the beginning, it was a way for you to recall the info you learnt in class by pretending you were teaching someone. if anyone ever stumbled upon you, it would be through sheer luck.
one thing led to another, and you gained a small following. you felt a little nervous when you realised actual people on the internet were tuning in to your streams, but you gradually eased into it.
your audience was eager to learn and you were happy to share what you knew. the donations from samoyed_lvr also helped.
speaking of them, they were the first ever viewer you had. you didn't even notice someone was watching until they made their presence known in chat.
(you wish that you could've made a better first impression, considering the fact that you were crying during the first meeting.)
you were revising for a major test and hadn't even finished the lecture materials for the required topics. hence, there was a lot you didn't know.
it had been a horrible week for you too, and eventually all the stress caused you to break down. it would've been fine if you were bawling out your eyes all alone, except that you weren't.
samoyed_lvr: hey i hope you don't find this weird or anything but pls don't cry! it's okay to not know certain things, it doesn't mean you're incapable.
samoyed_lvr: just take things one step at a time, no need to rush yourself. you're not alone, alright? i belief in you!
samoyed_lvr: *believe. sry abt the typo!
the kind words caused your initial shock to fade away, and you ended up chatting with them until the early hours of the morning.
ever since then, samoyed_lvr has consistently appeared (and donated) in every stream.
you once asked them how they found the time to watch and the money to give, considering the fact that they were attending college like you. all you got in reply was an ambiguous "wouldn't you like to know?" with a winky face. what a tease.
anyways, you should stop reminiscing, neikos496's livestream is about to start!
you quickly click on the pre-opened tab in your browser which brings you into the live chat where many other fans spam stickers and messages, waiting for the show to begin.
five minutes later, a small model of a white and blue chimera appears on screen, a cheery voice filling your ears.
"hey guys, sorry i'm late! i was busy with a few things but it's all sorted out now so no worries! alright, what we're doing today is..."
ah, you're really lucky to have been born in a time where he exists.
phainon didn't think it was possible to be jealous of himself. but the way you talk about his other two identities makes him want to punch something. preferably himself.
"...and so i think they were flirting with me? like, they're really kind and sweet too. what do you think phainon?"
"i'm...not too sure. you know i'm hopeless when it comes to these things."
phainon translator: "yes, (name). samoyed_lvr aka yours truly was flirting with you."
"oh! and did you see neikos' new model?! he added a straw hat on the chimera for summer! it was so cute!"
"i did. it really suits the little guy!"
phainon translator: "is a small fluffy mythical monster really that much cuter?? what about me (name)?"
"i know right?! neikos is such a genius."
phainon isn't sure whether feel flattered or sad about that. though it seems he's made his displeasure clear on his face as you firmly press a finger between his brows.
"ow! no need to get violent y'know?"
"wrinkles are gonna develop early if you keep frowning like that. what, are you jealous?"
"why would i be jealous of myse—ahem. i'm not."
the look you give him clearly says "i don't believe you." and phainon wonders if he should come clean about everything. his heart almost drops when you take both his hands in yours and say:
"don't worry, phainon. no matter what, you'll always be my number one!"
"..."
"...phainon? phainon!"
phainon.exe is not working. please check again later.
🏐 "𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑵 / 𝑲𝑯𝑨𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑨," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ nsfw breeding you like a rabbit ꗃ .. smut mdni ꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ mina says reupload from toruzip ⁀ ˳ ⟡
Oh, how filthy he got in bed.
From the golden boy of Okhema city, the savior of Amphoreus, smiling and waving to citizens all around, to one of the meanest men in bed.
His hips never stop moving when he’s finally popped his dick inside your tight, wet cunt. He’s not shy about it either, whining and moaning loudly against the wet sounds of his hips slapping against your plump ass. His hands tightly holding onto your hips, making sure you can’t run away.
“F-fuckkkk.. g-gonna breed y-you.. g’nna make you all plump and round with my babies,” he’d hiccup and whisper against your sweat slicked skin. While you would whine and try to pry him off, telling him it had already been an hour since you two had begun. His balls would still be heavy with cum, slapping against your skin with a lewd ‘plap! plap! plap!’. His breathless chuckles would fill the air as his hips wouldn’t stop— in fact, he would start thrusting deeper and more purposefully.
The bed would shake, as you swore you could hear the faint cracks of the wooden bed frame giving way. There was no true night in Amphoreus, so you could still hear the faint sounds of city life going on just past the walls of your little home. “..p-phainon! Y-you’re gonna break the bed again..!” You’d cry and moan, nails digging into his back and leaving red hot marks.
Phainon’s hips wouldn’t stop, oh no.
He’d only get filthier, more lewd and needy. Whimpering into the crook of your neck, “p-please… just l-let me.. ngh— shit.. g’nna c-cum again…” he’d groan, and before you could even complain to him— his hips would be erratically thrusting into your sloppy pussy. Previous white sticky seed already oozing out around his thrusting cock, as he would shudder and cum inside you. Hot thick ropes of his seed spilling deep inside you, no doubt in wanting to fertilise your womb.
“Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” he’d quickly mutter, his hips coming to a slow roll. Stirring up the sticky mess inside you. His pelvis grinding against your overstimulated clit.
“…do you wanna go again, baby—”
“Phainon, the black tide will be more merciful than me if you ask another stupid question.” You huffed to him quickly, limbs sore and aching all over.
─ ❧ READ WITH CARE: mdni, semi-public indecency, dry humping, handjob, edging, shifting power dynamics, banter, marking, somewhat of a brat enabler Blade (he has a lot of patience for once)
─ ❧ WORD COUNT: 5.1k (I DONT KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IM SORRY)
𖤝 PREMISE: restraint and longing are Blade's dearest companions, but something about the warmth of the mountain springs and the heated passion of his lover's touch unravels him faster than he might have ever anticipated
Thick steam wafts slowly across the surface of the hot spring, crafting a curtain of allure that blurs the edges of the mountain surroundings and hides the inn behind dark silhouettes underneath the night sky.
The entire world feels far away here in this near forgotten place, which is barely more than a refuge for people trying to catch a break.
Far from the endless cycle of violence that follows Blade like a curse, far from the constant ache buried beneath his ribs, far from the exhaustion that settles into his bones whenever memory turns its claws on him again, he relaxes in the natural minerals that embrace his weary bones almost as tenderly as his lover could... if only she was here.
The spring is quiet except for the soft overflow of water spilling from the rocks and the distant rustle of wind through pine branches. Here, he sits submerged beneath the heat with his eyes half lidded and one arm stretched lazily along the edge behind him.
His damp hair clings to the lines of his throat and collarbones, while droplets of water trace slowly over scarred skin before disappearing beneath the surface. Though his expression remains unreadable in that familiar way of his, there is something distinctively softer about him tonight—as well as a thick layer of impatience.
Yet that doesn't mean his senses have grown mellow. He still hears you long before you enter the spring, that familiar sound of your movement announces your (late) arrival. Blade also registers the telltale hitch in your breathing as the heat of the water reaches you, as well as the rustle of thin fabric shifting against your skin.
However, he does not turn immediately despite the way every sense of his focuses on your approach.
He tells himself he is unaffected, that he has simply grown accustomed to your presence after travelling together for so long without interruption. Yet the moment your scent reaches him through the steam and unwelcome distance, the first of many locks inside him loosens with an humiliating ease.
Warmth spreads low in his chest before he can entirely register what is happening, causing his fingers to flex once against the edge of the spring. After another, intentional moment of avoiding you, does he slowly glance toward your shape from beneath dark lashes.
For one suspended moment he devours the view you spoil him with while your figure emerges through the drifting mist as you pause near the edge of the spring.
Suddenly, you feel more aware of yourself beneath his attention despite all the confidence you usually carry. The chemise, which hugs your body, is thin enough to feel indecent under his stare even before the water touches it. It is concealing and revealing in equal measure, and you almost regret choosing it at all… almost.
But then you become aware of how intensely Blade notices you. To anyone else he may seem unchanged, but you have been with him long enough to notice the gentle flex of his jaw and the flustered way his gaze flicks across the water's surface. He acts as if he has no interest in looking at you at all, which only makes the truth far more obvious and amusing.
"You're avoiding me," you murmur eventually, and try your hardest to cover your own nerves behind a thick layer of teasing confidence despite the butterflies fluttering inside your stomach.
"You took long enough," he replies instead, in a voice that is almost too smooth. Blade's gaze shifts at the darkened sky with maddening composure while entirely unwilling to acknowledge the accusation, though the slight roughness beneath his tone betrays him anyway.
The first step into the spring sends warmth curling around your ankles and calves immediately, which eases a soft breath from your lungs as the heat seeps into your body. Chased away is the the cool mountain air with every step you take, but the stone beneath the water is smoother than expected and your balance falters briefly.
Before you can steady yourself, Blade lifts one hand toward you through the steam without even looking directly at you. As much as he may feign disinterest beautifully, he still offers you everything all at once. The gesture feels so natural that it reveals how caring he can be under all the gruff layers.
Your fingers slide into his palm, and his grip tightens instinctively around your hand with a warm and certain hold the moment your skin touches his. It is then that Blade finally looks at you properly, now that you descend further into the spring. This time he fails to conceal the way his stare clings to your curves as the water soaks through the thin fabric instantly.
His eyes flick downward before returning quickly to your face as if he resents his own lack of control, but it is already too late. The view is seared into his mind; how the chemise clings to every curve of yours, outlining your body while a single droplet slides slowly along your throat and collarbone.
To him it feels like another eternity has passed until you finally settled beside him in the water, close enough for your shoulders to almost touch while the spring envelops you completely in a soothing heat. For a long while neither of you speak at all, you can't even remember the last exchange before silence became your closest companion.
Yet, the sound of silence has never frightened you with Blade; these moments have never felt empty. Rather, they are rich with the tells of his breathing, the awkward shift of his body, and eventually a curiosity when he feels safe.
Steam drifts between your bodies while the scent of cedar and salty minerals wraps itself around you both, and little by little you begin closing the distance yourself. Your knee brushes against his first beneath the water, then your shoulder nudges his in the most innocent of touches. Were it not for the accidental graze of your fingers against his own, Blade might have ignored all your cues entirely.
But instead, you receive a reaction, however subtle it may be since Blade seems to freeze further. Until you turn your palm upward beneath the water, an offering without words that his eyes understand now that he gazes toward the movement before they lift up slowly back to your face.
There is always hesitation with him when tenderness is at play. Not that he means to reject you, but rather that intimacy requires him to surrender to something much more scary. As though he still cannot understand why softness continues reaching for him despite all his sharp and ruined angles.
Yet after a pause that stretches long enough, his fingers finally slide against yours and intertwine carefully beneath the water. The contact draws a slow breath from him that he tries unsuccessfully to hide thanks to the comforting notes of your scent that have begun to mix with the steam of the hot spring.
"You look tired," barely more than a soft murmur while you trace your thumb along his knuckles. Blade's lashes begin to feel heavy at the faint touch, his body instinctively seeks more of you rather than the hard stone.
"I'm always tired." He tries to sound dismissive as per usual, but his hand feels impossibly warm despite the spring as it lightly squeezes yours even at the tough act he wants to upkeep.
"That's not what I mean." A gust of air sings between the cedar trees as silence follows before Blade exhales through his nose, not quite amused and not quite resigned either. "You notice too much."
"I'd rather call it... that I only have eyes for you." It's another one of your playful attempts to loosen the tightly wounded knots around his heart, and sometimes, like tonight, it works.
Blade's gaze shifts toward you again with that familiar unreadable intensity that always causes your pulse to stumble once he arches a brow at you.
In these unguarded, private moments Blade has the habit of looking at you like someone who is trying very hard not to need something; trying very hard not to want someone.
So you lean in closer, in careful stages, since rushing won't ever do you any good with this Blade. Eventually, your shoulder presses fully against his, and your free hand rises slowly to brush a damp strand of dark hair away from his face.
Blade closes his eyes for the briefest second at the contact before reopening them again, yet he looks at you much softer now.
"You don't have to act unaffected with me," you whisper while allowing your fingertips to linger against his temple. "We play this game every time where you try your hardest to convince me that you don't want things. I know you want things."
Blade sighs softly at that, and the first response he can offer is a gentled headbutt in a flustered attempt to get you off his case. But you don't cease, you press, you cradle, you care. Which causes Blade's jaw to faintly tighten before responding with honesty. "Every time we touch, every time I want, I wait for things to end badly."
"Not this," you resist softly, with such honesty that Blade has to wonder where you find the audacity to trust in him so much. "I can promise you this won't end badly," another insistence of yours that tugs at the corner of Blade's mouth.
He turns his face slightly into your touch before seeming to realise what he is doing, and the restraint that snaps right back into its place makes you ache for him even more. It's like playing cat and mouse, though the cat doesn't realise it's a predator.
"If I didn't know you any bettter, I would assume you to be fishing for compliments," you go on while tenderly pushing your fingertip against Blade's cheek. "I'm not-" He begins, only for you to continue."You make me feel good," a quiet confession, because your voice feels nearly drowned out by the sound of water moving around the rocks. "Wanted. Safe. Happy." Your fingers drift lower against his jaw. "I wish you would stop behaving like wanting me is something shameful."
Blade stares at you in silence after that, he seems almost offended at the choice of your words.
You watch the conflict move behind his eyes while your thumb strokes slowly across his cheekbone, and eventually his hand leaves yours beneath the water only to settle against your waist instead. Large fingers spread over the soaked fabric clinging to your body before tightening gradually, to pull you closer between his spread knees until the warmth of him surrounds you entirely.
"Shameful? Is this your way of provoking me tonight?" He wonders in a soft murmur. Your mouth stretches into a small grin before you simply dare to giggle right into death's face. "Yes, apparently only drastic measures work with you."
Blade exhales close to a laugh before his eyes flick briefly toward your lips. His restraint hangs by threads now, you can confirm as much through every lingering touch, every prolonged stare, every measured breath against your skin.
So you kiss him first. Kiss him slowly, so sweetly which would allow him to pull away if he wishes so. But he never does—once you're in, he is falling.
The sound Blade makes when your lips meet is lithe enough to disappear beneath the steam, yet you feel it vibrate through his chest as one arm slides firmly around your waist and the other lifts toward the back of your neck.
Then he is kissing you in response, his infamous restrain unravels second by second the longer you remain pressed up against him. Each slow give of his mouth against yours grows heavier with all the wanting Blade usually buries beneath silence every day. His fingers flex against you through the fabric of your chemise while your own hands drift over his shoulders and throat, where they trace scarred skin and discover old tales.
You lose count of how many times your mouths meet. The only thing you are certain of is that Blade follows you whenever you part slightly for a breath of air while he greeds for more kisses, more touches, more you.
"Needy," you whisper against his lips eventually, yet your tone is covered in honey, decadently drenched with affection more than teasing. Blade opens his eyes just enough to fix you with a deep look that utterly fails to conceal how affected he is. "This is your fault," nothing more than a wanting rasp whispered against your lips since he already seeks you out again.
"Whatever happened to your restraint?" You whisper then as you deny him the kiss by leaning back, only for his hand to tighten warningly at your nape. The gesture causes a soft laugh to bubble from your throat.
