warnings: pre-established relationship, use of "[name]," reader is an immortal in neuvillette's
notes: THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE!!!!!! IT'S BEEN TOO LONG BUT IT WAS SO SOSOSOS FUN
"Looks like idiots only attract more idiots, huh?" Wanderer spits, swatting the foul thing off of his table.
Someone really picked out those colors and thought they were something you'd like; it seems your stupidity rubs off on your admirers, because this one doesn't even know your preferences: things like how you prefer calmer shades over neons, how you'd much rather be able to read neater fonts than pretentious swirls which are added in for flare.
Even flies find beauty in trash. Your admirer must be a maggot, by the looks of things.
But again: idiots attract more idiots. It's no wonder that you, the greatest idiot of them all, have wound up on the receiving end of some maggot's affections.
He stares at the disgustingly bright envelopeânow on the floorâwith your name addressed as the recipient. How pathetic, he thinks. (How audacious, the sender, for daring to write your name so clumsily, with all those stupid swirls and all! Are they even literate? This handwriting looks to be atrocious! Does the Akademiya just let anyone in?! Even scum that don't know how to use a pen?!)
Wanderer walks away. Ever so coincidentally, the envelope gets caught in between the heel of his shoe and the ground, and, even more coincidentally, his heel turns, left to right, grinding the paper into the wooden planks of the classroom's floor.
If it wasn't unreadable before, it certainly is unreadable now.
"Excuse me!"
The doors slam open, revealing a haggard figure, clad in scholarly robes, chest heaving up and down as their head turns frantically.
"Has anyone seen a letter? It has a neon yellow envelope, and it'sâ"
For good measure, the heel of Wanderer's shoes dig deeper into the ground, the envelope still caught in between, crumpled. Wanderer has never once seen such an ugly letter (Neon yellow? he thinks, disturbed. What a tasteless imbecile.) His shoe might have, though.
A couple seconds pass, and the tasteless imbecile's eyes grow wide, vaguely resembling that of a bug's, before approaching Wanderer with a determined look.
"Hat Guy!" the tasteless imbecile exclaims. "Hat Guy, you're stepping on my letter!"
Wanderer looks down, the envelope still caught in between his heel and the ground. What a coincidence. Even more coincidentally, his weight shifts wholly onto that foot, the heel sinking, the paper ripping from the amalgamation of abuse.
"Oh, no!" The maggot gasps. "No, no, no! That's my letter! I wrote it for [Name]!"
Even more coincidentally (there are just so many coincidences in this world, it seems), Wanderer's foot slides forward, and the paper is dragged across the planks, and, out of nowhere, a gust of wind rampages through the classroom. How odd, considering the windows are closed.
"Hat Guy! You did that on purpose!"
"Hah?" Wanderer replies, humorless. "Do you think I have so much free time as to tamper with such a measly thing?"
"You just used your Vision on my letter! And you were stepping on it!"
Wanderer smirks, the expression not reaching his eyes, the cornflower irises devoid of any mirth as an incomplete laugh escapes his lips. What a perfect use, he thinks, using the sickening power of an Archon to destroy that ugly thing. He's really outdone himself this time.
"Why would you do that, huh?! What have I ever done to you?" the imbecile continues, damn near having a conversation with themself.
"How ridiculous," Wanderer remarks plainly, voice devoid of any remorse. "You left it on my desk."
"We don't even have assigned seats!"
"Well," another scholar chimes in, "it's practically assigned. Nobody ever moves from the seat they chose."
Wanderer huffs. Misplaced or not, how could this imbecile even think to leave such an insinuating letter out in the open? Especially with your name scribed onto its front, with such ugly penmanship? If this imbecile really liked you, they would neverâWhatever, he thinks, arms crossed, head cocked to the side. This is none of his business.
Idiots attract idiots. Whoever wants you can have you: the most idiotic of them all.
"Oh, [Name]!" the imbecile has the audacity to exclaim, their frustrated expression shifting instantly, as if the feeling of your name on their lips is enough to melt the anger, shaping it into adoration. They turn towards the door, lips enraptured by a smile, racing towards you with their hand held up, waving.
A gust of wind rampages through the classroom. How odd, considering the windows are closed.
Wanderer passes (read: shoves by) the imbecile, his face unreadable, its tell given only by the slight crinkle of his eyes, the way your figure is beheld so tenderly within the pupil of a puppet whose body is incapable of a flush. Wanderer's artificial skin lacks warmth, for there is no heart to pump blood towards his limbs, to give his cheeks the blossom of red.
But he looks at you, the beheld, and that is enough.
"About time," he says, arrogant. "I didn't think you could even find your way here."
You just laugh. Wanderer's artificial skin lacks warmth, he knows this, but you laugh and you look at him and the beholder is beheld, and, and the wind subsides, andâ
"I'm surprised you even showed up to class at all, Wanderer!"
He scoffs. "I'm not like you."
"That's not true," you reply, pointing at him accusingly, other hand resting on your hip, "your attendance record is just like mine!"
But it's true; Wanderer could never be anything like you.
Because you're lovely.
It's not often that the Chief Justice gets a break.
In this nation full of legislation, it's only natural that its most supreme judge is at work most days, whether it be overseeing trials or sifting through paperwork, there is always a job must be done, and a creature to serve in its place.
Neuvillette has long gotten used to his role, the duty which has been entrusted to him. But, every once in a while, there is a moment of respite, where he is able to look up from the stacks of papers, to turn around, thistle eyes piercing past the panes of the window, the clouds parting to reveal the enormity of the sun, its warmth palpable despite the distance.
The beauty of such light is best appreciated from indoors.
But, he thinks, eyeing the clock, a brief walk would not hurt.
He rises from his seat, gloved hands readjusting the fabric of his cravat, fingers trailing lightly over the desk once he's done, passing by the wooden walls of his office with a steady pace.
At the reception desk, he exchanges pleasantries with Sedene; just as he's ready to depart, however, she jolts up, returning behind the desk before revealing a frilly envelope, its paper adorned by hearts and roses.
"Monsieur Neuvillette," she says, waving the letter. "I wanted to show this to you."
