"Writing songs instead of letters because I'm too afraid. Afraid of coming back to find that everything is the same."
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Evil monsters should have big fat cocks they wanna bully into holes too tight for them and use their big wet tongues to lick up all your slick while leaving behind even more spit and wetness and slide their claws experimentally inside you while you cry big pathetic tears and let them find heaven between your legs
synopsis: recovering from your burnout, you come across someone who may have been hurt by your absence.
info: modern university!au; gn!student!reader x student!wanderer; approx. 1.2k words
warnings: hurt/comfort (kind of? it's brief); ambiguous relationship (vulnerable, not inherently romantic); discussions of friendship, guilt, life balancing; actually studying; wanderer is not referred to by any name, but it's clearly him; not much happens, honestly whefuwefwi (everyone, pretend to be surprised)
a/n: an early and unexpected contribution to my teyvat university fic event with @cosmic-expressions! heavily inspired by rachel chinouriri's song "so my darling."
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It's been a long time since you've come here—a few weeks, at least. When you're studying, you sometimes get in the zone here at the library, but other times, leaving your room is an unnecessary hurdle.
Class, food, class, homework. Call family. Go to work. Stay there. Go home. Don't have a breakdown. Pay your rent. Energy is a finite resource, after all. How could you stretch yourself any further?
Now, though, things are different, calmer. Midterms have come and gone; the weather isn't so harsh. Your return to the library feels like taking a deep breath, but it doesn't come without its surprises—well, truly, it doesn't come without reminding you of some of the things you've been forgetting. The people you used to exchange good mornings with, the gentle flex of old chair cushions under your body, the flow of people between the computer stations, oh, and at least one friend, standing beside the printer. It's that wanderer—that's what he calls himself—of whom you've grown so fond.
He looks just the same: dark, smooth hair (freshly clipped and only flaring at the nape of his neck), inky eyes (swirling, half-lidded as he focuses), those long fingers (deftly sorting through the papers spitting from the printer).
A breath catches in your chest at the sight. You know you could have said something to him sooner. Sure, the two of you have been busy, just like everyone else on campus, but something grips you regardless—something thorny and cool, a guilty little vine.
He doesn't see you, not until you put yourself beside him.
"Hey," you say.
He stands up a bit straighter, eyes flickering your way and lingering the way a flower does on the wind: bending its head while caught in the current, momentarily swept up.
"Hey," he says back.
"What're you working on?"
"TA shit."
"Oh, right. How's it going?"
He shrugs, says nothing, and turns away, carrying his stack of papers to a nearby table.
"It's fine. He runs me around like I'm his secretary."
"Aren't you? At least, kind of." You put a little laughter in your voice, teasing.
He scowls then, with that familiar cruel fondness, sends a glare your way. Familiar, too, is the way his brows lower as he thinks, considering for a moment before answering.
"Where have you been, anyway?"
You blink, surprised. His words are dusted with something more than his typical practiced nonchalance—a subtle sting.
On reconsideration, you should have known he would be hurt. No matter how he tries to hide away his true feelings—how much he tries to pretend nothing ever touches him, cold or warm—they show. It's like looking at the surface of a frozen lake: if a goldfish were to come through that foggy darkness, its color would helplessly shine through. The ice has cleared some, as you've come to know him, but his efforts haven't stopped.
"I was…" you consider what to say. "I was kind of floundering."
Your cheeks grow warm; it's not that pleasant honeyed one but rather a burn like you'd touched a hot stone.
Again, he says nothing.
A wanderer by nature, you know he doesn't stay places for long. This doesn't mean he moves around or switches courses or dorms; instead, he moves between social groups, friends, gliding smoothly over their surfaces and between their membranes. But you? You have stuck to him like a barb or, more aptly, like a routine, something fallen into—at first with resistance and then with ease. It's been years now, but you've never had a time when you didn't talk; at least, not like this.
You follow him to the table, to his little pile beside the library computer, and watch as he, with such clear practice, sorts his print-outs into piles.
The two of you have historically spent countless hours like this: silent, save for the fluttering of paper; among the towering shelves of books, between the computers, or sprawled across the broad tables; you studying his expression, catching his every glance your way. A certain comfort infuses this moment, too, and—perhaps it's wishful thinking—but you swear you see the wrinkle between his brows relax.
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything."
"It doesn't matter."
He says it fast, like he's pushing the words right out of his mouth and into yours. Like he wants the conversation to be over and for any new one to begin.
"I think it does." You're gentle as you insist. "I didn't mean to shut myself off from you."
Pointedly, his face doesn't change. He doesn't set his jaw or frown or furrow his brow. He offers you nothing: no anger nor sadness; no forgiveness or lack of it. He hides behind that blankness, and it makes your chest ache. It makes your throat burn, just slightly, with what could unfold into desperation.
"You can do whatever you want. You don't owe me an explanation."
Out the window behind him, a few squirrels chase each other up a tree. Someone drops an armful of packages, and, caught by surprise, someone else—a stranger—runs across the grass to help.
"It's not really about owing…" you say. "You're important to me, and I want you to feel that way."
No snarky remark, no buzzing quip or brush off could possibly obscure the wash of pink that blooms over his cheeks.
"I have to finish this…" he mumbles, unable to meet your eyes.
"Would you be opposed to company?"
Rolling his eyes, he starts gathering his things, already moving to a larger table. "You'd better not be expecting help with your assignments."
You follow him, unable to withhold your smile, and take a seat across from him at a table near the window. He pretends to ignore you, mutters to himself, and sticks out his tongue in concentration.
The rest of the afternoon was very much like that: his face flushed as he batted your imploring hands away again and again, eyes seeking you out (longingly, though he'd never say so) when you left him be for too long. After some time, though, you couldn't help yourself.
Standing to stretch your legs, you put yourself behind him. The fat of his cheek is visible with each minute turn of his head, and the sight makes you sigh. His hair is soft to the touch, nearly silky, and, draping your arm around his neck in a cradling embrace, you can feel the sturdiness of him under the plush of his sweatshirt.
"What are you doing?"
He makes an angry face—draws in his brows, frowns—but his voice has no bite as he practically leans into your touch.
"I was looking at you; now I'm hugging you," you answer, then ask: "Do you want me to stop?"
He tsks, and, without looking up, wraps a hand around your wrist as he works. You take this to mean he's not too upset with you after all.
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umm i need reassurance that my presence is wanted but i can’t ask for reassurance because that’s really Embarrassing and it wouldn’t feel genuine if i asked for it
sorry I always felt undesirable my entire life and it gave me kinks of wanting someone to desire me so extremely it's uncontrollable for them as if that's my fault
how truly horrible it must be to have someone care for you enough to show up at your door and check on you. and even worse, how truly awful it must be to be the person who cares so painfully much, only to be met with disapproval.