Blade's forehead lowers briefly against yours, in a way that leads to an intimacy which nearly steals the breath from your lungs entirely. You feel him exhale slowly against your mouth before his hands finally guide you fully into his lap until you straddle him.
The heat appears to increase once your thighs settle against his own beneath the water. Now, your soaked clothes cling between your bodies while Blade leans back slightly over the stone edge of the spring to look up at you properly.
A fierce surge of unparalleled want rises through you at the beautiful sight painted in front of you: He looks so full of want and strange surrender beneath you. Damp and dishevelled hair frames his face, while kiss-swollen lips beckon for further attention as unbearably gentle eyes swallow you whole.
Your fingers drift slowly along the scars crossing his shoulders and chest, where his palms roam your body with increasing confidence as they slide over your hips and waist in attempt to memorise the shape of you through soaked fabric and heated skin alike.
It is then that you kiss him again. Again. And again. Every kiss slower than the last, deeper than the last, until the world beyond the spring disappears entirely thanks to the overwhelming lust overtaking every flicker of doubt.
The pressure of his hands, the warmth of his mouth, the subtle shift of his breathing whenever your hips move unconsciously against his beneath the water makes restraint seem like a folly.
In a moment where his lips are inhabited, Blade's head tips back briefly at one particular movement before he catches himself. Though you saw the moan he swallowed thickly, felt the dig of his fingers as they clung to your thighs… and you definitely feel the growing hardness insisting on your attention.
"There you are," you breathe so light like cotton candy and smile so sweetly against his jaw as embarrassment finally flickers across his features for the briefest moment. "You enjoy this too much." Oh, how Blade tries to make his voice sound like a warning, but it's gentled down now, mellow from his desires he always attempts to keep in check until the last minute.
"And you are cute when you lose composure." You whisper the words with nothing short of unbridled adoration; yet how come such words drive a man into madness? Blade lets out another low exhale that nearly resembles laughter before one hand slides upward along your spine beneath your wet hair, pulling you flush against his chest until your heartbeat presses directly against his own.
Heat blooms immediately between your bodies now that there is no defence zone to remain while your thighs spread wider across his lap. When your hips shift instinctively against him this time, the reaction you draw from him is impossible to miss. A rough breath catches low in his throat, one that you feel much more rather than hear it since Blade is an expert at stifling his sounds against the curve of your neck.
Here, he presses slow lingering kisses against damp skin that make your entire body melt into him without resistance. The sensation of his lips against your pulse feels unbearably intimate in the drifting steam and mountain silence, while his hands worship your body with a hunger that becomes harder to conceal.
Though the truth spills from him in dozens of tiny betrayals once you learn where to look. The slight furrow appearing between his brows whenever your nails scrape along his shoulders and back, or the way his eyes lower whenever you praise him too sincerely. His entire body grows still when you hold him gently, as if part of him still cannot believe tenderness remains aimed at him.
You can feel him wanting more. Feel it in the way his grip tightens whenever your hips shift against his; feel it in the way he breathes your name against your skin. Then he kisses you once more with enough longing behind it to leave both of you breathless.
The spring grows hotter the longer you remain tangled together, though perhaps it only feels that way because Blade has finally stopped pretending he is unaffected by you.
His hands no longer hesitate when they settle along your waist, and his mouth no longer pulls away quite so quickly after kissing you. Even his gaze changes little by little beneath the lantern glow, growing heavier each time your hips grind against the heavy bulge hidden underneath the soaked towel wrapped around his waist.
Though the sweetest indulgence of all is how terribly responsive Blade is to softness. Every time your fingers comb through the damp strands at the nape of his neck, every time your lips brush slowly against the corner of his mouth, and every time your eyes lock with his, you feel his hands tighten around you in silent demand for more.
The final nail in Blade's coffin is the moment your hand settles lower beneath the surface. His stomach tightens sharply beneath your fingertips while the muscles along his thighs tense underneath yours, and suddenly the restraint he has been clinging to all evening is nothing but a frighteningly fragile memory.
Sudden, crude touches have never unravelled Blade. No, what does it for him is the slow, certain descend of your hand—the only hands whose touch he welcomes. At least with you he can be a glutton, greedy to feel your touch all over while your mouth continues kissing him with unbearable gentleness, as if you are comforting him and teasing him apart all at once.
Your hips have been rolling against his lap for several minutes now, the soaked fabric trapped between you doing absolutely nothing to lessen the sensation. Every slow drag downward has him swallowing sharply. Every careless grind of your hips pulls another strained breath from him. The water disguises how desperately his body responds to you, but not completely, at least not from you.
Then, finally, the mask slips entirely as his fingers dig into your hips, firm enough to still your movements for one suspended second. His lashes flutter lower as one hand clamps hard against your waist, and the other braces against the stone edge behind him like he suddenly requires the support.
You feel him growing harder beneath the heat of the spring every time you shift against him, feel the subtle jerk of his hips whenever your body presses too perfectly into his. And now your hand is making matters worse—much worse.
But you would be insane to let him retreat now, not when he is this affected. No, you chase him, you lean in over his body and press your breasts flush against his chest as your lips find his all over again. "So responsive," you whisper over his lips rather than kissing him once more, unable to help the smile that pulls at your mouth.
Blade opens his eyes just enough to fix you with a stare that might have felt intimidating if his hands were not still clutching you with such obvious need. "You enjoy provoking me."
"You make it so easy tonight." Shot back too soon, too sure of yourself which causes him to smirk in response as pure want flickers in his body. "Brat," he breathes out before the clashing of your lips as a soft sound escapes him then, indecisive whether it be exasperation or reluctant amusement, but you feel the tension inside his body loosen another fraction.
Blade rarely laughs outright, but moments like this come close enough to feel precious. You brush your nose gently against his before kissing him all over again, this time slower to savour the way he immediately follows your mouth when you attempt to pull away again. He cannot help it anymore, cannot keep himself from bucking his hips against your willing hand as the wanting in him has risen too close to the surface.
He drops his forehead heavily against your shoulder while your fingers curl more purposely around his girth beneath the water. A rough sound leaves him then, low and strained and startlingly vulnerable compared to his usual nature.
He is trying so hard not to lose himself; proven in the unsteady grip against your waist, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing against your throat, in the visible effort it takes for him not to move helplessly into your touch.
"You're trembling," you note too casually as you speak softly into his damp hair. "It's cold outside," Blade mutters hoarsely against your skin, though the words lose all sharpness when his hips betray him with an involuntary thrust beneath the water.
He makes you chuckle against his temple as affection spills through your chest at the terrible excuse. "Liar." But you kiss him all the same before he can retreat behind embarrassment, while your hand continues to pump along his erection with agonising patience.
Blade melts into the kiss instantly, his mouth parting against yours with a rough inhale before he suddenly takes over control. His hands roam your body almost desperately, to squeeze your ass and slide the drenched fabric of your chemise further up your hips like he needs to feel you whole, right inside this very open space of the hot spring.
Spread deeper over his lap, the movement presses you directly against him for heat to shoot through both of you at once. A breathless gasp slips from your throat this time, now that your hips rock more fully against the prominent hardness trapped between your bodies, and Blade nearly breaks apart from it.
His eyes shut tight while the friction turns messy quickly after those slow rolling movements become deeper without either of you consciously deciding it. Your thighs tighten against Blade's lap while his hands guide your hips helplessly against him again and again.
"You feel too good," he breathes eventually, his voice carrying a roughened cadence that makes you wish he were to always sound like that. "Stop feeling so good, stop moving like that," Blade tries so hard to regain his mind, his composure, under your relentless kisses as your mouths continue meeting between words.
Which only makes teasing him even more irresistible. You shift against him again, slower this time, to bring a strained breath forward while his hands flex hard against your thighs, trying (and failing) to steady either of you properly.
"Careful," he warns quietly, though the word sounds entirely too wrecked already. "You say that," you murmur while brushing your lips along his jaw, "but you're the one holding me down in your lap. You want this even more than I do."
The statement dissolves into another low sound when your fingertips threaten to undo the knot of his towel the same moment your hips grind down into his lap again. One trembling exhale leaves him then, and his head tips back far enough to expose the long line of his throat to you entirely.
He looks beautiful like this; ruined by softness, ravished by wanting.
Unable to resist, you kiss along his throat, while his hips jerk once more beneath you despite all his attempts. Blade curses softly under his breath, though the sound gives way for another ragged inhale when you suck gently at the pulse beneath his jaw.
"You're cruel tonight." A grin spreads slowly across your mouth at the accusation because he sounds genuinely overwhelmed, his usual composure reduced to shaky breaths and grasping hands. "You're really that close?" you whisper against his skin with obvious delight, and Blade opens his eyes just enough to glare at you through visible embarrassment.
"You have your hand wrapped around me. How do you expect me not to be close?" He spends so much of his existence holding himself together through sheer force alone that witnessing him unravel willingly inside your arms feels intimate in a way words could never capture.
"And?" You seem entirely unbothered though, almost coaxing in the way you wait for him to fill the rest of the sentence as you give him another, generous grind of your hips.
Blade exhales sharply at that, as a faint flush finally appears high across his cheeks beneath the lantern light. "And you keep grinding against me like you want me to lose control," his eyes narrow at you with wounded dignity.
"You're adorable tonight," you murmur before kissing him again, so faint he is not sure if it truly happened. "All desperate."
"Watch yourself. I am not desperate." The great terrifying Stellaron Hunter sits half-submerged in steaming water while growing visibly more flustered because you called him adorable, or maybe it was the way you said desperate.
You cannot help the soft laugh slipping free against his mouth and Blade actually groans afterwards, dragging one hand down over his face briefly while his chest rises and falls harder than before. "Don't laugh at me."
You kiss him before he can regret saying it aloud. Though this collision is messy, needy, wilder as your fingers cling to damp hair while Blade nips on your lower lip, while his tongue conquers that filthy mouth of yours, and his intent steals your thoughts.
Too much happens at once, to the point it is hard to tell apart instigator from victim. One moment he, once again, encourages the grind of your hips as he moans into your mouth and bucks his heavy length up into you, before he just as suddenly forces your movements to still completely. His fingers are firm at your waist now that he presses his forehead against yours and exhales shakily through his nose.
"Enough," he mutters eventually, yet his voice still sounds wrecked. Blade is trying to regain control, trying very, very hard to the point you cannot find pity within you. "If you continue, this ends badly for me," he adds to get the message across, "and you."
"Ow," you whisper but the chuckles make it impossible to appear compassionate. "That sensitive?"
Blade lets out a low groan before lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes again, visibly struggling to steady himself while steam clings to his lashes and damp hair shadows his expression. "You need to stop."
"You don't sound very convincing." You brush your nose gently against his, while smiling so sweetly it only makes his expression grow more tortured.
"We are in public." The strained seriousness in his voice only causes the devil in you to do its worst. "There's nobody here," You sound so smug, so sure to get away with driving Blade to the brink of madness with your constant grinding and how nicely, very nicely, your fingers pump his length.
"There are rooms directly above us." He looks genuinely torn now, caught somewhere between desire and self-restraint while your fingers remain trapped gently inside his grip beneath the water.
"But you're not stopping me, not really," you whisper near victoriously. Blade's composure has unravelled so thoroughly that even his usual sharpness appears softened around the edges, buried beneath warmth and embarrassment and the terrible realisation that you know exactly how much power you hold over him tonight.
"You are enjoying this far too much," he mutters against your throat while closing his eyes briefly since the sound of your laughter alone might undo him all together. Then he exhales slowly before releasing your wrist beneath the water, but his hand immediately settles possessively at your waist again.
"Because you're cute when you're overwhelmed," a whisper filled with enough love it causes Blade to slowly open his eyes again. Successfully lured out of his spot, he locks you down with a stare that is more dilated pupils than anything else. The embarrassment remains, yes, but it has shifted after being teased so thoroughly.
The sight of him makes desire curl through you all over again, with damp hair falling into his eyes and lips swollen from kissing, while his cheeks remain flushed from how close you pushed him in the water.
"You won't be laughing later," he warns quietly, but before you can respond properly, Blade catches your mouth in another kiss and drags you flush against him again. One final slow grind of his hips against yours pulls matching breaths from both of you then as you feel exactly how hard it is for him to stop here.
How badly he wants to let go beneath your hands and mouth and praise. Yet somehow he manages it anyway, burying his face briefly against your neck anew while his breathing steadies little by little against your skin.
"You're insufferable," he murmurs, though his hands refuse to let you go. "And you love me." The statement calls for a pause, before his response almost disappears beneath the sound of the lapping water. "Enough to let you get away with this once," Blade answers against your mouth.
Once.
Your pulse stumbles instantly beneath his threat, but you would be caught in a web of lies were you to confess your regret over the torture inside the hot springs. Never has he ever let you get away with mischief close to the level of tonight, which makes this all the more precious.
Blade brushes one final kiss against your mouth before deciding. "We should go inside." The way he says it leaves very little room for misunderstanding, causing you to smile immediately despite the heat rushing through you. "Finally giving in?"
One of his hands slides slowly along your thigh beneath the water while his eyes remain fixed on yours. "You've spent the entire evening provoking me," he murmurs. "You can deal with the consequences."
Anticipation spreads through your body at the sound of his promise, and at the thought of the night that waits ahead. Blade appears almost playful beneath all that lingering restraint, loosened enough by affection and longing that a lightness finally peeks through the cracks.
You kiss him once more before his hands slide slowly down your thighs, where he lifts you carefully from his lap despite your soft protest. The moment you stand from the water, the soaked chemise clings transparently enough to your body that Blade visibly loses his train of thought for a second time that evening.
His eyes drag slowly over you before he exhales sharply through his nose and looks away with obvious effort. You cannot help your grin, cannot stop judging how cute he appears to be tonight. Before all that cuteness vanishes as the sudden predatory grace to his movement when he reaches for your hand to throw you over his shoulder and carry you inside your room.
Not a hint of that flustered man from the hot springs remained ever since.
HAIII i'm so sorry this is the first time im requesting a fic before but is it alright if u can do a dottore smut?? specifically where he's like running his hands all over the reader's body and naming every single bone that he touches or something😭😭 i saw a tiktok with that and my exact first thought is dottore😭
AND I'M PRAYING THAT THEY'RE HUMAN — il dottore x assistant! reader
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. nsfw & 18+ content ahead, excuse my knowledge on bones; this is all based off my stock knowledge, no plot because i'm a loser, afab anatomy used, NO GENDERED PRONOUNS/PETNAMES USED, MAJOR EDGING im sorry. , fingering, p in v action duh, belly bulge, mean dottore, somewhat degradation? (more on implication but he doesn't rly say mean stuff)
m note: and im glad you thought of me when seeing that prompt, ill write an amab version soon but eriohasldhasd would u guys want that? — wc: i think ~1.5k
dottore having you on his lap with your legs spread wide was enough to have his hand right between your thighs. he had pulled you in for an experiment, something that only the two of you could do; something that was considered personal.
"hmm? pretty sensitive here, aren't you. adorable," pulling off the gloves using his teeth before prodding at your inner thighs, "tell me, what do you call this?" the cold temperature of his fingers against your skin made you shiver.
"i... nnh— err... it's a femur right?" a haze fielded your view, the atmosphere turning only thicker, and thicker. it was something he found adorable, the way you perched on his lap, your bare body on his own that stayed in clothing. leaving a hand to stay between your legs,
he loved inspecting you.