He raises a brow. "What is this, Miss Sedene?"
She points towards the name such romance is addressed to. You.
Neuvillette just blinks, mildly confused. "I do not believe that [Name] works here, nor are they in any position to receive such a letter. They are abroad at the moment, are they not?"
"That's right, Monsieur. I believe the sender made a mistake, but I was unable to catch a glimpse of their face before they left..." she mutters, ears drooping slightly, cradling the letter close.
Neuvillette shakes his head. "Do not worry about it, Miss Sedene. When [Name] returns, you can deliver it to them, then."
Despite telling Sedene not to worry, the letter's existence plagues Neuvillette's mind like some haunting phantom, an itch that can never be scratched.
You have always been driven by wanderlust; no land could ever contain you, and Neuvillette has long made peace with this fact. All that he can do is serve as your landing ground, to greet you at Fontaine's borders when you doâand you alwaysâreturn.
And when you do return, he will lend you an ear. He will serve you your favorite desserts, he will accompany you on your long walks which you so adore, whether it be in rain or in shattering light.
And when you depart once more, he will see you off at the border, just as when you arrived, and when you arrive again, whenever they may be.
Neuvillette is satisfied with the guarantee of reunion. He does not want you to compromise your wanderlust, to shackle yourself to a single place, for your presence to be near his in any capacity that is not founded off of your own desire.
Be free to do whatever it is that you want to do, to go wherever you want to goâand when you return, he will be there. As he's always been.
Every so often, you send him letters from the nations you visit, accompanied by various trinkets which you've collected. Sometimes, you send him rocks, or swabs of sand, or entire shells that must be delivered separately.
Neuvillette gets mildly disturbed whenever you send him something that looks to be made from the cooling of molten lava, as it has happened far too often, and it makes him wonder what in the world it is you're up to.
But that's a story which you will tell him yourself, when the two of you meet again.
Neuvillette is satisfied with the guarantee of reunion. Restraint is familiar to him; being in a position such as his does not give much flexibility for anything else. But he thinks of that frilly letter, addressed to you, adorned by romance.
How straightforward, he muses, remembering the lace roses which trailed all over the envelope, the way your name was its most extravagant aspect.
Neuvillette has made peace with the stutter of his heart, the way rain falls after your departure, the way the sun reveals itself, its radiance forcing his mind to return to the fantastical image of you.
Restraint. Neuvillette has made peace with your absence, and he always thought that reunion was enough. But he thinks of you, and there it is again: the ferocity of desire, the selfishness of his blood, the way dragons hoard treasure, the way gold glimmers.
It's raining.
Neuvillette looks up, bewildered. It was so sunny a second ago. But he looks around, and his fellow pedestrians seek shelter in nearby cafes, or huddle under umbrellas, murmuring about how unexpected this is.
How unexpected indeed.
Neuvillette continues forward, the coolness on his skin, suppressing the bloom of his ears, the way he stares at the last light of the sun before it disappears behind a grey cloud.
He wonders what you're up to right now. The last letter you sent was from Inazuma. You must be far, he thinks.
(Too far.)
But then, a voice.
"Long time no see, Neuvillette!"
His head snaps around, thistle eyes meeting yours, his mouth hanging slightly agape, a droplet of rain racing down from the duct of his eye.
"[Name]," he breathes, walking towards you with as much composure as a creature so hopelessly in love could ever afford to muster. "[Name], it has been so long."
"Right!" you say, wiping a swab of rain from your face. "You look even more miserable than when I last saw you!"
The subtlest of smiles tug at his lips.
You truly make him the most miserable thing.
"Anyway, I stopped by the Court to see you, but instead, Sedene handed me a love letter! Isn't that hilarious? I haven't gotten one of these in like, what, a couple hundred years?"
Neuvillette feels something stir within the confines of his ribs.
"Did you read it?"
"I did! It was great!"
Restraint. Neuvillette wants to ask moreâhe wants to know what you thought of such forwardness, what you thought of such a declaration of love. If he were to do the same, would you receive it with such mirth? Would you accept him, with all his rain, with all his misery?
"I found the sender just before seeing you here, Neuvillette!" you say, patting his shoulder, the reunion palpable. "I had to thank them for such flattery! Oh, but I did have to turn them down. I'm not really one for the immortal-mortal grief, you know? Parting with you is already a lot."
Neuvillette's breath hitches. What about the guarantee of an immortal-immortal match? What about the guarantee of reunion?
"You dislike parting with me?"
You laugh. "Nope, I absolutely love seeing your anguished face whenever I leave, and traveling alone, tasting water from nations, trying to act like I know something when really, there's no difference at all!"
The subtlest of smiles tug at his lips.
"There is a difference. Mondstadt's waters are crisp and pure, while Liyue's waters have an aftertaste, and Inazuma's water possesses a flavor unlike any other."
You elbow him roughly. He doesn't budge from the movement.
"And Fontaine's courts have the best macarons. Onwards, Neuvillette!"
The sun returns.
Neuvillette looks at you and, truly, the radiance is sublime.
There is nothing in this world that comes for free.
"So, name your price," the client says, head tilted to the side, smirking. "I'm confident I can fulfill whatever you demand, Kinich."
"I cannot take this request," Kinich states, readjusting the various bags which dangle from his shoulder, full of fruits from his most recent harvest.
"What?!" the client exclaims, their pompous expression contorting into that of utter disbelief. "It should be simple! I'm only requesting you because I know you can complete it quickly! I'll pay you double your rate, andâ"
"Find someone else," Kinich interrupts. "I won't do it."
"What?!" Ajaw exclaims, floating over to the client's side, his shades of green shifting to reds and oranges, his pixelated body spasming up and down as he pouts vehemently. "Come on, man! This is such a good deal! Since when could beggars be choosers, huh, huh?!"
Kinich ignores how Ajaw just likened him to a beggar.
"Why are you rejecting this request?!" the client shouts, hand outstretched, revealing an intricate envelope, adorned by shades of reds and pinks, its romance addressed towards a single recipient. You.
"My reason doesn't matter," Kinich replies.
There are some things in this world that cannot be done, regardless of the cost.
"Don't tell me it's because you have a crush onâ" Ajaw starts, but is quickly slapped away by Kinich. The Almighty Dragonlord's figure goes flying out of the atmosphere, plummeting towards the sky, the last of his silhouette dissipating with the twinkle of what looks to be a star.
"Find someone else," Kinich says, again. "I won't do it."
"You'll regret this, Kinich!" the client-no-longer exclaims, sparing one last glare at him before trudging away, love letter still in hand. Kinich returns to his hut without a single thought, hauling his harvest, the weight amounting to nothing, as he mulls over the request.
He's not the type to live with regrets.
But, maybe there is one.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Someone bursts through the door, sauntering through his hut made-for-one, forcing it to shift and fit two. Kinich, unfazed, doesn't even look up from his spot in the corner, rearranging the fruits he had harvested, organizing them with the various containers of jam and breads which he bought the day before.
Silence. Kinich continues sorting through his items, feigning ignorance to the shadow which slowly creeps up on him, the shape shifting to reveal two hands, outstretched, vaguely resembling a pitiful wolf.
Your hands jump onto his shoulders, and Kinich remains as he is: completely unmoved.
"What?!" you say, absolutely flabbergasted. "Why didn't that scare you?"
Kinich looks over his shoulder, taken aback for just a second, your nose almost meeting his, your face so close he can make out each wisp of your lashes, the way you smile, teeth and all. He swallows thickly. He blinks and then he turns back around, breathing slowly, hands fiddling mindlessly with the jars of jam.
That scared him more than your futile attempt at a surprise attack.
"You're loud," is all he says.
"That can't be!"
But it is, Kinich thinks. You're loud. And you talk a lot, and you wear your expressions so evidently on your face. Kinich turns to you, your figure matching his, crouched, hunching over various trinkets and eyeing the jams as if you were some sort of connoisseur.
"And while I was out today, I was at the market, andâ"
You're loud.
"There was this guy," you say, eyes scrunched shut, brows furrowing, mind seemingly in deep thought (How uncharacteristic, is all Kinich thinks). "He was like, so awkward with me! And he was like flailing everywhere, and he asked me to dinner, but I told him I already had plans with you, but then he got so nervous, and I was so confused, like, does he want me?"
You're always sharp when it's inconvenient, he thinks.
"It must be my aura, huh?"
Nevermind, Kinich annexes that previous thought.
"Anyway, that was pretty random!" you exclaim, clapping your hands together. "But I guess it's to be expected! I'm a catch! But, you know, that's the first confession I've received in a while. I feel like my aura wards people away, or something."
Ajaw returns from purgatory.
"It's not your aura! It's because of Kinichâ"
Ajaw is sent hurling into space.
"Oh," you say, watching Ajaw get launched out of the open window. "I was wondering why it was so quiet!"
It wasn't, though, Kinich thinks. How could it be, when you're so loud?
"But anyway," you continue, "I'm looking forward to the meal today, Kinich! I'm your favorite freeloader, I bet!"
There are some things in this world that should be done, regardless of the cost.
Like your loudness, like your slurred words, your random interjections, your sidetracked stories. Some things in this world should be relistened to, should last forever, should happen, again and again. Like your weekly freeloading meals, like your anecdotes, like, like you.
You're loud.
Kinich would listen to you forever if he could.
And, just like that, there'd be no room for regrets.
They say that if you're scared of thunder, it's because you've got something to hide.
Boom!
Wriothesley's hands interlace with one another, his back hunching slightly as he leans forward, lips drawn into a pursed smile, pale eyes devoid of any mirth.
"So..." he starts, your figure submerged within the center of his pupils, head craned downwards, fingers tracing over the intricacies of a misplaced letter, its subjects addressed to you despite landing on his desk.
"Are you moved?" he then asks, not-so discreetly.
Boom!
Wriothesley, in this moment, considers himself to be quite scared of thunder. He's got quite a few things to hide; a handful of those many things involve you.
"Woah," you say, almost amazed, free hand raised to your mouth, eyes wide as you trace over each word. Wriothesley wonders what you're thinking right nowâdo frilly niceties like this charm you? Perhaps a bouquet of roses will make their way to your door tomorrow. Let's throw in a letter, and a shared cup of tea, too.
"This is pretty impressive," you remark, glancing up, meeting his gaze. Wriothesley never once tears his gaze from yours, the scenery of the city outside paling in comparison to the well-loved features of your face. From the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lips, the ridge of your browsâyour existence makes a lover of him.
That fact, though not particulary hidden, is a secret that he carries with him, revealed only with each strike of lightning, the thunder that follows thereafter.
"Impressive?" Wriothesley echoes, the hints of a smile finding his face, the expression not quite reaching his eyes, organ still beholding you. "How so, if I may ask?"
"The sender knows I'm a big fan of theater plays," you state, "and also, that I like tea."
Wriothesley snorts. "Those are not things that are well-kept secrets."
You laugh. "I suppose that's true. Still, it's quite cute."
Wriothesley has watched quite a couple theater productions with you. His favorite part is when you debrief him on the plot afterwards, as if he weren't there to witness it himself (he supposes that's half true, though, since half of his experience is witnessing the play through your own reactions).
Also, in case you didn't know, he also likes tea. It seems the two of you have lots in common. How very compatible, if he does say so himself.
Boom!
The sound vaguely mimics the beat of his heart, its enormity enough to shatter his ribs, its vigor pumping blood to the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. It's pouring outside. He wonders how many more secrets he must keep, how long they must stay hidden for, how cruel it is for each strike of thunder to be felt in front of the person who it all belongs to.
His most sacred oath. You.
Boom!
"I think I'll have to decline on this, though," you say, folding the letter back into its quaint envelope, hand now reaching for the teacup, glass raised to your lips.
He stares for a long while.
"I'm surprised," he remarks. "I thought you'd enjoy that sort of thing. Don't most of your plays involve a wondrous love letter?"
You laugh.
"They also involve a mysterious Duke of the North."
Boom!
"Will the Duke of an Underground Prison work?"
"More than that, actually," you say, head tilting to the side, eyes crinkled, your smile incomparable. "It's perfect."
Looks like he has nothing to hide now.