"correct, good. how about right here?" caressing around neck, briefly moving over your throat before resting on your collarbone. "and i want the scientific name,"
your mind blanked for a second, his touch making you shudder again, "ahhn, w- wait! waitwaitwait... s—scapula...!" you could feel his free hand slowly run over your heat, another chilly breeze passing over your body, twitching subconsciously.
"mmmn- haah, fuck.." throwing your head back onto the empty slot beside his own nape. his finger runs briefly over your slit as you did.
you shut your eyes again, as if to brace for whatever he'd be planning. fuck.
"tell me, i'm staying right here till you can tell me all about this body."
...
even when he held onto your hips, he'd ask you for all their names even when he has you bent over the cold countertop, dangerous liquids, and vials pushed to the side. your chest being pushed up the frigid temperature of the marble countertop.
maybe being buried deep inside you wasn't enough for him because he wouldn't stop placing little lovebites down your spine.
it was harsh how he could thrust in you hitting all the spots your fingers have been aching to do.
"just tell me, mmn- haah. my newest little assistant,"
stopping his fast-paced thrusts for a moment, watching his cock twitch and htrob before waiting for answer. "m'gonna count to ten, i want you to answer before you come,"
"adorable, shaking this much and i haven't released inside you yet. you've only answered fifteen of my twenty questions..."
stroking the sensitive skin of your waist once more before-
"one." plap!
you yelped in surprise, you could already see the smirk on his face.
"two," plap!
another whimper leaving your lips, your back arching all of a sudden, god what the hell were they called?! "whaah! w- wait! it- it's called... called os coxae!"
"good, that's sixteen out of twenty,"
you let out a sigh of relief,
"now, this," moving his hand downwards a little bit more before he resumes his merciless pounding, "is called y- your ilium, you feel that?"
dottore lets out his signature evil laugh before it turns into a deep groan, "mmmmfuuckk! so, so fucking good," the obscene sounds that echoed across the room made your breath hitch again.
"three— oooh.." ramming his hips into yours consistently was enough to make you forget the rest of whatever he had just told you about earlier, god you were supposed to help him; now it just feels like he's using this teaching as an excuse to fuck you :(
"yeah? you like that? like my length this deep in you?" your cunt ached around him as he continued,
"four..." his voice faded into the white noise you barely hung onto your conscience with, biting your lip- your arms having lost feeling a while ago; "f-uuuck, f- four..." his grasp on your waist had his nails indenting crescent-shaped marks into your skin,
"whhngh, d- do... dottore... pl—eeaseeff m'gonna-" he cuts your voice off with a harsh stop to his thrusts, "don't come yet brat, don't fucking come yet."
your gummy walls clench around him so suddenly, hearing the hiss through his teeth, rubbing small circles on your waist, his fingertips caressing over the little moons in your hips.
"you're gonna hold that in until ten, yes?"
you nod frantically, already whimpering under your breath at the loss of your high.
one of his hands moved over the poor bulge his cock caused into your stomach. "oh my, is my lovely little assistant upset about their little climax being taken?"
before you knew it he was picking you up to pin your body against the wall instead. "apologies, i'd prefer a good view when i see you trying to hold this in."
"five." starting his pace again when you start to tighten around his cock, making you scrunch your face, your legs wrapped around his waist while his arms have no problem carrying you, even moreso to have you so neatly pinned to the wall.
"fuuck- fiivvee..." repeating the number again had you trying your best not to squirt on his dick again, it was charming- endearing even. "just hold it right there, yes? mmf- such a good assistant for me."
grinding his tip against your core was heavenly, barely being able to think was one, now he can't stop overstimulating you? oh god no, not before your fourth orgasm :(
"six," voice trailing on, you could feel your weight quietly sag onto the wall behind you when one of his arms moved away, into a position he could rub your poor swollen clit in, of course ^_^
"seven... can you still hold it?" maniacal laughter—you could already imagine it spilling from his throat once more. your breaths getting heavier as you tried your best,
"ah, i think i lost count... where were we? five?" his digit dips itself into your sopping wet cunt, making you jolt in surprise, a gasp for air again, "hhaah- i'm... s- sure... we w—ere on... s- seven, sir." his eyes roll back into his skull hearing your tantalizing little tone managing to mutter out 'sir'.
"tell me more about the ilium first, then i'll go from seven, hmm?" a mean pinch was sent to your poor clit when you winced. letting out a moan before shaking it off; mustering up an answer, "i- its the, nghaah... the... mmn—largest bone in the os coxae... mmnnhaah! aka o- our hips!"
"mhm, so we were on six." stray strands of hair fell on your forehead as you tried your best to look your boss in the eyes. "m- mhm?" - "you know what my favorite part about your os coxae is?"
you couldn't get yourself to even hum in acknowledgement, yet he persisted; "how your skin bounces at my force, and how i can control how easily you break just by holding you. very charming, i must admit,"
"you've been far more entertaining than any of the assistants i've had throughout the years,"
leaning in to place a brief hungry kiss on your lips, not before licking the skin right beside them.
HAIII i'm so sorry this is the first time im requesting a fic before but is it alright if u can do a dottore smut?? specifically where he's like running his hands all over the reader's body and naming every single bone that he touches or something😭😭 i saw a tiktok with that and my exact first thought is dottore😭
AND I'M PRAYING THAT THEY'RE HUMAN — il dottore x assistant! reader
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. nsfw & 18+ content ahead, excuse my knowledge on bones; this is all based off my stock knowledge, no plot because i'm a loser, afab anatomy used, NO GENDERED PRONOUNS/PETNAMES USED, MAJOR EDGING im sorry. , fingering, p in v action duh, belly bulge, mean dottore, somewhat degradation? (more on implication but he doesn't rly say mean stuff)
m note: and im glad you thought of me when seeing that prompt, ill write an amab version soon but eriohasldhasd would u guys want that? — wc: i think ~1.5k
dottore having you on his lap with your legs spread wide was enough to have his hand right between your thighs. he had pulled you in for an experiment, something that only the two of you could do; something that was considered personal.
"hmm? pretty sensitive here, aren't you. adorable," pulling off the gloves using his teeth before prodding at your inner thighs, "tell me, what do you call this?" the cold temperature of his fingers against your skin made you shiver.
"i... nnh— err... it's a femur right?" a haze fielded your view, the atmosphere turning only thicker, and thicker. it was something he found adorable, the way you perched on his lap, your bare body on his own that stayed in clothing. leaving a hand to stay between your legs,
he loved inspecting you.
"correct, good. how about right here?" caressing around neck, briefly moving over your throat before resting on your collarbone. "and i want the scientific name,"
your mind blanked for a second, his touch making you shudder again, "ahhn, w- wait! waitwaitwait... s—scapula...!" you could feel his free hand slowly run over your heat, another chilly breeze passing over your body, twitching subconsciously.
"mmmn- haah, fuck.." throwing your head back onto the empty slot beside his own nape. his finger runs briefly over your slit as you did.
you shut your eyes again, as if to brace for whatever he'd be planning. fuck.
"tell me, i'm staying right here till you can tell me all about this body."
...
even when he held onto your hips, he'd ask you for all their names even when he has you bent over the cold countertop, dangerous liquids, and vials pushed to the side. your chest being pushed up the frigid temperature of the marble countertop.
maybe being buried deep inside you wasn't enough for him because he wouldn't stop placing little lovebites down your spine.
it was harsh how he could thrust in you hitting all the spots your fingers have been aching to do.
"just tell me, mmn- haah. my newest little assistant,"
stopping his fast-paced thrusts for a moment, watching his cock twitch and htrob before waiting for answer. "m'gonna count to ten, i want you to answer before you come,"
"adorable, shaking this much and i haven't released inside you yet. you've only answered fifteen of my twenty questions..."
stroking the sensitive skin of your waist once more before-
"one." plap!
you yelped in surprise, you could already see the smirk on his face.
"two," plap!
another whimper leaving your lips, your back arching all of a sudden, god what the hell were they called?! "whaah! w- wait! it- it's called... called os coxae!"
"good, that's sixteen out of twenty,"
you let out a sigh of relief,
"now, this," moving his hand downwards a little bit more before he resumes his merciless pounding, "is called y- your ilium, you feel that?"
dottore lets out his signature evil laugh before it turns into a deep groan, "mmmmfuuckk! so, so fucking good," the obscene sounds that echoed across the room made your breath hitch again.
"three— oooh.." ramming his hips into yours consistently was enough to make you forget the rest of whatever he had just told you about earlier, god you were supposed to help him; now it just feels like he's using this teaching as an excuse to fuck you :(
"yeah? you like that? like my length this deep in you?" your cunt ached around him as he continued,
"four..." his voice faded into the white noise you barely hung onto your conscience with, biting your lip- your arms having lost feeling a while ago; "f-uuuck, f- four..." his grasp on your waist had his nails indenting crescent-shaped marks into your skin,
"whhngh, d- do... dottore... pl—eeaseeff m'gonna-" he cuts your voice off with a harsh stop to his thrusts, "don't come yet brat, don't fucking come yet."
your gummy walls clench around him so suddenly, hearing the hiss through his teeth, rubbing small circles on your waist, his fingertips caressing over the little moons in your hips.
"you're gonna hold that in until ten, yes?"
you nod frantically, already whimpering under your breath at the loss of your high.
one of his hands moved over the poor bulge his cock caused into your stomach. "oh my, is my lovely little assistant upset about their little climax being taken?"
before you knew it he was picking you up to pin your body against the wall instead. "apologies, i'd prefer a good view when i see you trying to hold this in."
"five." starting his pace again when you start to tighten around his cock, making you scrunch your face, your legs wrapped around his waist while his arms have no problem carrying you, even moreso to have you so neatly pinned to the wall.
"fuuck- fiivvee..." repeating the number again had you trying your best not to squirt on his dick again, it was charming- endearing even. "just hold it right there, yes? mmf- such a good assistant for me."
grinding his tip against your core was heavenly, barely being able to think was one, now he can't stop overstimulating you? oh god no, not before your fourth orgasm :(
"six," voice trailing on, you could feel your weight quietly sag onto the wall behind you when one of his arms moved away, into a position he could rub your poor swollen clit in, of course ^_^
"seven... can you still hold it?" maniacal laughter—you could already imagine it spilling from his throat once more. your breaths getting heavier as you tried your best,
"ah, i think i lost count... where were we? five?" his digit dips itself into your sopping wet cunt, making you jolt in surprise, a gasp for air again, "hhaah- i'm... s- sure... we w—ere on... s- seven, sir." his eyes roll back into his skull hearing your tantalizing little tone managing to mutter out 'sir'.
"tell me more about the ilium first, then i'll go from seven, hmm?" a mean pinch was sent to your poor clit when you winced. letting out a moan before shaking it off; mustering up an answer, "i- its the, nghaah... the... mmn—largest bone in the os coxae... mmnnhaah! aka o- our hips!"
"mhm, so we were on six." stray strands of hair fell on your forehead as you tried your best to look your boss in the eyes. "m- mhm?" - "you know what my favorite part about your os coxae is?"
you couldn't get yourself to even hum in acknowledgement, yet he persisted; "how your skin bounces at my force, and how i can control how easily you break just by holding you. very charming, i must admit,"
"you've been far more entertaining than any of the assistants i've had throughout the years,"
leaning in to place a brief hungry kiss on your lips, not before licking the skin right beside them.
Phainon grants mortal desires because he must. Each wish feeds a god who has long abandoned mercy for hunger. The world’s wishes have grown small and selfish, and the price they pay is taken so quietly they never notice.
Phainon notices. And it breaks him.
For centuries, he has existed untouched and unseen, unable to want anything for himself. Until your longing reaches him. Gentle instead of greedy, healing instead of hollow. And something begins to change.
This is a story about a connection powerful enough to fracture a curse, about learning to choose happiness even when you’ve been told you’re not allowed to… and about the risk of becoming something more than the purpose you were made for.
✦ 𖤓 ✦
General Tags: Slow Burn. Hurt/Comfort. Angst. Demigod!Phainon. Mythic Fantasy AU (Vaguely Modern Setting). Yearning. Identity Issues. Touch Starvation. Happy Ending.
(Please check individual posts for detailed tags and warnings.)
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
✧ Part I: Shattering (8k)
✧ Part II: Calling (6.5k)
✧ Part III: Pulling (7.5k)
✧ Part IV: Stirring (17.7k)
Note: This series is fully outlined and mostly drafted. Titles and links will be added as each part is finalized and posted. This series currently spans six parts, though it may expand as I finalize the drafts. :)
hello. did you explode when hoyo showed us blade chilling in a hot spring on today's livestream? me too. so here you go. i made this in like 4 hours. please don't kill me if you find any bugs. thanks and have fun.
[+edit] there are 3 'endings' you could get. this is all dialogue, no narration. i am also very rusty when it comes to writing blade so forgive me if he's ooc!
itch.io game download page
(mac, linux, windows) →
the jueyun karst grass is wet beneath you, cold and damp against your palms, but you barely notice it. your legs are trembling, thighs slick, cunt gushing around him, and then he’s there—xiao—amber eyes glowing like molten gold, body vibrating with a heat so raw it makes your own skin ache. his hands dig into your hips like iron, nails grazing your flesh, thumbs pressing deep, and suddenly he’s inside you.
and oh god—he doesn’t stop. every thrust is a wet, squelching slam that rattles your bones, a desperate, punishing rhythm that makes your pussy convulse and drip around him. teeth sink into your thighs and stomach, tiny purple bruises blooming where he marks you, and every bite makes you gasp, arch, whimper, utterly helpless.
“x-xiao…” your voice breaks, nails tearing at the grass beneath you, trying to hold onto something as his pace becomes frantic, feral. the sound of him—wet, primal, animalistic—fills your ears. each slam of his hips is a slap against your thighs, a squelch of your juices mixing with his, and your body trembles uncontrollably under the rhythm.
he growls low in his throat, leaning close, forehead brushing yours, teeth grazing your collarbone as his amber eyes blaze. “can’t… stop… won’t stop…” each word is ragged, guttural, almost a growl, and you can feel the vibration in your bones. his thrusts hit harder, deeper, wet sounds squelching with every movement, his seed filling you again and again, leaking down your thighs, warm and sticky, slicking over your trembling stomach.
your body shakes, cunt clenching around him as your cries echo through the mountains. sweat mixes with your slick, with his own, dripping down your sides, running along your thighs, over your stomach, every inch of you coated in him. teeth marks dot your skin like a roadmap of his desperation, and still he pounds into you, unrelenting, amber eyes blazing, body trembling with every push.
finally, he collapses on top of you, panting, chest heaving, sweat-soaked, seed dripping from your twitching cunt. your legs are splayed, shaking, hips still tingling from the overstimulation, thighs and stomach littered with the evidence of his need. the feral fire in his amber gaze fades to a soft, warm glow, still intense but human now, leaving only xiao—your adeptus, your anchor.
later, you set a small bowl of almond tofu before him. he takes it slowly, fingers brushing yours, amber eyes soft, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. and for just a moment, the primal fire, the desperate rut, all of it melts away. he’s yours. fully, quietly, tenderly, and the scent of him still lingers on your skin, a reminder of everything wild and messy that just happened.