"Care for some dinner tomorrow?" he asks, finger raised to tap on the surface of the wooden table, the action soothing.
"At the Coupon Cafeteria?"
"Your pick. I'll be at your door tomorrow, as the Duke of an Underground Prison."
"I want roses," you say, "and a wondrous love letter."
Wriothesley smiles, its shape vaguely covered by the back of his gloved hand, his devotion revealed only by the ferocious red of his ears.
ruggie bucchi has always been scrappy. sharp eyes, sharp teeth, and even sharper instincts. in the harsh slums of the afterglow savanna, it was survival of the fastest, the smartest, the greediest. and ruggie was all three.
thatâs why he doesnât share. not his food, not his money, not his time. if he has a full belly and jingly pockets, thatâs all he needs. or at least, thatâs what he tells himself.
until you.
you, with your dumb little pack of emergency snacks. you, who breaks your bread in half before you even take a bite. you, who laughs and calls him a âscavengerâ when he swipes extra pastries from the cafeteria, but never once judges him for it. you, who says âthanksâ even when he hands you a squished onigiri from his pocket, like itâs gourmet.
it started small. he started to pretend he was too full, offering you the last dumpling. tosses you a wrapped rice ball, says itâs a âfavorâ so you owe him later.
but the truth? the raw, scary truth?
he wants to share. wants to see you eat. wants to feed you like it proves something he canât say out loud.
maybe itâs love. maybe itâs loyalty. maybe itâs the terrifying realization that heâd go hungry if it meant seeing you full.
and that is terrifying. because ruggie bucchi does not share.
mydei having a library is absolutely heartbreaking symbolism. it's a running gag that the kremnoan language doesn't have many words; there's no word for flee, no word for fear, even no word for love. i know the library was his family's, but still -- it is such a distinct symbol of how mydei wants to break kremnoan tradition. how he openly rejects the idea that violence is the only valid form of communication. how he always dismisses the baseless rumours surrounding his abilities, proving that he values truth over glory. we see mydei try to talk his people into reason. we see him apologize to tribbie for being rude. we even see him (begrudgingly) admit to phainon that he knows how to interpret poetry. time and time again, mydei chooses language -- and truth -- over violence. so when he invites phainon to visit his library in the next life, he's not just expressing hope -- he's asking phainon to remember him by what he really believes in. even if i become the avatar of strife, he's saying, even if you have to kill me one day -- in the next life, please see me as the person i've tried to become.
mydei knows the power of a name, perhaps because his language has so few of them. and that makes it doubly ironic that he personally has so many titles: son of gorgo. the patricidal crown prince. kingslayer. godslayer. the undying. but as krateros points out, the name he prefers is the one he uses with the chrysos heirs. and although mydei doesn't talk much, all his actions seem to say the same thing.
So we all like the âif you die then Iâll burn down the worldâ trope but thereâs something so powerful and beautiful about living on with their memory instead. Itâs not âbecause youâre dead the world has nothing worth saving in itâ but âeveryday something in this world reminds me of you and Iâm glad for it even if it hurtsâ.
Itâs âIâll bring your kindness with me wherever I go and someone will remember it even if theyâll never know I borrowed it from you.â
Itâs âThis is what you would do.â
Itâs âIâll remember you for you and not for what the people hail you as.â
Disney, releasing Wish: "so it's all about legacy--the new generation surpassing the old, overcoming the evils perpetuated by them, relinquishing singular power... and there's an old man in a tower, uh... animal sidekick, i guess..., ah... magic...?
i think miyazaki fake retires every time not as a gimmick but to make sure joe hisaishi goes flat out balls to the wall this is my last shot and i will eat and leave no crumbs. and you know what? he always does, every time
I got twelve other guys ready to that for me. You already do that. You already destroy the world I would just happen to be there while you did.
The real question is.
Would you save the world for me?
Would you put aside your hatred for humanity and put my love for it Infront? Would you save the world because I love the world? Would you stop killing because I hate killing? Would you find a way to live because I want you alive?
Death and destruction are easy as hell. Do you know how fucking easy it is to kill someone? To blow up a building? Sure security is in the way but if it wasn't there it would be easy as hell.
You'd do the basics sure. But would you do the hard thing and save the world because I asked you to?
Would you push aside your hatred of everyone but me because I asked you to nicely?
tobio has the social grace of a wet brick and a heart currently doing olympic-level gymnastics for his best friend.
wc: 1.8k, request
if the human brain were a volleyball, kageyama tobioâs would be a scuffed mikasa that had been slammed against a gym wall ten thousand times until the only thing left inside was the rhythmic, echoing thud of your name. it was a legitimate medical mystery how he hadn't yet collapsed into a puddle of setter-shaped goo whenever you breathed in his general direction. he was beyond âgoneâ; he was orbiting a planet that consisted entirely of your existence, and he had no intention of ever finding his way back to earth.
living alone was both a blessing and a psychological hazard for someone as far gone as him. his apartment was a shrine to two things: precision-guided sports performance and you. there was no middle ground. the air in his living room felt heavy with the unspoken weight of his devotion, a silent pressure that usually only existed in the final seconds of a five-set match.
he was currently sitting at his kitchen table, his posture so rigid he looked like heâd swallowed a steel rebar. the only thing moving was his hand, clutching a mechanical pencil with a grip strength that could probably crush a boulder. spread before him was his volleyball journalâthe sacred text, the holy grail of his daily grind. usually, these pages were filled with rigorous critiques of his finger placement or the exact trajectory of a jump serve.
tonight, however, the technical drawings of court rotations were being colonised by something far more dangerous.
ây/n kageyama.â
he stared at the scrawl. heâd written it in the margin, tucked between a note about protein intake and a diagram of a quick set. heâd written it so many times that the graphite was starting to shimmer. it looked right. it looked like the only logical conclusion to the universe. if he could just sew your lives together with the same surgical precision he used on the court, he would. he wanted to tuck you into his ribcage and carry you around like a heart heâd forgotten he owned.