Millennia have gone by, and yet not a single creature has found a cure for lovesickness. Xiao is no exception– and worse, difficult as his feelings are already, they are compounded still by jealousy. Xiao knows it– fortunately, you seem blissfully unaware.
Unfortunately for him, Barbatos knows it too, and decides to free his lips with some fine wine. When Xiao’s words tumble loose, you decide it would be alright to be more courageous than him, for once–
–and ask him to stay.
(A kiss, Xiao thinks, is a fine gift to receive on a birthday.)
Xiao x gn!Reader, 10.5k
— ☘ — ☘ xiao x mortal reader, jealous and lovesick xiao, mutual pining, v slightly suggestive at a part, xiao is v smitten, reader lives in the harbour, reader is not lumine, slowburn (mostly implied bc this is a oneshot and you’ve been friends for years), drunken confession, cuddling, boob jokes, some hcs (menogias made his outfit, xiao has claws like xianyun), alcohol consumption, reader swears a teeny bit, reader has a vision, it’s all just meandering fluff I’m sorry 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ♡
Xiao hears all that happens in Liyue.
Most prominent are the desperate cries for help– forever at the forefront of his mind, these take priority.
Then come the prayers, although there are not many ordinarily; the majority fall into the lot of the adepti of Jueyun Karst. Even so, there are those that pray to him. They naively murmur their wishes to the wind in the hopes of him receiving them.
I pray my sister has a safe pregnancy, says one. I hope my child has a good day, says another.
(That is not my domain, Xiao thinks every time. But even so, I hope it for you. And if a gust of wind keeps the woman from falling to the ground when she stumbles, and if a qingxin flower mysteriously descends from the heavens to land atop the child’s head, making them the envy of all their little friends– well.)
Then come the mentions of his name– this he needs to keep an ear out for. Although, not every murmured Xiao is a summons– intent matters, after all. Such passing mentions are commonplace. Although they are littered all over his subconscious like scattered leaves in the wake of a storm, Xiao pays them little heed.
Lastly, Xiao hears all else– if he so wishes. A conversation between two drunk men at Chihu Rock, the furious hisses of a mother-cat unwilling to let anyone near the minuscule flakes of lint she calls her kittens, the soft cheeps of the finches as they return home to roost after a long, dry day of foraging. (They have his sympathy– the fourth month is upon them, and the sun beams smugly upon all the world beneath.)
Then– if he strains his ears enough– your laughter. And, for the past couple weeks, someone else laughs alongside you, when you ought be heading home quite alone.
And it would mean nothing, nothing at all. If. If.
(He imagines what it would be like, to walk you home, shoulder to shoulder. He dismisses the vision.)
It means nothing even now, he reminds himself, not knowing why he needs reminding. What conceivable reason could there be?
Xiao has known you for a long time. Years of unlikely friendship. Perhaps, he allows, it is precisely because he has few friends that he feels… protective. Yes, that is all. You are deserving of only the best– you are a treasure, after all. Even Rex Lapis said so once, unprompted, fondly casting a glance at your lively eyes, the warm smiles you’d give them as you made your way over. Genial, he had said, when he’d visited the Inn last and found the two of you taking a stroll in the marsh.
Comforting, Xiao had thought. Strange, then, that your smiles have brought him little solace as of late.
Xiao sighs.
It would be a bit naive, he quietly concedes, to pretend he didn’t know why. He is too old, has seen too much– felt too much– to not know what chord his heart strums now.
He gives it no name. He does not need to, and he’d rather not besides. After all, it is an ugly little thing, and acknowledgement does nothing to loosen its toils from his mind.
Last week, you’d paid him a visit. Your regular comings and goings have been more sporadic as of late, with Cloud Retainer’s recently roused temper sending flurries of icy rain to soak all the harbour, forcing everyone and everything with good sense indoors. It caused no real harm, but did serve to be a wretched nuisance, and no amount of prayers and offerings had done anything to make even the slightest change to the weather. You’d asked Xiao why, and he’d bitten back a smile. Something about her mountain still being “positively bedaubed in mint,” he’d said, privately relishing the fact that you knew precisely what he spoke of. He’d told you what had happened this Lantern Rite, after all, tiptoeing around this detail and that. You hadn’t asked any questions, but he’d seen your focused expression and known you’d guessed the rest on your own.
You’d laughed and laughed when he’d told you about Mountain Shaper seeding all of Mt. Aocang with mint, he fondly recalls. (So these laughs bring him solace– he sees, although he does not wish to.) Your mirth perhaps spelled trouble for you, though, because you’d gone on to tut and call Cloud Retainer a ‘sensitive granny,’ and Miss Xianyun, standing a mere half dozen steps away, had not been amused.
Why punish us for it, you’d groaned, when the skies had torn open to shower some more over the inn, just as you’d gotten up to leave. Xiao had been unsurprised– that much was plain to see– but if a part of him was really quite pleased, he hid it well, even from himself.
No matter was all he had said, stoic as ever, and had held your hand to bring you home. It took scarcely a breath, but the warmth of your fingers had lingered on the leather of his gloves for several moments after.
(And of course– although contact was admittedly a little unnecessary, holding your hand would surely have made you a little more comfortable with something as foreign as teleportation, yes?)
The evening breeze brings him out of his thoughts by delivering yet another peal of distant laughter to his ears, and he dissipates it with a sullen wave of his hand. The air goes still for a moment, as though insulted. Then it picks up again, reminding Xiao strongly of a rebuked child pretending to not care. It ruffles the leaves of the giant tree, and plays and fools about the Inn’s loose eaves-and-shingles with breezy little whistles. The very vision of liveliness.
It prances about him, too, and playfully tousles his hair into his face before darting off to bother someone else. Xiao doesn’t look up. Part of him is grateful to be broken out of his reverie, but part of him finds it to be of little use. He is suddenly hyperaware of his muscles– of the arch of his tired shoulders and the ache in his feet. Something heavy sinks to the bottom of his stomach, and twists up coils tightly round his chest. He imagines what it would be like, to have you laugh at something he’d said, instead of your newest coworker, who is all that is charming and vivacious and mortal.
He got cake for everyone yesterday, you’d cheerily said last week, bringing a spoonful up to Xiao’s lips. He had felt both thrilled and dismayed. In the end he’d schooled his face into neutrality and commanded himself to feel the same, as you obliviously continued– It was to thank everyone for being so welcoming or something. It’s really good– try it.
It’s alright, Xiao had wanted to tell you. In the end, though, all he could force out of was a nod of half dismissal and half (questionable) agreement. Perhaps it was puerile, but he finds he doesn’t regret it.
Xiao stands and shakes his head, thumping his spear into existence. He ought to clear his mind.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Tomorrow comes, as tomorrow always does.
The passage of time means little to Xiao– the hours run by in mere moments and it is morning before he knows it. One instance the night sky blinks meekly at him. When he shuts his eyes, he feels the stars gaze upon his skin; when he opens them, he meets the sun’s glare and scrunches them shut.
How long did he sleep? There’s a dull ache in his arm from the awkward angle– he’d draped it carelessly over the rocky ground and learnt his lesson for the nth time. He cares not– his body aches always regardless, and another dull throb means nothing. Mere tears to the sea.
Xiao blinks at his palm, at the blood encrusted on his glove, and blinks. He’s angry today, he realises– full of vitriol, the whispers in his mind more poisonous– although the reason dodges him.
(Or perhaps, he dodges it.)
Xiao looks blearily around.
The sun is out today. It is low in the sky– dawn. He frowns, registering his surroundings. No, sunset. You must be setting off for home, chattily bidding your friends goodbye. Or perhaps you’ve already reached.
He starts to strain his ears to see if you laugh today too, but stops. He does not wish to make himself angrier.
It is unfortunate, then, that the weather is just as he likes it. Tiny clouds bumble through the skies like soft lambs. (He is reminded of Ganyu when she was little, and his temper cools slightly.) Moreover, there is a breeze buffeting eagerly at his back, ruffling his hair with its soft, eager fingers and begging him to spread his wings. He’ll hardly have to flap them, he knows, for them to carry him all over Liyue. He pulls off his muck-encrusted gloves, clenches and unclenches his fingers. It isn’t even humid today– the breeze seems to have lifted all the moisture off.
He sees a fox lapping at a puddle as he hikes down the hill, having pettily decided to walk. How vexing, for Cloud Retainer to have ruined his week to suddenly find herself pleased with all the world. Perhaps he should find the Traveler and ask for every little mint seed found on their travels to scatter all over her mountain. She is not there nowadays; she would never know until the rains arrive once more and there is suddenly nothing but cool green all around.
He sighs.
He sighs as he plods along, sighs as the finches cheep eagerly at him, and sighs as he hurls his spear into a lawachurl’s back. He sighs again as he bends down to pick it up, then again when he glances over the expanse the dusk-painted marsh, only to see just how far the inn is.
He reluctantly teleports.
Landing on his balcony soothes him slightly. He shakily exhales when he hears familiar laughter arise from the kitchen, along with the smell of oil and scallions. The breeze also carries a certain fragrance up to his nostrils, and he tips his head to smell it better. Some flower he forgets the name of. Or is it a resin? A new varnish to some piece of furniture? No matter. He’s about to make his way to his room when his ears prick up, and his footsteps come to a halt.
“When… think he’ll return?”
“You can… to him, he’d never… you.”
“...bad for calling…”
“How foolish!” (Verr’s voice is loud here, and incredulous. The last remnants of Xiao’s ire are fast replaced by curiosity when you retort–)
“Not even! I can’t bother him on his special day.”
“Do you even love him?” Huai’an teases, and Xiao’s anger sharply returns and twists itself into something larger and still more bitter. He walks quietly into his room and tosses his gloves into a corner, vowing to set off again as soon as he's changed into fresh clothes. Something tugs at him even as he fumes– and Xiao is no good at understanding his feelings, but this one he knows. It is a mixture of fear and sadness. A certain sort of anxiety, the herald of impending loss. He suddenly remembers you telling him something once– the difference between jealousy and envy.
It had come about in an uneventful way– you’d cast dirty looks at him all afternoon, once. It had been the sunniest day, and you’d been dappled like a fawn in the leaf-filtered light. Something inside of Xiao had been desperate to enjoy today, to remember it well– and so he’d finally asked what made you so furious. You’d laughed then, frown dissolving into playfulness, and told him you were jealous.
No, sorry, you’d said momentarily, looking thoughtful. He’d pulled the leaves off a strawberry and handed it absently to you. You’d held it up for him, and he’d declined, even as his lips brushed against it. You didn’t seem to notice– if you did, you didn’t seem to care. Somehow it had brought him both a sting of pain and immense relief when you’d tossed it carelessly into your own mouth and winced, then shrugged at the sourness, at the accidental kiss shared. I meant envious.
What is the difference? He’d asked, and sighed. What could possibly be the difference? Mortals and their million distinctions.
You’d smiled at him, knowing why he’d huffed. Jealousy is like, when you don’t want someone taking what’s yours, you’d explained. The way you don’t want me taking your food, so you jealously guard it. Envy is what I feel right now, which is wanting something someone else has. And what I want is your clear skin, because I’m breaking out and it looks kinda bad.
It looks fine, he’d said, handing you another fruit off the platter. The same occurred then– you held it up for him to eat, he shook his head, and you’d popped it into your mouth. A second kiss. You look the same, he’d insisted. Besides, you can have my food if you like.
I always look ugly?
You never look ugly.
Xiao yanks harshly on his sleeve. He first regrets lacing it with care, because all that happens is that he ends up roughly jostling his arm, then regrets it still more sorely a second time, when he recalls who made it.
What happens, he wonders, when you are afraid of someone taking what you do not have?
He’s hardly begun scolding himself for resenting some poor mortal sod before there is a knock on his door.
It is familiar– so familiar, that the moment he hears it, his shoulders soften and he calls out a gentle “enter!” before he knows it. He curses himself, then– his body responded sooner than his brain, when the embers of his temper still glow. (Not that it matters– they would never flare, not at you.)
Whatever twisted worm seethes in his rotten apple heart, though, stops thrashing as soon as you peek in through the door. You do nothing for a moment– just stare at him with narrowed eyes, and he wonders if you are as angry as he was, before he remembers you cannot see in the dark at all. A slim ray of amusement creeps into his heart, and makes itself known on his lips. You’re probably futilely searching for him still.
He draws his curtains open with a sharp flick of his wrist to let in the rapidly dimming light. You blink rapidly, then smile. So relieved and bright, eyes crinkling sweetly at the edges, that he feels something in his throat and turns away, pretending to fix the perfect laces of his sleeve.
He is determined to be angry, but nothing ever goes his way. And so he is unsurprised when his voice is soft as ever when he asks– “did you need something?”
“Woah,” you say, and he drops his sleeve and looks up, nonplussed. What sort of response is woah?
“Hm?”
Then you snort a little half-laugh, and it is like ice to a bruise. “You’re so cold today. Are you mad about something? Is this a bad time?”
Yes, he thinks, and shakes his head. (Then he remembers something you’d said to him once– you lie often– and puts it out of mind. After all, he tells himself, that is neither here nor there.)
“No,” he says, then reconsiders. “Perhaps. I fell asleep in the marsh for too long, and it did not rain again– and so I did not wake up.”
“Ah,” you say, and the familiar lilt in your voice whispers– how silly. He doesn’t mind– he knows it is an unconvincing lie, but you’re either too civil or too tactful to question it.
There is a lull in the conversation, then, and he feels something bitter creep onto the edges of his mind once more. This is not the first time he has killed an exchange.
He is about to apologise and turn you away when you start another.
“I bought some nice wines yesterday,” you say, snapping your fingers. He turns around. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Would you like to taste them with me?”
Xiao’s lashes flutter. Yes. No. “When?”
You grin. “Today! But dinner first, I think. I don’t think I should drink on an empty stomach– is it the same for the adepti?”
“A little,” he admits. Then– “When today?”
You tilt your head. “Now today, if you don’t mind. It’s dark out already.” You smile. “Shall we go?”
His heart lurches. He hums, and holds out a bare, clawed hand for you. You stare at it for a long moment before pressing your palm trustingly against his, and he jolts at the warmth– he’d forgotten he’d taken his gloves off.
His nails brush against your wrist as you pull quickly away. “Sorry,” you blurt, eyebrows furrowing in concern. He feels a flush creep up his neck and is suddenly glad for the dark. “Did I do something?”
“No,” comes his prompt answer, although he cannot tell if he lies now or speaks the truth. “A mere spasm. Shall we go?”
You nod, and cheerily grab onto his hand again. He draws the door shut behind you and locks it. In the next moment, he is with you on your balcony.
“It’s locked–” you start to say, and he waves his hand. The wind rustles, your door clicks, and Xiao slides it open. He throws you a glance, and you amusedly sigh.
“I had no clue it was that easy for you.”
“It is even easier if I do not care for the state of your carpet.” He nods at his muddy shoes as he slides them off and nudges them into a corner of the balcony with a foot. You carry yours to your perpetually full shoe-rack, eye it critically, then shrug and plop your footwear on the floor.
“You need a bigger rack,” he says. For some reason, you give the most mischievous little snigger, and he tilts his head. “What?”
“Don’t go around telling random women that, now.”