âstupid,â he whispered to the empty room, his face heating up until he felt like he was undergoing atmospheric reentry.
he flipped to a fresh page, his eyes darting around as if a hidden camera might catch him in his moment of total, unadulterated weakness. he had a list. a very specific, very curated list of english words heâd been memorising. he knew you liked it when people put in effort, and heâd heard you mention a foreign movie once, so heâd spent three hours on a translation app trying to find words that felt heavy enough to carry the weight of his feelings.
âb-beautiful, eksâ exqueâ exquiâ exquisite,â he practiced, his tongue feeling like a lead weight.
it sounded like he was choking on a whistle. he scowled, his dark brows knitting together in a terrifying display of concentration. he just wanted to be enough for you. he wanted to be the only thing you looked at, the only person you relied on, the only name you ever felt the need to speak. it wasn't just a crush; it was a total system takeover. he was a computer and you were the only software he was capable of running.
the sound of a key turning in the lock made his heart lurch into his throat.
you had a spare key. heâd given it to you months ago, claiming it was for âemergenciesâ or âif he forgot his bag,â but in reality, he just wanted to know that you could enter his space whenever you pleased. he wanted the scent of your shampoo to haunt his hallways.
âtobio? you home? i brought those meat buns you like!â
your voice was like a physical blow to his chest. he panicked. he didnât just close the journal; he practically tackled it, shoving it under a pile of sports magazines with the subtlety of a runaway freight train.
âiâmâiâm in here!â he shouted, his voice cracking like a middle-schoolerâs.
you wandered into the kitchen, looking unfairly radiant in a baggy sweater, clutching a plastic bag that smelled like heaven. to kageyama, you didn't just walk; you moved through the air like a perfect setâgraceful, intentional, and meant entirely for him. his eyes locked onto you with a predatory intensity that would have been scary if he wasn't currently vibrating with nerves.
âyou look like you just committed a crime,â you chirped, dropping the buns on the table. âdid you finally kill your toaster for burning the bread?â
âno,â he grunted, his eyes following the movement of your wrists, the way your hair tucked behind your ear. he wanted to reach out and touch you, to verify you were real and not just a hallucination brought on by overtraining. âjust⊠studying.â
âstudying? since when do you study something that isnât a playbook?â you laughed, and the sound made his stomach do a backflip into a bucket of ice water.
you reached for the stack of magazines. kageyamaâs soul nearly left his body.
âwaitânoâdonât!â
it was too late. you were already moving, your curiosity a force of nature he was powerless to stop. the magazines slid off, revealing the worn leather cover of his journal. you grinned, thinking youâd found a secret stash of embarrassing volleyball doodles.
âoh, is this the legendary tome? the kageyama chronicles?â
âgive it back!â he lunged, but you were quickâyears of hanging out with athletes had given you reflexes that were nothing to sneeze at. you pirouetted out of his reach, holding the book high.
the silence that followed was so thick you could have sliced it with the razor-sharp, lethal precision of a certain overworked blonde office workerâs jawlineâthe kind that looks like it was carved out of pure, high-grade spite and overtime pay.
âkageyama stood frozen, his arms outstretched like a gargoyle. his face wasn't just red; it was a deep, pulsing purple. he looked like he was about to spontaneously combust and take the entire apartment block with him.
you flipped the page, your eyes widening as you saw the margins. it wasn't just one mention. it was everywhere. little hearts drawn with the mechanical precision of a geometric blueprint. your name looped in his jagged, aggressive handwriting. and then, the english.
ây/n is angelic. y/n is breathtaking.â
you looked up at him, your breath hitching. the sheer, raw devotion radiating off him was enough to make your head spin. he wasn't looking away. he was staring at you with an expression that was half-terrified and half-starving. he looked like a man who had just handed you the detonator to his entire life and was waiting for you to press the button.
âtobioâŠâ you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. âdid you⊠write all this?â
kageyama felt the world tilting. his brain was screaming at him to say somethingâsomething suave, something english, something that would make you fall into his arms.
âyeah.. itâs because youâre⊠youâreâŠâ he started, his voice a gravelly mess. his eyes darted to the page where heâd written exquisite. his tongue tripped over itself. his pride, his nerves, and his overwhelming need for you collided in a catastrophic wreck.
âyouâre a moron! youâre a stupid fool! give it back!â
he scrambled forward, finally snatching the book from your hands, but he didn't pull away. he stayed right there, his chest inches from yours, his breath hot on your face. he was shaking. the great king of the court was trembling because heâd accidentally let you see into the furnace of his heart.
you didn't move. you couldn't. the air between you was electric, charged with the kind of energy that precedes a lightning strike.
âyou wrote my name with yours,â you said, your voice soft and teasing but laced with a genuine heat that made his knees weak. âand you think iâm breathtaking?â
kageyamaâs grip on the journal tightened until the leather groaned. he looked down at you, his blue eyes dark and swirling with an intensity that felt like being submerged in a deep, cold ocean. he was tired of hiding. he was tired of the journal. he wanted the real thing. he wanted to be the only person you ever thought about.
âi donât just think it,â he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, losing its aggressive edge and becoming something much more dangerous. âitâs a fact. itâs a⊠a biological necessity. youâre the only one i can see. when iâm on the court, when iâm here, when iâm sleeping. itâs just you. itâs always been you. and if you donât give me back my journal and let me take you to dinner, iâm going to lose my mind.â
the honesty of it was a sledgehammer. there was no âmaybe,â no âalmost,â no âperhaps.â there was only kageyama tobio, standing in his kitchen, offering you his entire world on a silver platter made of volleyball leather and sheer, desperate love.
you reached up, your fingers brushing the heat of his cheek. âyouâre so dramatic, tobio.â
âshut up,â he muttered, but he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as he let out a shuddering breath. âjust⊠shut up and stay here. donât go anywhere. ever.â
you laughed, a warm, bright sound that filled the room and settled in his bones like a permanent glow. you stepped into his space, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. he dropped the journalâhis lifeâs work, his pride, his soulâonto the floor without a second thought, his large hands coming up to clutch you to him as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
he pulled you so close you could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic beat that spelled out your name in morse code. he pressed his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of you, his eyes squeezed shut in a moment of pure, unadulterated triumph. he didn't need the english words. he didn't need the journal.
he had you. and he was never, ever letting go.
âfool,â he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with a tenderness that could melt glaciers. âmy fool.â
you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes dancing. âwas âbreathtakingâ one of the words you practiced?â
kageyamaâs face flushed again, but this time he didn't turn away. he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a promise that was as firm and undeniable as a match-point spike.
âyeah,â he breathed against your mouth. âbut it wasn't enough. nothing is ever enough for how much i want you.â
and as he kissed you, the world outside his apartment ceased to exist. there were no more matches, no more rivals, no more journals. there was only the heat of your skin, the weight of his devotion, and the absolute, terrifyingly beautiful certainty that you were his, and he was yours, exactly as it was meant to be.
n: iâve been playing roblox hehez thatâs why iâm so distracted and i still have 2 more exams before my classes return.
ei responding to the death of her sister by attempting to create a state of eternity vs kazuha responding to the death of his friend by going on to live a life of impermanence. trying to make loss impossible (so you never get hurt again) vs trying to make loss so natural that you don't get attached to anything (and never get hurt again). staying in the same place forever vs running away forever
albedo, alhaitham, childe, scaramouche, venti x gn!reader
your job isnât the best one out there, but itâs easy and keeps you from drowning in tuition fees and rent. working at a 7-eleven on a midnight shift was supposed to be peaceful, so why is it that you constantly find yourself being bothered by weird customers? (modern au)
fluff, comedy, crack, cashier employee reader, modern au, written for fluffvember!
ALBEDO
Itâs difficult not to take notice of the perpetually tired college student (much like yourself) who always comes at the latest hours to order a cup of black coffee and a can of beer. The first time you saw him order that drink was a memorable one, if only because of the way your eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets when you saw him mix the two drinks in a large, empty slurpee cup and proceed to drink it all in a matter of seconds.
Another memorable time was when he came in with only enough money to buy a bottle of water, then took a seat at a table near the counter and took out a box full of what you initially presumed were cookies. It was a traumatizing memory you look back on with a shudder as you remember the way he crunched down on it like it was a piece of biscuit instead of a motherfucking spider.
âTheyâre surprisingly nutritional, full of protein and fibre. It leaves a strange aftertaste, but itâs a good substitute for dinner.â
Since then, youâve made sure to keep some food ready in the microwave for him, free of charge. He just looked so pitiful sitting by himself with dark under-eyes and greasy hair â the very image of a normal college student â that you couldnât help yourself from taking money out of your own pocket to help a fellow comrade.
One day, he came to the store with blown pupils and a sort of dazed look in his eyes, words slurring together as he tried to explain to you how heâs finally created an edible liquid that can keep sleep at bay for at least 120 hoursâŠwith some small side-effects, but itâll wear off with time. Thatâs when you found out he was a bio-chemistry student well on his way to getting a PhD at his young age.
When questioned why he drank the liquid instead of having someone else do it, his response was, âTo experience it firsthand, of course. The basis of research is accuracy and precision, how could I be remiss as to leave such an important experiment to someone who could, in their ignorance, fail to mention an important detail that their mind might have labeled as useless.â
Youâre not quite sure how heâs still alive by this point.
But his weirdness aside, you resolve to take care of him in your own way, from a fellow tired college student to another. You remind him to get some sleep, steering him away from eating spiders and encouraging him to eat more meat.
âBut I am eating meat?â
âAlbedo, thatâs a spider.â
âAnd are you saying that spiders do not possess meat?â
âOh, for the love ofâjust eat the goddamn sandwich.â
You think he appreciates it, if the way he dedicated his latest thesis to you is any indication.
ALHAITHAM
You were in the middle of answering a math problem your professor assigned that morning, papers sprawled over the counter with you hunched over it, hand in your hair and trying not to pull at it in frustration over how difficult the problem was. And then heâd come in like an angel, all perfectly shiny hair and a no-nonsense look on his face, took one look at you and the papers scattered across the counter and said one sentence that saved your grade in math.
âYou forgot to put a negative sign right there.â
That was the moment you decided that he must be an angel sent from heaven. He always grunts whenever you call him that, though whether itâs from amusement or annoyance remains to be seen.
He doesnât visit the convenience store much, but when he does, he always spares the time to help you out with whatever assignment you were working on, sometimes even taking the initiative of asking if you need his assistance in answering a problem â though he says this on a much less nicer tone.
âAre you gonna make me do your homework again?â
âMy professer didnât assign me one today, surprisingly enough, so no.â
He seemed strangely disappointed when you told him no, but you chalked it up to him being some sort of math wiz who gets riled up by equations and the like. Seems like kind of guy too, what with all the times heâs made a subtle jab at your intelligence â or lack, thereof.
âHow could you possibly need a paper to calculate the answer to four-hundred and thirty-two times fifty-eight?â
âNot all of us are smarter than Rukkhadevata like you.â
âWho?â
Heâs not bad company, though that opinion stems solely from the fact that he helps you (solves it for you, more like) with all your homework. Not without making comments about you lazing about on the job and letting your customer answer your assignment for you. You respond in a mature way by making fun of him.
âIâve never seen you without those earphones. Are you hiding a pair of large ears or something?â
âNo.â
He refuses to elaborate more on the subject.
Sometimes you give him a drink, usually cola or juice, as thanks for helping you out. He takes it without question, taking sips from it as he tutors you about this and that, occasionally commenting about your job and how youâre only making yourself suffer by taking on midnight shifts. You donât see why he cares. For all that you jokingly call him an angel, you know heâs far from actually being one.
You once saw him on campus reading a book by the library. Itâs easy enough to come up to him and make conversation, handing him an unopened drink you just bought from a vending machine. It just feels wrong not to, more of a habit by this point.
Itâs then that someone decides to dramatically drop his books to the ground and point at you and Alhaitham. The blonde guy gapes and asks how in the world Alhaitham managed not to scare you away. His eyes zero in on the can of grape juice on Alhaithamâs hand, and then he proceeds to laugh, asking Alhaitham since when did he decide to start drinking what he once called was an unhealthy drink composed of sugar and artificial flavoring.
You made a mental note of that response, and later that night, you decide to hand him a packaged biscuit. Nothing unhealthy there. Technically.