“Pardon?”
“Tsk tsk.”
He huffs, and chuckles despite himself. He cannot help it, not when you look so gleeful.
“What have I done now?” He asks, with the air of someone that knows they’ve lost.
You laugh in response, and he steps inside, stepping carefully around your carpet. Once he reaches you, you flick his forehead, so gently it is barely a tap.
“Rack can sometimes refer to boobs,” you explain, and his face burns at your nonchalance. He’s unsure of what to say in answer– he simply crosses his arms and attempts a look of disappointment. Whether he succeeds or fails is a mystery– what he does know is that you laugh again, and that something pleasant bubbles in his chest when you do.
“Well,” you finally say, saving him the trouble of responding. “You should put the polearm away and freshen up. I bought some new soap yesteday– it smells really nice. Kind of resin-y.” You hold up your arm for him to smell, then withdraw it, embarrassed. “It’s made of pine amber from Nod Krai.”
“That is a resin,” he murmurs. So that was what he smelled at the Inn before– it is indeed quite pleasant. It is unlike most mortal fragrances; he absently leans a little closer to catch more of the gently lingering scent. As he does so, he notices something– a little red mark on the side of your neck– and brushes his clawed fingers gently against it before he can quite register his actions.
“What is this?” he murmurs.
“Huh?” You clamp a hand over your neck but misjudge the motion, and Xiao’s nails catch against your throat for a moment before he draws them away, alarmed.
“Is there a scratch?” A love-bite?
“No, it’s nothing.” You snort, oblivious. “You didn’t scratch me. Sorry.” You exhale, and your breath brushes his cheek.
And you are suddenly too close– he is too close. Vision or no vision, he never ought to cross the distance between you, this thick yet invisible line– and particularly not in this listless way, inching nearer and nearer as roots to water, as devastation to unsuspecting innocents.
He lowers his lashes and parts his lips, an apology on his tongue–
You speak first. (And, he notices, you do not step away.)
“Anyway, the mark on my neck is from some sort of bug bite.” You wince. “I kept scratching it in my sleep the more it itched and it kind of drew blood– don’t be too mad.”
“Alright,” Xiao says, because he helplessly feels both guilt and anger slip from his fingers like sand the longer he speaks with you, and because he cannot remain angry with you for long regardless, and because he is eager to believe you.
He’s ashamed of the relief he feels.
He exhales. His heart aches a little as it beats, and he clenches his fist to feel his pulse jump about in his palm. Unclenches it. Blinks at his still-throbbing fingers. You hum to yourself, a refrain from some mortal song he has not heard in full, and suddenly you feel as though you are so far away.
You sound as though you are very, very near.
Xiao looks up to see you in the kitchen (when did you get there?), lit by a single lamp in the dark as you tip a large pot over a bucket. He wishes to hurry over and do it for you– scalding water is deadly to mortals, isn’t it? – but instead finds himself simply staring at your back as you slide the pot back into its place over the woodstove.
“Go wash up,” you say, cheery and guileless in the face of his bewilderment, and he nods. You do not notice it– do not notice him– and he suddenly feels a pang of the keenest agony. Words race through his throat, to the tip of his tongue– he opens his mouth to tell you, tell you everything, then shuts it. Tell you what? What is there to say? That he is stil possessed by his earlier feelings?
I don’t even know.
But then you speak, and even through the steam from the bucket, the air becomes just a little clearer.
“There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.” You turn to him with a smile, and he remembers again that you cannot see him well at all. If you could, you would note his unhappiness– he hopes.
“I’ve lit the lamps in there as well, don’t worry,” you continue, “and I’ll light the rest while you freshen up. Oh–” you snap your fingers– “and heat up dinner. I got us food from Liuli Pavilion, so although it was a bit pricey, it's bound to be good.” You grin.
There is a lull in the conversation, then, because he simply does not know how to respond. It all feels like too much– spare clothes and a towel, and lit lamps that he does not need. Now that he’s singled out the smell of pine resin, it just won’t leave his nostrils. He finds that he likes it, because you smell of it. He decides he dislikes it, because it smothers your scent. In the end he decides he is simply a fool, and turns his back on your mentions of food and fine wine. His chest constricts when he suddenly recalls Huai’an’s teasing–
Do you even love him?
He feels lightheaded, then foolish for feeling so.
In the end, he decides on– “spare clothes?”
“Yes, from last time,” you say, now in the careful fashion of someone attempting to deduce something– someone who will perhaps ask questions later. He pretends not to notice. What use is wanting you to know he’s upset when he runs from your questions anyway?
(You lie often.)
“Are my visits truly that frequent?” He asks instead.
“Not as frequent as I’d like, certainly,” You respond, smiling ruefully, and he wonders if you ever stop. He hopes you do not.
You put the bucket of hot water by his feet then, and pat his shoulder. Then you dart off– presumably to freshen up as well– and he takes the chance to bury his face in his hands and rub it hard.
As he makes his way over to the bathroom, he sees your shoes by the door, and his in the balcony.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The clothes you’d laid out for him are clean and soft and ironed.
Xiao usually does not bother– adeptal commodities do not need the same care as mortal ones. He is used to carelessly scrubbing his garments and tossing them out in the sun to dry– they do not sustain the same damage, nor do they constrict him in any manner, and that is all that matters. Finding a wrinkle or two does not bother him– nearly all that sees him is fated to die by his hand anyhow.
But you’ve taken the care to iron them carefully. Hang them up prettily. He stands in your humid bathroom, nude as a child, and ruefully thinks– he feels like one, too. This is how it must have been, although he cannot (does not) recall his youth.
He reaches for the towel and pats himself dry. He does not need to– anemo is a most useful element– but there is something grounding in the ritual of doing things the manual way– something tender about walking you home instead of teleporting you, of taking the stairs at the inn instead of the lift, of getting to linger a little longer in the cooling shade of your adoring smiles, of your little laughs and mistakes.
He brings the towel to his hair and rubs. Gathers the longer strands in his cloth covered fingers to squeeze the water out of them. The towel feels heavier and limper than before when he hangs it up to tug his clothes on, and once he’s done he turns to the mirror to see someone he knows all too well.
And yet he looks so… out of place. His downy hair is mussed in the way mortal strands never are. His skin is porcelain, features too perfect. The lamplight catches on his gold eyes.
He looks like no one save for himself.
Xiao blows out the lamps.
Are my visits truly that frequent?
Not as frequent as I’d like.
He wonders if you lie.
(Do you even love him?)
A throb ghosts its ache-filled lips over the base of his skull, and Xiao weakly wills it away. His shoes are still on your balcony.
He presses his face into his palms, and the scent of pine amber fills his nostrils.
There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.
He inhales, then softly exhales, suddenly conscious of his breathing.
He is in your house, is he not? He thinks back to your enquiring tone, your gentle expression. Scented steam wafts around the bath area still, and Xiao watches it catch the moonlight that just barely creeps in through the tinted window.
You cannot have lied, he hesitantly decides, and something eases in his chest. You cannot have, if you took the time to care for his clothes, making them look as new as when they first came into his possession. When you lit the lamps despite knowing there is no need– when you come to the inn in person whenever you can, despite not having to.
(Perhaps this is all that love is sometimes– a series of unnecessary actions.)
He thinks about his shoes still on the balcony and feels sick to his stomach. He presumes too much.
Xiao steps quietly outside, towel in hand, and pads soundlessly over to where he can hear you. You’re occupied with laying everything out on the coffee table in your living room. When he makes an enquiring hum, you glance back with a smile.
“The dinner table’s a mess right now– I hope you don’t mind us eating here?”
“No,” he affirms, absently surveying the spread. A few expensive dishes to his taste and a few to yours. In the very center you’ve placed the Tianshu meat, and he truly does not know how you’ll finish it all.
“Can you truly finish all this?” he can’t help but ask, and you whip your head around with an exaggerated frown. And somehow, suddenly, he finds himself biting back an abrupt, tiny smile.
“This is in no way a you situation,” you huff. “This is a we situation. You’re going to finish the things I got for you, alright? Or I’m keeping dessert hostage.”
“Dessert?”
“Your favourite,” you easily supply, taking the towel out of his hands. “What else?” Saying so, you walk over to your balcony to drape the towel over your drying rack.
“I did not think–” he starts to say, then trails off when he notices– his shoes are nowhere to be seen.
“Oh yeah, they don’t have almond tofu,” you say. He barely hears. Where are his shoes?
He turns sharply to the door.
There, wiped clean and nestled against yours–
“–so I made it myself,” you finish, sliding the door shut behind you. The sound of rattling glass panes shakes him out of his reverie, and his lashes flutter rapidly as he looks towards you.
“You did?”
“I did,” you say, looking really quite pleased with yourself. (It is adorable, he thinks, then erases the thought. It’s useless, however– he simply ends up thinking it a second time.)
“I actually…” you sigh, and plop heavily onto the couch. “I tried making the cake too, but I think I’ll have to stick to unbaked cheesecakes. It’s alright, though.” You shrug. “The baker did a much better job than I could have. And oh!” You exclaim, eyes widening a little, and he hopes he does not look as soft as he feels.
“Yes?” he prompts, and blushes at his own voice. He hopes you do not notice in the lamplight.
“Miss Xianyun offered to bake you a cake, too.” You smile warmly at the thought, and unbeknownst to him, he smiles a little too. “I had no clue she knew you, though! How odd. She offered when we both got caught in the rain when I was on my way to the bakery. It stopped raining soon after, so I was able to go ahead and place my order.”
“I see,” he says. How odd indeed, for her to show you such sudden kindness. But ah, it is likely an apology for having caused trouble for you before. He knows you must have your suspicions, but is glad when you don’t probe further.
“Oh, and–” you instead say– “my new coworker– do you remember him? The guy who got everyone cake a couple weeks back. He offered to come along to pick a gift, but I said no. I wanted to pick something myself.”
Xiao wonders when he’d begun smiling, because his lips are suddenly keen on settling themselves into a flat line. He forces them to stay as they are and hopes it does not look too maniacal. “I see,” he mutters, and congratulates himself on not sounding too curt. “For whom?”
There is a long pause, and you blink at him slowly, in the stupidest, sweetest way. He blinks stupidly back into the still air, and an owl screeches outside in the distance somewhere.
You make a sound in the back of your throat then, eyes widening in the loveliest manner. You look so sincerely astonished that he flushes in confusion. Clearly this is a most catastrophic social blunder. There is an obvious answer that he does not yet know.
Is it your birthday? Was this a treat to yourself? For a wretched moment, he racks his mind for an answer, but blanks horrifically.
He is about to resign himself to embarrassment when you laugh, so bright and soft and warm, and say–
“For you, of course!” And it is now Xiao’s turn to be baffled. You giggle helplessly at his expression as you continue. “Huai’an was right, you really– you seriously forgot? Xiao, it’s your birthday tomorrow.” You shake your head, still smiling, eyes aglow with mirth. “Happy birthday eve! Or something like that.”
Not even! rings in his head, louder and louder. I can’t bother him on his special day.
Do you even love him?
Xiao’s face burns.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Dinner is a cheery affair.
After being the fortunate victim of your endless laughter and affectionate teasing, he finds himself seated beside you on your couch. You’re seated knee to knee at first, thighs brushing as you laugh, as you lean over to pile more food onto his plate and as he does the same for you. You seem to eventually get a bit tired of continually glancing to the side, though, and soon you’re shin to shin, facing one another as you eat with the dishes in hand. This way, when you cover your mouth adorably with your fingers and erupt into laughter, he sees your pretty eyes up close as they crinkle at the ends and sparkle with amusement.
When you pretend to make a grab at his food, he simply puts it on your plate. You protest– of course you do– and he finally agrees to take half. The conversation soon resumes its usual chatter, and Xiao is first amused when he sees you prop the couch cushions behind yourself for more comfort, then flustered when you lean over him to do the same for him.
And as frivolous as mortal conversations may get, he cannot chide them– cannot chide you. In the wake of his realisation, there is renewed hope within him that presents itself as curiosity– he asks a dozen little questions about the things you tell him, prods at length about your thoughts on Xianyun (he hopes he is subtle, and suspects he is not) and smiles when you click your tongue as you recall Xingqiu’s newest prank.
“At least he switched up his targets.” You sigh, but there is affection in your voice and your lips curve into the prettiest smile. His heart hurts. “It was Xiangling this time.”
He hums in response, and you continue.
“Although I think he’ll regret that soon enough. I heard she doesn’t want to cook for him for a while. Poor Xingqiu.”
“Shenhe would deem him richly deserving,” Xiao murmurs, and feels his ears turn warm as you laugh.
“She does! She looked so smug when she told me!” You snicker. “She also wanted to wish you an early happy birthday, by the way. And Xiangling wants to know if you mind a little vanilla in your almond tofu.”
“I do,” he answers truthfully. “Almond tofu ought to taste like itself.”
You snort. “I'd say you remind me of a coffee purist, but vanilla can get pretty overpowering at times. Did you know I drank a spoonful once?”
He grimaces, and you laugh again, and although it is dewy moonlight that creeps in through the tall windows to settle on your skin– so subtle in the lamplight that no mortal would ever see– it feels as though through you, it is the sun that has come out. He watches through his lashes– some things cannot be stared straight at, after all.
You soon bring out the liquor.
“This one’s just rice wine,” you say, holding up a bottle. “This–” you say, pulling another out of the cabinet, “is dandelion wine– this is what I bought the other day. And here’s some mead– made from zaytun peaches, I think? It was a gift, so I can’t remember where it was purchased,” you muse. “I also have sparkling wine and… uh, some bard gave me this extra sparkling wine, whatever that means. So I don’t really trust it.”
Xiao tilts his head enquiringly. “Some bard?” He echoes.
You nod innocently. “Yes, from Mondstadt. We met at the wineshop– he saw me looking around and told me this is the best, strongest wine Mondstadt has to offer. The staff escorted him out though.” You snort. “I wonder where he is now. Prison, do you think? For just a little while? Since I doubt he’s licensed.”
“Unlikely,” Xiao says, before he can stop himself. When you blink at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity, he sighs. “I may know this bard,” Xiao admits. “He is a little eccentric at times, but ultimately harmless… although his wines may be entirely too strong for your tastes.”
You look up, startled. “Truly?”
He hums. You regard the bottles before you, and he wonders what you are thinking, in the slow, easy way he always does with you. He knows there is no rush– your thoughts will be laid before him soon enough. You’re not in the habit of making him guess, after all.
“Well,” you muse. “In that case– do you want to give his wine a try?”
Xiao hesitates. Barbatos’ wines are potent– dangerously so. Were he to become intoxicated and lose himself… his stomach roils at the thought. He ought to decline.
A glance at you, however, weakens his resolve ever so slightly. The merest splinter. He realises then that declining a drink would mean explaining why– and piqueing your curiosity in a way that pertains to the incognito archon of Mondstadt of all people would be… undesirable at the very least. His resolve begins to crumble.
Perhaps a cup, then. Surely it cannot be enough to intoxicate him so soon– what could, after all? – and particularly not on a full stomach. Besides, Barbatos would not have given you the wine intending for you to drink it– he is well acquainted with mortals and is familiar with their caution. This is, in all likelihood, a present meant for him. And would it not be rude to decline a favour from an archon?