âGood. I was beginning to wonder if I should start taking medicine in case my stomach burst from the amount of cola you hand me.â
âYou couldâve just not accepted, you know.â
âIt was given to me. Not accepting would be considered rude.â
âDidnât Kaveh say you threw a bottle of orange juice to his face after he gave you one?â
âI did.â
He refuses to elaborate more on the subject, but youâve since resolved to only give him the healthiest thing you could find on the storeâwhich isnât much considering this is a 7-eleven, but hey, microwaved salad is still salad, right?
He grumbles about the radiation but eats the salad anyway. Another win for you, you suppose.
CHILDE
He came in near the end of your shift, lips busted and an eye swollen shut, blood splattered all over his clothes. The grin on his face shouldâve hinted you at his lunacy, but youâve always been blind to warnings and the like, so you went over the counter and helped him up from where heâs slumped over the chips and candies isle.
Aether, your co-worker and the one whoâs about to take over from your shift, only looked at you with tired eyes, âItâs too early for this shit.â That was, of course, Aetherâs way of basically saying, youâre on your own.
So you picked up the ginger lying on the linoleum floors, heaving his arm over your shoulder to drag him to the nearest pharmacy â never let it be said that you were just a bystander. He groaned as the movement bothered whatever injuries he may have, but he still looked at you with wide, strangely lightless eyes, as if only now registering your presence, and said, âHoly shit, youâre hot.â
After you finished dumping him on the pharmacy and leaving the people there baffled at what to do with an injured guy, he grabbed your wrist and, with a bloody smile he probably thought was charming, handed you a piece of paper containing his number.
You never text him. Or call.
He comes back to the store a week later with faint yellow bruises across his face and a far too bright grin for someone whoâs visiting a 7-eleven at two in the morning. He pouts about not getting a single text from you, but before you can respond, heâs moving on to another topic, mindlessly picking up a box of tampons by the side and setting it on the counter.
He only seems to realize what heâs done when you give him a strange look.
âTampons are, uh, great for bloody noses!â
ââŠRight.â
You werenât convinced at all, but you decided to let it slide. He seemed like a genuine guy, if a bit too enthusiastic sometimes. His mouth never shuts ups, always going on about this and that, asking all sorts of questions that wouldâve normally had most normal people backing away. But your brain isnât exactly at its best condition and being sleep deprived for the better part of your life has made it less of a brain and more of an organ that just helps you get through the day.
You donât know exactly why he stays to chat with you, buying ridiculous amounts of stuff that were frankly far too expensive just to have an excuse to talk to you. You donât mind it much, especially when heâs a great deterrent for any unwanted petty thieves or middle school delinquents trying to rob your store every week or so.
Apparently, heâs got a reputation for being a bit of an adrenaline junkie and being willing to fight anything and everything that breathes. And apparently, wordâs gotten out that heâs into you, like, really into you, so most guys who have less-than-well intentions have decided that robbing the local 7-eleven isnât worth the trouble if it means having to deal with Ajax.
âActually, itâs Tartaglia.â
âTarantula?â
âNo, Tartaglia. Itâs my street name! Ajax just doesnât inspire the same fear into other peopleâs hearts the same way Tartaglia does.â
âWhatever you say, Tortilla.â
âItâs Tartaglia!â
He never brings up the fact that you never call or text him back, even when heâs somehow gotten ahold of your number and started sending you memes and updates about his day. When asked, he just shrugs and says heâll win you over eventually.
SCARAMOUCHE
It wasnât intentional, and youâll admit it was completely your fault, but did he have to be such an asshole about you dozing off on the counter?
âHave the standards really fallen so low that employees are now afforded to sleep on the job?â
Here was this guy at two in the morning, bemoaning societyâs failure in raising the new generation to have a proper work ethic at a 7-eleven store. The guy had a rolex watch and clothes that looked like they were worth more than your monthly salary â youâre not one to judge other peopleâs appearances, but heâs the very image of nepotism. And frankly speaking, youâre of the opinion that rich people shouldnât be entitled to an opinion on what the working class decides do with their life, like falling asleep on the job.
âŠAnd oh, you just said that out loud, didnât you?
Oh well, your manager will understand.
The guy with a bowl cut leaves fuming, but not before slapping a wad of cash down the counter to pay for his stupidly expensive noodles, snarling at you to keep the change since you clearly need it more than him.
You do, in fact, keep the change. Money is money, whether itâs from your salary or a rich boy throwing a tantrum.
The next day in class, a bag slams down the seat beside you, and youâre met with the same rich boy from last night, a scowl painting his rather pretty face as he hisses lowly about how heâs surprised you can afford to go to college. Talk about holding a grudge, you wouldâve forgotten all about him from last night if he hadnât given you his change.
He fumes even more when you donât give him any sort of reaction, merely nodding your head at him and turning back to the board to listen to your professor drone on about this and that. Itâs rather difficult to focus, however, when he keeps muttering sarcastic comments and barbs to the teacher beneath his breath.
âIf you even had an iota of charm about you, perhaps your wife wouldnât have filed for a divorce.â
You choked on a laugh, hand coming up muffle the sound, but he clearly noticed, judging by the way he snaps his head to you, eyes wide and seemingly surprised you found it funny. You only smile at him, an amused little thing, but he quickly looked away and murmured something unintelligible beneath his breath, his fists clenched and the tips of his ears curiously pink.
He comes back to visit your job that night, still with that air of haughtiness about him but a bit toned down. Even more surprising was the fact he didnât immediately leave the moment he handed you his money.
âDo you want the change?â
âAre you so desperate for money that youâd go begging a total stranger for some spare coin?â
âI mean, yeah, I guess.â
âTch, fine. You can have it.â
He never fails to come back every night, always giving you the change for his bill, even when the amount is more than the items he paid for. Sometimes, heâll even take out a snack or a drink from the bag and slide them over to you, cheeks suspiciously red as he did so.