His resolve dissolves like a block of salt in water.
A cup won’t hurt, he reluctantly decides, and nods.
Mere minutes and just some sips later, Xiao feels himself beginning to sway.
It hits him all at once. Apparently, it can hurt. He has no time to panic, though– one moment he thinks only of how the wine smells a little unusual, and burns his throat with an unexpected ferocity– in the next, his vision narrows, and the inside of the glass is all he sees. The lamplight arcs into it, then through the transparent, wispy wine. The light dashes along the rim and flings itself into his eyes. His lashes are all aflutter, and one falls off. It is suspended in the air one moment– a single dark line against a sparkling background– and suddenly it is inside the glass.
It is overwhelming.
“I do not want it now,” he says automatically, and sets it down harder than he meant to. When he attempts to recline, his neck slams into the backrest sooner than he expects with a thump.
You sit up in alarm. He watches through slow, thick blinks as you hurriedly set your glass of harmless zaytun mead aside.
“Xiao?” Your fingers grasp at his shoulder and he shoves them off, feeling too much and too little. The whispers that had lain subdued all evening come awake, and he clutches his head with a soft groan, attempting to muffle the cacophony within.
“Xiao!” Your eyes widen, and suddenly your palms are on his cheek. One cradles his jaw and brings his head up to rest against your chest– the other brushes his bangs out of his face. He sighs– somehow it is a relief to have you so close. He feels as though he's a little bird that has flown for hours in the heat, and finally found a pond full of the coolest water.
You do not seem to feel the same. “Fuck,” you hiss, and he hears your voice in your throat, your chest. He catches a hint of your heartbeat then, and snuggles curiously closer. There it is. Steady as a drum. Fast as one too. He doesn’t think it normal, then remembers drums can be played slow too, and hums to himself. You’ll be fine, like a drum. Flawless logic. He’s a general, after all. He’s supposed to be clever. Strong too, and skilled. And he… he yawns, and slips lower.
His head flops onto your lap and you cry out again in alarm. Belatedly, he realises you keep telling him to let go. Let go of what? He’s grasping your shirt with one hand and has an arm around your waist. Which is he supposed to let go of?
“Be specific,” he grumbles.
“Huh?!”
He sighs. “Mortals… it is neither here nor here.”
“You–!”
And he’s strong too, he thinks, because he doesn’t like when you are afraid, and right now you sound truly worried. He hates it. Being strong means he can quell your anxiety, yes? Eliminate all that hurts you. He shuts his eyes and presses his nose into your thigh. When he inhales, a pleasant smell fills his nostrils– pine sap, or whatever. He huffs. He’s strong. He’s not good for much else, and he is a receptacle for all that is wrong with this world, but he’s– he’s the one with the Primordial Jade Winged Spear, bequeathed to him by the Geo Archon himself. He is Morax’s general, the Vigilant Yaksha. And sure, he’s not as good as Cake Man. He scoffs derisively.
But he’s– he’s. Surely. No, perhaps– perhaps there is something to him that Cake Man lacks. Yes, he remembers, a little smug now. Yes, there is. He can hear all that happens in Liyue. If you need him, you can always call for him, yes?
He realises you’ve stopped moving, stopped talking. It’s late at night, which is when mortals sleep. Good. You’re resting with a hand on his back and the other in his hair. He hates to confess– but that is also good.
There are several seconds of hushedness, then. He hears raucous laughter in the distance. Perhaps a neighbour’s party, or someone all the way across Liyue. The owls grow shriller outside, and he knows a parent has brought the owlets a meal. His fingers twitch. He finds he cannot move them as finely as he ought.
Into the silence, he whispers– “I may be drunk.” He’s confused, then, because that felt like a thought.
He starts again, louder. “I think–”
“Why does my coworker bother you?” You quietly ask.
Xiao stiffens. Stupidly, he wonders– when did you wake up? Did you read his mind?
“I…” he starts. He cannot think of a lie fast enough, but a million questions occur to him, chief among them being how did you know? And who told you? And weren’t you asleep? Don’t mortals sleep at night?
Soon after, he wonders– did he spew all his thoughts aloud?
Xiao suspects the answer is yes. He swallows, and tries for a lie anyway. His mind grasps desperately for anything within reach, but it is as drunk as its keeper and just as clumsy. And so all he ends up saying is–
“I lie often.”
I, he thinks, as soon as the words leave him, have scarce sounded more foolish before.
You laugh then, and he smiles, and you continue to laugh, even though it is a wobbly sort of laugh. An almond tofu of a laugh. As though it could turn to mush with one squish. And just as sweet. Perhaps sweeter. Surely sweeter.
He realises then that the voices in his head have fallen silent.
“I know,” you whisper. Your fingers tremble slightly as they comb through his hair, nails dragging gently against his scalp. He purrs, in the way some birds do, with a soft chirp at the start and at last a little click.
“I…” you start, then sniffle. He wonders if you’re crying, but cannot find the strength to glance up. “I want to ask you so many questions,” you whisper, in that still-shaking voice. Your chest brushes against his hair as you lean lower, and he exhales softly.
“But you’re drunk,” you say gently, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “You’re buzzed out of your mind.”
“Then now is a good time,” he answers, deciding to be truthful. His heart soars. It just feels so much nicer, to simply be laid bare before you. “Now is when I will be honest. It will be diffi– difficult later.”
“I know,” you murmur, and with some difficulty, he finally manages to look at you. Your eyes are huge, and gold, like his.
No, he realises. Those eyes are mine.
“But,” you murmur, so close to him he can see iridescence on your every eyelash, smell the zaytun mead on your lips. “When you’ll be honest later, you’ll have chosen it.” You press a kiss to your fingertips, and bring them to his forehead. His eyes sting.
“Let’s head to bed for now,” you say, gentler than gentle. In this moment, you are the very vision of softness, of all that is right in this world. He feels terribly selfish, for bringing his wrongs to you, even though your kindness cannot undo the cruelty he inflicted upon others, the cruelty inflicted upon him in the annals of a nearly forgotten time.
You do not know what you are doing, he wants to whisper. You seem to see the desperate warning in his eyes; gently, firmly, you shake your head.
“Drink some water first,” you softly say. Your hands are warm against his cheeks. “We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.”
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
When Xiao awakens, it is with your hair in his mouth.
There is a steady ache at the base of his skull. It throbs in beat with his pulse. This is not new; this he barely notices.
What he does notice with the force of a thousand suns however, is that it is early morning and he is in a bed that smells entirely of you– overwhelmingly so. Your scent permeates deep into every fiber of every fabric– the duvet that covers him, the pillow beneath his head.
Your clothes.
And mine, he realises. His racing heart soon outstrips the throb in his head– all else seems to fade in his perception. His senses register only you.
There’s your hair in his mouth, your head directly on his chest. He swallows and hopes you don’t wake up to the beat of his heart against his ribs– not when your legs are wrapped around one of his, and when you have an arm draped comfortably over him. He cannot see it– it is hidden by his duvet– but it is solid against his belly and your fingers nestle by his side. A couple have crept under him. They are warm– as warm as him. You are the same, balmy temperature, twined into one being beneath the blankets.
Worse still– when he attempts to shift away, he realises just where his hands are. One of them is beside his torso, warm and comfortable beneath a mess of pillows and old clothes you forgot to toss into the laundry. The other– the other is wrapped firmly round your waist, keeping you snug against him. You’re warm against him– overwarm– and he threatens to grow still warmer with the unyielding flush that smears carelessly across his features.
He shifts a foot up and tries to move the other to no avail. Your thighs resist– they lock tightly around one of his, and his face now feels as though it is truly alight when you hum in annoyance, breath huffing over his neck and collarbones. Your knees tighten round his leg warningly. Even in your sleep you are as firm as a bull, and he gives a shaky exhale along with a prayer to his lord, to extricate him from this position.
Although… he confesses, if only to himself, that he is extremely comfortable. Your steady breaths and warmth… the soft pillows that cradle him carefully. His lashes flutter. His wakefulness is fading softly alongside his surprise– sleep is beginning to tighten round him the way you have.
He brushes your hair aside with his free hand, and falls asleep.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
When he awakens a second time, it is with his hair in your mouth.
He wonders if it is an incorrigible habit of yours, to creep towards the nearest source of warmth. When he blinks, his long lashes brush your neck. You're braced against him, sprawled on your belly, arms spread wide on either side. One tugs him absently closer and for a moment, his mouth lies flush to your collarbones.
He is forcibly reminded of a cormorant seated spread on a rock, damp wings facing the sun. You look a bit like it right now, he decides– eager for warmth, arms wide enough to embrace all the world.
He's unsure of what to think when he realises that includes him, too.
Your breaths tickle his scalp. Your legs are entangled in his, still, and he grimaces when he realises he fell asleep all over in spite of you being so close. He wriggles away, then, ignoring the crack that widens slowly in his chest. Tugs your arm off of him and slips away, then gently shoves your legs off with his hands.
When he pulls the duvet off himself, though, you sense the sudden movement in your sleep and tug it immediately back up, wrapping an arm tight round his waist. His breath catches in his throat.
He tugs at your elbow. You refuse to let go, and he buries his face in his hands. He can feel his pulse in his head, in the tips of his fingers. If all this were to amount to nothing– as selfish as it would be, he might have to keep his distance from you for a while.
He is not kind, however– not buoyant like you, not firm enough to brace himself sternly against the tides of his nature. Murmurs mount in his mind again, begging him to lend his mouth to them, his throat. His hands.
He clenches his fist– these feelings are too much. An old excuse comes along to shield him, then– you'll hurt them if you stay.
The wind cards your curtains aside, and your vision gleams in the morning light.
His breaths still.
How– how is this little thing meant to protect you? He exhales. Inhales. Exhales again. Your shield, he can't help but think, is softer and feebler than the freshest of leaves.
He's suddenly reminded of Wangshu Inn. Then, as he traces your soft cheek with a single, clawed finger, he remembers– he didn’t even get to try any dessert last night.
And it's because– because. He pauses, then runs his fingers through his hair. His nails dig into his scalp. That wine.
Curse that trickster. Very clever of Barbatos, to give him something that hits all at once. Xiao would never ordinarily drink enough to be even a little tipsy– he must have expected this, wily fiend.
What did he say? What did he reveal? Xiao racks his mind, but most of his recollections are of your soft lap and the too-bright light glinting gaudily off of his glass and– and. He feels his blood turn to ice.
Something about him lying, always. And– he grimaces. Morax. Did he tell you he felt–?
Envious, he tells himself.
You lie often.
You rouse beside him, and he recoils like a flame from water.
Your fingers twitch first– you shuffle a bit beside him and open your bleary eyes. Blink them slowly at his waist. Xiao observes your clumsy motions, your puffy face. He wonders if it is as puffy every day.
Let’s head to bed for now.
We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.
He hopes you've forgotten.
“Good morning,” you mumble. Your breath is warm against his hip. “Awake already?”
“It is well into the morning,” he answers quietly. As though you won't remember if he speaks softly and makes no sudden movements. “Around ten.”
“Oh.” You yawn. There's silence as you play a bit with the fabric of his shirt, then–
“Are you hungover?”
“Hm? No.”
“Oh,” you say again, and draw yourself up to sit on your knees. You're just a bit taller than him like this. Seated this way, with the light streaming in from behind, you look more divine than he is.
You tower over him, a bit. He feels himself quail ever so slightly.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” he murmurs. Suddenly, he does not wish to meet your eyes. “And I apologize for the inconvenience. It should never have been your responsibility; I will take my leave now.”
“No! I mean–” You blink, and put the hand you'd brought to his shoulder back down. “Won't you stay for breakfast?”
Xiao's answer is far more curt than he wished for it to be. “I do not need sustenance.”
In the silence that follows, Xiao finds amazement in how well your sheets are made. The careful embroidery and the sturdy cotton– linen? he cannot tell– is superb in a way that would have pleased his brother, were he here.
(He wonders if his siblings would have liked you. The thought is quick to vanish– they are not here, and you will be gone before long, and so ruminating on either is foolish when he knows he ought to think instead of the monsters that must crawl all over Mt. Xuanlian at this very moment– although then again, Mt. Aocang is close by.
Perhaps Chiwang Terrace– unless Lingyuan has taken care of it already.
As distress rises inside of him, clinging desperately to his sternum, he inhales and exhales and shushes it. There will be something to do– there is always something to be done.)
He is thinking of what, precisely, when you speak.
“That's fine,” you say, and his lashes lower further when he notes that your voice has lost its usual inflection. It is flatter, controlled. “That's alright. I need to eat though,” you chirp, and his chest aches at the faux cheer, the performance you put forth. Do you always do this? Put on a smile and coax all those around you into something right? He is ashamed to realise he does not know. After all, in every moment of your sadness to which he has borne witness, you have been honest with him. There was no guesswork, no complicated etiquette– he has held you close, and you have cried.
You jump out of bed. “I'll freshen up. You do so, too. And then could you check what fruit I have in the pantry? Or–” you snap your fingers– “we could have last night's leftovers. And dessert!”
Xiao blinks up at you, nonplussed, as you smile. Privately, he wonders why a smile is always deemed an expression of joy. As it rests on your lips now, it bleeds only rue.
“I–” he begins, then stops when he sees your fingers twitch. He nods. “Very well. But I will leave soon after.”
Your eyes widen for the briefest of moments, and then you are all sad smiles once more. “Sure.”
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Xiao does not know how the minutes pass, but he soon hears your door creak open. Your kitchen window is open, and so Xiao absently predicts what happens next– the way your home is ventilated lets the wind rustle into the hallway and slam your door shut behind you. It gives a soft, dismayed roar, and the house stills once more.
He hears you click your tongue. Some moments pass before you emerge, and he shuffles aside to let you lean against your counter and reach over for whatever it is that you’d like. You brace yourself against it, fingers gripping the granite. As you survey your kitchen, Xiao surveys you.
You freshened up rather quickly today. He can see a damp spot of perfume on your shoulder from your unusually clumsy fingers, and the strands of hair that frame your face are a little damp still. You do not look as composed as before. It is a bit ironic– you’ve had more time to steel yourself, and yet.
“I’m not really hungry right now,” you say, after a pause. “Last night’s dinner was pretty heavy.”
“Mhm.”
A beat again. Then–
“Did you enjoy it?” You ask.
“The dinner?” he returns, and stiffens when your lashes lower. The question has left you with an opening to direct the conversation elsewhere, into territories that worry him more than they should.
It ought to matter little to Xiao– in fact, a mortal's lost company ought not matter at all. But he has softened more than he'd realised– something gentle has worn away at his hardness, and he feels a little ashamed, and then a bit defiant, for wanting something tender to lean against, for once.
His heart speeds in his chest, purrs against his ribs like a cat attempting to soothe itself. It is not your fault that Xiao is quick to cling– quick to latch onto any softness offered, naively press his palms to warmth and let it creep up his arms to his chest. He has done it before– many times, in truth.
And, he reassures himself, those losses shall prove to be far heftier in time.
Something quiet and reasonable asks– what is there to lose today? It is squashed by his fear that says– something, something. Something.
He watches through unwittingly narrowed eyes as you part your lips, then lick them. You do not meet his gaze. Yours strays lower instead, to his waist.
My hands, he registers, when you sidle closer to take one of them into both yours, your callouses brushing against his. You squeeze. Gentle at first, then tighter.
“If you teleport away,” you whisper, “I'll scream. Really loud, okay?”
He's not sure what to do with that. When he tells you this, you meet his eyes and smile, and his heart slows ever so slightly, more drum than cat.
Yours, he remembers, had sounded a little like that too.
“Last night,” you say, looking earnestly at his face, “you said some things. You don't have to tell me about them again if you want, but if you would, it would– it would be nice.”
“Nice?” Xiao echoes. You nod.
“You said something about hating my coworker. And you mumbled a bit when I took you to my bedroom.” His face ears turn pink, but you plow on.
“And– and. I'm starting to realise I'll have to do this myself.” Your lips part round a nervous little laugh, and your breath fans against his cheek. Your eyes glimmer in a way that suggests they wish to sorely turn away– to look anywhere but at him– and for the first time, Xiao feels a sense of camaraderie with you. “And… it should be fine as long as you don't run off. We'll be fine. Yes? Yes.” You let out a shaky exhale.
His voice splinters when he starts to speak, burdened by the hope it bears. It would embarrass him, but only if anything could draw attention away from your anxious, eager expression. Your eyes crinkle in worry but a small smile plays shyly on your lips, and Xiao suddenly wishes words did not exist, so he could simply kiss you and be done with it.
“What?” He breathes, and you huff and dig your nails into his gloves, fingers trembling.
Something seems to thrum inside of him and inside you, and resonate impatiently into the room. The kitchen seems a little brighter when you shake your head and steel yourself.
“Okay,” you say, breathless. “At least I'll be the first to go. I'm going to tell everyone you're a coward, mind you.”
“You won't,” he replies. “You don’t.” You never do, and you never leave him hanging, or make him guess, and he frees his fingers then to wrap his hands round yours instead.
His heart soars. This is assurance– this is a guarantee. And if you intend to bear him, to let him be your ruin–
Xiao does not know whether to first apologise or confess. It matters not, though, because you resolve even this trouble.
“Yes,” you say, and he swears he feels his chest giddily expand like a balloon. When a gust of wind billows round him, he lets his buoyant heart be pushed closer to yours. When your smile turns bolder, warmer, he knows he's lost whatever game he didn't know he was playing. And– it's alright if you win always, so long as he gets to see your smiles.
“Yes,” you say, and he brings his fingers up to your cheek, because you are real, and you are here. His breath hitches. “Because I love you. And I said it first.”
There is no stopping his smiles now. He huffs a laugh, first relieved, then joyous (perhaps a bit triumphant, too) and stops suddenly, when he sees you've drawn even closer. His palm fits snugly against your cheek as his claws settle in your hair.
Would that he could halt this moment, to look at you carefully. Engrave this instant into his lungs so he can feel it with every breath. For the first time in a long time, things have gone his way without the slightest price to pay– without even the slightest fear of all going to ruin. Things are just easier with you, he realises.
Time is her own master, though, and does not deign to even slow for him (and he is half amused and half irked by the fact that he can find something to rue even now). Perhaps, he muses, this is the small price she demands in exchange for the years of comfort to come. She makes no compromises– she is difficult that way– and disagreeable often.
What is most agreeable, though, is the first brush of your lips against his.
"Is this okay?" You whisper, right against his mouth. And oh, now time slows, somewhere deep in your eyes. It is no wonder that it stops for you and not him– you are so lovely that the morning sun itself seems to bend its rays as it casts them, so they twist and squirm to engulf you. You are so bright, and so warm against his hand, and your body is flush against his.
"Yes," he breathes. There was nothing else to say. And because he is impatient, and a little afraid of waking up– and because, he reasons, you have asked him in the past to let himself be selfish– he kisses you.
(And if he smiles when he does so, you do not point it out. When his eyes are slow to open once it is over– once you have drawn away from his insistent lips and turned warm at the brushes of his fingers against your hips– a look at him is all it takes to reassure you. He is going to stay.)
hello hello!! thank you to everyone who read this + has reached this far!! here is a smooch for your troubles (˵˘ ³˘˵) <33 !!
happy xiao day everyone!!
reblogs are vv appreciated !! they help a lot w circulating a fic you see (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡♡
You turn towards the voice, a smile settling on your lips on reflex. Neuvillette seems uncharacteristically nervous, hesitating to approach you and close the distance. It’s a little charming, a little sad.
“Here I am,” you confirm and extend your hand towards him, “Don’t move too quickly.”
With cautious steps, he comes close enough to take your hand and sit beside you at the end of the pier, your legs hanging above the water. His touch is careful, almost afraid, and so you suppose the invitation wasn’t enough of a reassurance. His face is still too tense as well, despite the smile on yours. You squeeze his hand.
“The sky looks beautiful today,” you sigh, finally looking away, back towards the horizon.
The water’s surface reflects the heavens, both blooming in soft shades of pink and orange, dappled with cottoncandy-like clouds. It’s a warm day. The colors surrounding you feel like the warmth of embers on a chilly day. And with Neuvillette here now, it’s almost perfect.
Almost. The reason you came here has yet to appear again after your lover joined you.
“How did you find me?” you ask while you wait.
“One of the melusines said you’ve been visiting this place frequently,” he says. You feel his gaze on you, searching your face for something.
“I am,” you hum, “But if there’s anything troubling you, you should just ask.”
“Are you upset?” It takes him but a moment.
You shake your head, finally turning back to face him. He seems relieved, despite the look in his eyes being no less soft or the regret written in his features no less prominent.
“I’m not,” you reassure him while squeezing his hand. You cover it with your other one too for good measure. “I know you have no control over how long the court will go on for. It would be unfair and stupid to hold it against you.”
“Still I promised,” he mutters. Slowly, he leans his forehead against yours. “And I didn’t keep the promise.”
“It happens, love,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his cheek, “It was out of your control.”
You kiss him, a slow, lingering kiss on his lips before you pull away. Your intertwined hands stay comfortably where your thighs touch.
“Also the delay wasn’t as long as I thought it would be or I’d meet you in front of the Opera.”
“There shouldn’t have been any in the first place,” he objects softly.
“I’m really not mad,” you chuckle. Hoping your touch could fix what words can’t, you lie your head on his shoulder. “It’s so pretty here. Time passes by so fast.”
Finally he seems to relax the smallest bit, leaning into your touch and taking in the view.
“How did you find this spot?” he asks.
“Just like you, I was tipped off,” you laugh, “But first you have to promise not to get worried again.”
He nods slightly so that he doesn’t ruffle your hair.
“I overheard a little child calling out your name while pointing at the water a few weeks ago,” you begin, “I was confused, and so was the mother. But it turns out the child was just pointing at one of the otters in the sea, thinking it resembled you,” you chuckle again, “And I must agree. The otters often play here, so I come to watch them when I’m missing you.”
For a moment, Neuvillette is silent. Then, at last, he laughs with a small sigh.
“Otters?” his voice sounds half-amused, half-resigned.
“The ones with the blue markings,” you explain. You feel his breath fan your ear as he tilts his head to hide in your hair.
“I suppose there might be some resemblance to be seen by imaginative individuals,” he murmurs, as if seriously considering his own likeness to the small creatures. You just hum in agreement.
The water is too calm, perhaps the critters got scared off by his presence. It’s no matter, now that he’s here you don’t need to watch their cute fluffy faces that much. Sitting here under the pastel sky is enjoyable nonetheless.
“Still,” your lover sighs after a while, and you can recognize the tone of bitter regret even in that one word, “You should not have a reason to miss me.”
You squeeze his hand again.
“Missing you means I care about you,” you respond, “And I don’t mind. It makes time spent with you sweeter.”
He ponders your words for a moment, or you assume he does. Eventually he smiles and presses a kiss to your hair.
“I suppose it does.”
You sit by the water for a while longer, until the pinks above the skyline start turning purple and stars wink at you from above.
A/N: This was loosely inspired by the Phainon date video posted on the official account last year that I was only recently made aware of. Which, unfortunately for everyone involved, immediately activated my brainrot.
I also blame everyone who encouraged me, enabled me, commented about the wheat field kissing, or generally fueled this idea. (Myself included.) This ended up much softer, longer, and more romantic than originally intended. Enjoy! 💙
Tags: Fluff. Early Relationship. Aedes Elysiae Setting. Ambiguous Timeline. Soft Phainon. Flirting. Tenderness. Kissing. Lightly Suggestive. Wheat Field Make Out. Mutual Pining But They Already Kiss About It. Affection. Domestic Vibes. They Are So In Love. Fishing. Intimacy. Symbolism.
Word count: 4690
⋆ ✦ ⋆
The breeze is the first thing you notice: warm and salt-soft, carrying the sea with it. The fields ripple gold beneath the afternoon light, endless and alive, moving in long slow waves all the way to the horizon.
You’ve stepped down from the cart and you haven’t moved yet. You’re just standing there, breathing it in. “It’s beautiful,” you say.
Phainon studies you with interest. He’s been watching you the whole time.
“You think so?”
You laugh softly. “You sound nervous.”
“I am nervous.” The honesty of it is so unguarded it catches you completely off guard.
You look at him properly.
He’s not in his armor. You knew he wouldn’t be but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. He’s in a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm. Loose trousers, worn boots that have clearly seen actual use, a wide leather belt that belongs to the practical world.
His white hair moves freely in the breeze, and the sunlight falls across his face and his collarbones and his bare forearms and he looks like a man standing in his hometown, hoping you’ll love it.
“I wanted it to be perfect,” Phainon admits.
Before you can answer, he presses his lips to your cheek. His hand finds your waist as he straightens like he needed the contact to complete the thought.
“The roads weren’t too rough?” he asks immediately, stepping back into practical concern like it’s safer ground. “I should have arranged for—”
“Phainon.”
“What?”
“You’re worrying.”
“I’m being attentive.”
“You’re worrying about the roads when I’m standing in front of picturesque fields.” You look at him. “I’m fine. Everything is fine. Better than fine.”
“Better than fine,” he repeats quietly.
“Honestly,” you admit, turning back to look at the wheat rolling gold all the way to the glittering line of sea beyond it, “it’s even more than you described.”
He laughs. “Then I clearly need to improve my descriptive abilities.”
You look at him. “Just keep talking.”
Something in his expression does something completely helpless at that, and then he smiles, and offers you his arm, and does exactly that.
He leads you through the village slowly.
Phainon walks differently here. That’s the thing you notice first, and then can’t stop noticing. He points things out as you pass. His voice gets warmer, less measured, slightly faster, like he’s remembering things faster than he can say them and wants to give you all of it.
He gestures toward the fields as you pass a low stone wall that separates the paths from the open wheat.
“I used to help during harvest season,” he says. “With my little sickle. I was very serious about it. Very committed to contributing.”
“You? With a little sickle?”
“I was hardworking.”
You grin at him. “You were tiny.”
“I was strong-willed.”
You snort. Phainon gives you a look of profound mock offence.
“And besides,” he continues, “I ate a great deal afterward. My parents always said I cost more in food than all the other children combined.” He pauses. “In retrospect I think that’s connected to the height.”
You look him over. Phainon notices immediately. His ears turn pink at the tips.
“Well,” you say thoughtfully, “you are very tall.”
“That is—yes. Objectively.”
“And strong.”
“That part is also,” he says, with slightly less composure than he started with, “a matter of record.”
“And gorgeous.”
He nearly loses a step. “I,” he says, with great care, “did not say anything about gorgeous.”
“No,” you agree, completely innocent. “I did.”
The look he gives you after that is so openly, helplessly fond that your heart does something inconvenient. Phainon opens his mouth, closes it, appears to be searching for a response and finding that none of his usual ones are adequate for the situation.
You lean up before he can recover and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Phainon laughs, and you feel it in your chest.
Please kiss me properly, you think.
He doesn’t. Not yet. Instead he finds your hand, wraps his fingers around yours and keeps walking.
One moment you’re rounding a corner past a house and the next there’s a large white shape launching itself at Phainon’s legs with the unrestrained enthusiasm of an animal for whom the concept of dignity simply doesn’t exist.
Phainon catches him easily, one hand steadying him before he can take out his knees, and he responds by attempting to consume his face.
“Snowy,” Phainon says.
Snowy ignores him completely and turns his full attention to you.
You go down to one knee immediately. Snowy is impossibly fluffy, the kind of white that exists in cotton and clouds. He puts both paws on your knee and licks your face before you can prepare for it.
You laugh, hands already buried in his fur. “Hello. Hello, you’re very—” He licks you again. “You’re very enthusiastic.”
You look up at Phainon over Snowy’s head. At the white fluffy hair, the bright eyes, the absolute guileless warmth radiating from every inch of him.
“Phainon,” you say.
“Yes.”
“He looks exactly like you.”
Phainon stares at you. “He does not—”
“The hair,” you say. “The eyes. The way he looked at me when he came around that corner—”
“Hah, well, he is a dog.”
“He is a very handsome, very endearing being who apparently decided I was the most important person in the vicinity.” You scratch behind Snowy’s ears and he practically melts onto the ground. “Sound familiar?”
The look on his face is caught between genuine offence and the helpless amusement of someone who knows, on some level, that he’s lost this argument.
Phainon tilts his head, grinning helplessly, visibly regaining his composure. Instead of waiting for his reply, you ruffle his hair. He presses his lips together… until a little sound escapes him. A giggle. He looks so handsome in this moment that you forget how to think.
Snowy chooses this exact moment to roll completely onto his back at your feet, demanding further attention. Phainon crouches beside you and he immediately redirects the rolling onto him.
You watch him scruff Snowy’s ears and murmur something to him you can’t quite hear, his voice dropping into that soft register, and feel something pull warmly through your chest.
He’s happy, you think. Right now, in this moment, he is simply happy.
Snowy runs off again eventually, and Phainon shows you the outside of the house where he grew up.
It’s modest and sturdy. It also looks very comfortable. Phainon stands looking at it for a moment.
“I’ll introduce you to my parents later,” he says. “Properly.” There is something slightly bashful in the way he says it. “My mom will want to feed you and my dad will want to ask you a great number of questions about Okhema and you and us, and I would rather, if it’s all the same to you, show you some things first.” He glances at you. “Before I have to share your attention.”
You feel warmth bloom through you at that. “Lead the way,” you say.
The slight relief in his exhale is very endearing.
Before leading you farther, Phainon pauses at the courtyard near the center of the village. The statue of Oronyx stands there. Phainon looks at it for a moment.
“I used to leave things here,” he says, almost to himself. “Before anything I was nervous about.” A small, self-aware smile. “Which perhaps should have indicated something about my study habits.”
“Your study habits,” you say.
He turns toward you. “I was not always the most diligent student.”
You stare at him. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“It is entirely true.” He says it with great equanimity. “I spent an unreasonable amount of time staring out windows and thinking about things that were not the lesson. My teacher was very patient with me.” He glances back at the statue. “More patient than I deserved, I think.”
He leads you on after that, away from the main square, until a smaller building comes into view.
You slow as you pass it. “You studied here?”
“Studied,” Phainon says, “is a generous interpretation.”
You laugh. He tilts his head with the expression of a man who has made peace with this particular truth about himself.
“Miss Pythias used to tell me that curiosity was not a flaw, as long as I learned to follow it somewhere worthwhile.” His voice shifts into something fond and careful. “She was the one who first noticed I might benefit from wider horizons than Aedes Elysiae could provide. That if the Grove would take me, I should go.” He pauses. “She said it in a way that made it sound like a compliment. I suspect in retrospect it may have also been a practical suggestion.”
“She encouraged you to think for yourself?”
“Repeatedly. With great emphasis.” His mouth curves. “Which, as several people since have noted, I took somewhat too thoroughly to heart.”
“She sounds like someone who saw you clearly,” you say.
He considers that. “I think she saw what I might become more clearly than I did sometimes. Which is either wisdom or optimism, and she had enough of both that I couldn’t always tell the difference.”
You look at him, at the late light on his profile, the easy looseness of him in this place, the way he speaks about the past here.
And you think of all the things this mind has held. The way he talks in debates that people remember for weeks. The way he talked to you, the first time, and you understood immediately that this was someone whose mind worked differently, moved faster, found angles you hadn’t considered.
“You do have a fascinating way of speaking,” you say without thinking.
He stops walking and turns to look at you. “What?”
“Your mind. The way it works.” You’re smiling but you mean it, and you think he can tell. “The way you follow a thought through to somewhere unexpected and then make it sound inevitable. I think I would have liked listening to you even then. Even at a young age.”
Phainon looks at you for a long moment with an expression caught between something pleased and something slightly undone.
“You,” he says finally, with great care, “have a remarkable ability to destabilize what I had always considered fairly unshakable oratory skills.”
“Good,” you say and grin.
Phainon makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh and might be something more helpless. Then he seems to make a decision. “Come here,” he says.
He takes you around the back of the schoolhouse, through taller grass, down a narrow slope along the base of an old stone wall, past a cluster of wildflowers growing in the sheltered angle where the wall meets the foundation.
Then he crouches down, pushes aside a curtain of overgrown stems, and lifts a loose plank from the ground.
You stare at it. “No,” you say.
Phainon looks up at you, pleased with himself. “Yes.”
Beneath the plank, in the dry earth below, is a wooden box. Small, roughly made, the lid fitted with a leather hinge gone stiff with age. He lifts it out carefully, as though it might be fragile, and sets it on the ground between you.
“You hid a box behind your school.”
“I was preparing,” he says, “to create a tale like no other.” He says it with perfect lightness, with that voice he uses for things that are also, underneath, entirely true.
You sit down in the grass beside him. He opens the lid.
Inside: a wooden sword, small enough to fit a child’s hand, the hilt wrapped in cord that has mostly unraveled. Several smooth stones of various sizes, each one clearly selected for some quality invisible to anyone but the collector. A folded piece of paper, yellowed and soft with age. A tiny carved warrior with a greatsword.
“Don’t tell me you carved during class?” you ask him, barely able to contain a smile.
“Only during the less engaging lessons. Like history.”
“Phainon.”
“In my defense,” he says, with tremendous seriousness, “the warrior was progressing very well.”
“The sword,” you say, still laughing to yourself.
“Every hero needs a sword,” Phainon says with great dignity.
“It’s the size of my arm.”
“I was small.” He picks it up, turns it over. “I made this one myself too. With a knife I borrowed from my dad and returned without telling him I’d used it.” A brief, guilty smile. “I practiced with it against a hidden wall, spending the whole Month of Freedom on it, before I decided I needed a real one.”
“And the stones?”
“Treasure,” he says without hesitation. “Obviously. Payment for completed heroic deeds.” He picks one up and weighs it in his palm. “I charged a fair rate. Two stones per rescued animal, three per monster.”
“How many monsters were there?”
“An unusually high number, it turned out.” He sets the stone back. “The fields were full of them.”
You laugh, and watch him watch you laugh, and something in his expression goes quiet and warm the way it does when he thinks he’s looking at something he wants to keep.
He picks up the folded paper but doesn’t open it.
“Miss Pythias assigned us to write about our dreams and what we wanted to become,” he says. “I wrote several pages and she told me to try again with fewer words and more honesty.” His thumb moves over the fold. “The second attempt was shorter.” A pause. “I wrote: someone worth the stories.”
The playfulness in his voice is still there, but it’s a layer over something more careful, looking sideways at its own weight.
You look at him. At the box in the grass between you, with its small wooden sword and its counted stones and its child’s version of treasure.
“You’d always be my hero,” you say.
Phainon looks at you. His mouth opens, then closes. For approximately three full seconds, the most eloquent person you’ve ever met produces nothing.
The faint red at the tips of his ears spreads, perceptibly, toward his cheeks. “I—” he starts. “That is—” He stops and clears his throat. “You cannot simply—” There is something that might be a laugh trying to surface. “That is not—”
He gives up. He stands, sets the box down, and then he turns and lifts you, hands at your waist, raising you off the ground like this is a perfectly reasonable and proportionate response to the situation, which from his expression he has entirely concluded it is.
You grab his shoulders on instinct. “Phainon—”
“It is only fitting,” he says, and his voice has recovered its full equilibrium now, warm and wry and threaded with laughter he’s still containing, “that your very personal Deliverer, whose stated purpose has always been to bring about a better future—” His eyes are bright. His cheeks are still faintly red. “—should fulfill his duties by carrying you, specifically, toward what I believe will be an excellent afternoon.”
He shifts you slightly, settling your weight with an ease that is, frankly, unreasonable. “Which begins at the shore. If you’ll permit.”
You stare at him from your new elevation. “Did you just,” you say slowly, “turn a genuine moment of vulnerability into a formal announcement?”
“I turned it,” he says, already walking, “into an action. Which is better.”
“Phainon.”
“Mm.”
“Your cheeks are still red.”
“That,” he says, with tremendous dignity, “is the blazing sun.”
You rest your arms around his shoulders and press your smile into the side of his head, and Phainon laughs and carries you down toward the shore.
When he sets you down again, you walk with your hands still linked, following the line where the wheat gives way to rougher grass and then to the dock reaching out into the glittering water. A single boat sits moored at the far end of the dock, rocking gently. The water is very clear and very cold-looking and very blue.
“This,” Phainon says, with the particular satisfaction of someone presenting their best argument, “is where I used to fish with my dad.”
You look at the dock and the water below it. The considerable drop between them. “From the dock?”
“And from the rocks in the Month of Everday.” He’s already moving toward the edge, gesturing with unselfconscious enthusiasm.
“The fish here taste better than anywhere else in Amphoreus,” he says with complete conviction. “Sardines, anchovies, goatfish, snapper—”
He keeps going, naming them one after another with the earnest seriousness of someone discussing something genuinely important.
You find yourself watching the movement of his mouth instead of listening properly. The sea breeze catches in his hair. His eyes brighten even further.
“…and grilled over an open fire with enough herbs,” he continues, “they’re perfect.”
You smile before you can help it.
Phainon notices immediately. “What?”
“Nothing.” You take a step closer to him. “You’re just very cute when you get excited about things.”
His expression does something helplessly fond again.
“Will it make you happy,” he asks after a moment, softer now, “if I catch one for you?”
The sincerity of the question catches you completely off guard. You nod before your brain fully catches up.
His smile widens instantly. “Then I’ll catch one for you.” And before you have fully registered what is happening, he grins and pulls his shirt over his head.
Your thoughts stop.
But Phainon is already taking three quick steps and launching himself off the edge with a complete absence of hesitation, arms extended, and then he hits the water and goes under. And you’re standing on the dock staring at the place where he disappeared into the glittering cold blue and your heart is doing something rather alarming in your chest.
Shortly after, he surfaces. He pushes the water from his eyes with one hand, shakes his head, white hair plastered to his forehead. He’s grinning and then he ducks under again.
You wait. The dock rocks gently. The late sun catches the water.
He surfaces a moment later, closer to the dock, one hand raised above the water. He’s holding a fish.
You stare at him. “You—” You have no words. “You just—”
“I caught it,” he announces, with such transparent pride that you have to press your lips together.
“You jumped into the sea!”
“It was efficient.”
“You frightened me!”
“But I caught the fish,” he says again, lifting it slightly higher.
You laugh helplessly.
Phainon climbs up with a fluid ease that suggests this is not the first time, water streaming from him, and the afternoon sunlight catches everything: the wet line of his shoulders, the particular way his wet hair falls across his forehead, the droplets running slowly down the column of his throat, sunlight catching briefly on the sun mark.
Your thoughts are not functioning normally.
He notices. “Oh,” he says softly, looking at you with that particular attention. “Now you’re staring.”
“I’m—” You clear your throat. “I’m observing.”
“Hm.” He steps closer, water still dripping from his hair, eyes warm with something that knows exactly what it’s doing. “You’re very distracted for someone claiming composure.”
“You’re very smug for someone standing there soaked.”
“I think,” he says thoughtfully, “those are not mutually exclusive.”
He leans in without warning and presses a quick, cool kiss to your cheek and then immediately turns and starts toward the village path, fish in hand.
You stand there for a full three seconds. “Phainon.”
“I’m bringing this to my dad,” he calls back, bright and entirely innocent. “He’ll want to start the fire. I’ll be back in a moment.”
You watch him go, wet hair and bare shoulders and that impossible grin when he glances back at you, and think something very incoherent and extremely sincere about the next several hours of your life.
Phainon comes back changed and radiant.
He’s pulled on clean clothes, his hair is half-dried and going everywhere. He’s walking quickly, and his face when he spots you has that specific open brightness only reserved for you.
“The fish will be ready soon,” he says, falling into step beside you immediately, his arm brushing yours. Then, without preamble, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.
You blink. He keeps walking like nothing happened. His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there. Neither of you comments on it.
You wander through the village as the afternoon thickens toward evening.
He talks with his hands when he gets into it, gesturing loosely, his voice getting looser, warmer, a little faster when something amuses him.
You drift closer without meaning to. Your shoulder touches his arm. Then his arm comes around your shoulders, easy and warm.
“The wheat grew differently every year,” he’s saying. “You could tell what kind of season it had been just from looking. My dad has a saying about it—”
He notices, mid-sentence, that you’ve pressed your face briefly against his shoulder. He stops talking.
You feel him go very still. Then, slowly, his arm tightens around you. His cheek comes to rest against the top of your head, just for a moment, and the hand at your shoulder squeezes once.
“You fit here,” he murmurs. “Remarkably well.”
“In Aedes Elysiae?”
“With me.” The way he says it settles somewhere in your chest and doesn’t move.
He presses his lips to your hair, and then keeps walking. His arm stays where it is.
He takes you to the wheat field later.
The sun is going down behind the hills, laying gold across everything, and the sea in the distance has turned from blue to bronze.
Phainon stops at the edge of the high ground where the field ends and the land slopes gently toward the water. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just stands there, hands loose at his sides, looking at it. “This,” he says, finally, “is my favorite place in Aedes Elysiae.”
The wheat moves around you in long, slow waves. The wind carries salt and the warm dry smell of grain. Below, the sea breathes.
“When things became too loud in the village,” he continues, “or too loud in here—” He touches his temple briefly. “—I used to come out and hide among the wheat. Sometimes for hours.”
“You hid in wheat fields.”
He laughs softly. “Frequently. I found it very restorative.”
“And no one came looking?”
“My mom always knew where I was.” He chuckles, and you notice how young he looks in this moment. How glad.
You sit down in the wheat. It’s taller than you expected up close, the stalks rising around you when you settle, the heads of grain swaying overhead.
Phainon looks at you for a moment. Then he sits beside you, close enough that his shoulder is against yours, and stretches his legs out in front of him.
You lean against his chest. His arms come around you immediately, both of them, pulling you in, his chin coming to rest at the top of your head. You feel his exhale move all the way through you.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
“I think,” Phainon says, very quietly, “I missed you every moment you weren’t here.”
You tilt your head up to look at him.
His expression when he looks back at you is open. You are close enough to see the particular quality of blue in his eyes in this light, the slight unevenness in his breathing.
Phainon goes still suddenly. His gaze drops to your cheek. “There’s something—” He pauses, then reaches out, fingers coming lightly toward your face. “There’s something on your face. Hold still.”
“Where?”
“Here.” His fingertips brush near the corner of your cheekbone, so soft you feel it more as warmth than pressure. “Close your eyes for me.”
The tone alone does something to your heartbeat.
You close your eyes. For a moment, there is just the wind in the wheat and his warmth beside you and the sound of your own pulse. Then his fingers trace slowly over your skin.
“There,” he murmurs. His hand doesn’t move.
You open your eyes. He’s very close, watching you with an expression that has nothing in it except the truth. “You know,” he says, his thumb brushing your cheek once, “I used to think this place was beautiful because it was quiet.”
The wheat moves around you.
“And now?” you ask.
His expression is everything. Warm and undone and so full of you that you can feel it like pressure against the center of your chest.
“Now,” Phainon says, “I think it’s beautiful because you’re here.”
Then he closes the distance, and there’s nothing hesitant about it.
The kiss is soft. His hand cups your face gently. And then you lean closer, and his breath catches, and then the last carefully maintained restraint simply dissolves.
His hands tighten at your waist. He pulls you in and kisses you again and it’s deeper, more urgent, the long-held want of it finally getting somewhere.
You feel him exhale against your mouth like he’s been carrying that breath for weeks. His hand slides into your hair, fingers spreading at the back of your head, and he angles toward you and kisses you like the soft version was a draft and this is what he meant.
You go with it, both of you, the wheat moving in long waves around you, the sea and the golden light and the wind.
Phainon makes a low sound against your lips when you pull him close, so unguarded that it goes straight through you. And then you’re lying back in the wheat and he’s above you, forearms braced on either side of you, and he kisses you and you kiss him back.
The world contracts to the warm weight of him and the way the grain stalks rise overhead like the walls of your very own golden room.
Phainon keeps making small startled sounds every time you draw him closer, your legs sliding between his thighs, your hands roaming over his back like you’re grounding yourself through him.
At some point you roll, and the wheat closes around you both and you’re laughing, the helpless half-breathless kind, and he’s laughing too, forehead dropping to your shoulder before he lifts his head and looks at you.
His hair is completely wrecked. There’s a strand of wheat caught in it. His face is flushed, eyes bright, and he is looking at you with such open, undisguised happiness that something in you aches.
Wild, you think, distantly. His cheeks are red.
Phainon laughs again breathlessly, forehead coming down to rest against yours. He stays like this for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at your face, tracing it like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid of forgetting. “You have wheat in your hair.”
“You have wheat in your hair.”
“That seems like a natural outcome.” He grins, visibly pleased with himself. Then he reaches up and picks it out carefully, and you watch his hands, and then watch him watch you, and then neither of you says anything at all for a moment.
“You know,” he says softly, thumb brushing your cheek for the second time this evening, except nothing about it is incidental now, “I used to come up here alone. I had never once considered that it might be better with company.”
“And now?”
His smile is unguarded, belonging to the boy who hid in wheat fields and ate too much and grew too tall and learned to carry the world and never quite stopped missing this place and this breeze.
“Now,” he says, “I would like to revise my position significantly.”
You pull him back down, capturing his lips once more. Phainon comes willingly, laughing into the kiss.
The wheat moves around you. The sea glitters below. The last of the sun goes gold and then amber and then something softer, and neither of you goes anywhere for a very long time.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
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