âDonât think this means anything. Iâm only giving this to you because I know you canât afford it.â
âItâs literally worth ten mora.â
âWould it kill you to at least give me a thank you?â
âThank you, Kunikuzushi. Iâll be sure to treasure this can of cola that I wouldâve never been able to afford without your help.â
âShut up.â
He buys you a tub of ice cream the next night, the ridiculously expensive kind, to prove a point. The two of you eat it together at one of the tables, him grumbling about the stain on the table and the overall lack of quality and taste â at a 7-eleven â and you laughing whatever he says.
Well, you suppose heâs not as much of an asshole as you initially assumed.
VENTI
Heâs a bit popular in campus, in the sense that nearly everyone is friends with him, which makes it impossible not to have heard about that one guy whoâs really great at singing. You were, unfortunately, one of the few that arenât well acquainted with him â arenât acquainted with him at all.
So when he comes up to the counter, all boyish grin and ridiculously short shorts and a cute little pink hair clip keeping his bangs away from his face, holding an entire householdâs worth of vodka and wine, you do what any rational semi-adult would do and look at him with a blank face.
âAre you even old enough to drink?â
He laughs at you like this is a common occurrence he faces on the daily before slapping down his ID on the counter. And huh, would you look at that, heâs even older than you are.
He then lights up once he gets a good look at you. âHey, youâre Albedoâs friend, arenât you?â He abandons his alcohol at the counter in favor of looking around your quaint little convenient store. âSo this is that 7-eleven he keeps talking aboutâŠâ
Youâre not exactly sure what heâs going on about, but you do know he must be a friend of Albedoâs, which makes you ease up around him. Heâs nice. Sort of. If you ignore the teasing and the jokes and the way he keeps asking you to give him a student discount. For alcohol. Youâd given him what you hoped was your best imitation of Kunikuzushiâs stink eye. You think you got it on point, if the way he deflates is any indication.
He comes around the store every weekend, saying heâs here to get a little treat for the awful weekday heâs had. You never fail to remind him that he has class every Sunday, to which he responds by opening a can of beer (which he hasnât paid for yet) and sitting on the counter, bemoaning the injustice of putting classes during the weekends.
You once asked him why he keeps hanging around this store when thereâs a perfectly good bar right around the corner, owned by that popular red-haired business major from your university. Venti just laughed and said he prefers the quietness here â and the company, he added with a wag of his eyebrows. He always teases you, sometimes borderline flirting, but itâs easy enough to wave it away.
The day you discovered he was actually well known in campus was when your university hosted a local event. Thereâd been stalls and booths set up everywhere and even a little mock-stage put up near the center for any band or singer to perform in. Itâd been nice to have a break from the monotonous routine of going to class and studying then working at your job and getting less than ideal sleep.
And then you heard your name booming out from the speakers, and you turn your head to see Venti on the stage with that little lyre he sometimes carries with him to the store, saying heâd like your opinion on a song or two he composed.
He dedicates the song to you in front of the entire student body, then proceeds to sing the cheesiest, most gut-wrenching and cringiest love song of all time.
âWhy did you have to pick that song?â
âBecause itâs fun and cute!â
âI sometimes question your ability to distinguish cute from horrifyingly monstrous.â
Thereâs a mortified look on your face, but amidst the embarrassment and the teasing remarks of his friends, thereâs a smile on your face that you canât bring yourself to wipe away.
iâll be doing a part two on this but with diluc, dottore, kazuha, xiao, and zhongli!
soft is an understatement when it comes to silver, you think.
thatâs not to say heâs incapable of the oppositeâthe training really shows in any crisisâbut itâs easy to forget that fact once disaster has dwindled down to the drowsy daze of moonlight. under the nightâs watch, wonderland quiets at last, and sleep returns without the threat of eternity. night raven college rests.
as with most things in this world, that doesnât apply to you.
before, you could call the problem some garden-variety insomniaâa dizzying, perpetual pulsing in your head and eyes that refused to shutâprobably a product of getting tossed into a different dimension with different rules. like jet lag, or something. unfortunate, sure, but not something to worry about.
in light of revelations about the effect of long-term magic on inconsistent rem cycles or the entire lack thereof, itâs become yet another thing that keeps you up at night. you suspect the only thing thatâs going to put you down now is sedation, magical or otherwise.
silver is heartachingly kind as he tries to lull you to sleep, a lullaby in his throat and a hand combing through your hair. beneath your ear and past cloud-soft cotton, his heartbeat marches on as steadily as a knight. itâs so calm; your ears are beginning to ring in the din. you blindly toy with a stray thread on his sweater and peek, over his shoulder, at the clock hanging like a second moon from the clinicâs shadowed walls. 12:29, it reads.
âyou should rest too, silver.â your voice emerges through the dark as quiet as an oath. thereâs a drifting, faded quality to it, coating the words as they spill out. âand donât talk about earlier, that doesnât count.â
âi am. i promise.â a warm sigh fans across your forehead. âbesides,â he pivots, voice low and soothing, âyou did all the caretaking during our journeyâiâm only returning the favor how i can.â
you hum, pressing further into the warm space between him and the cotâs ridiculously plush mattress, as though the external pressure could relieve the one inside your skull. âyou don't need to. iâm used to this by now.â
âbut i want to,â he insists.
the laugh that falls from your lips is worn thin, a feeble, flimsy thing that would break in the midnight breeze. âthen is there a way for us to share your sleep?â
and silverâsweet, endlessly kindâpulls you in closer, as though his comfort could dispel the restlessness plaguing you. you lean into it anyway. (because even if you canât rest, at least you know youâll be safe.) something warm is pressed against your temple. a kiss, you realize. it must be the softest act youâve experienced recently.
âmm? whatâs that for?â
âyou, of course,â silver says, so simply it seems like a fact. the word curls around your heart and warms you from the inside out.
âis that some kind ofâŠbriar valley superstition iâm not aware of?â
âclose.â youâll have to make note of that. itâs difficult to imagine any of the diasomnia students being so free in their affection, but maybe that was just a night raven trait. âthereâs a famous story in the valley, about two lovers who had been separated by a curse. even though it took a century, eventually, the curse was broken by a kiss. thereâs some debate as to whether it was the kiss that broke the curse, or if the curse ran out of time, butâŠâ and here, silver pauses. his heartbeat quickens just a slight. âfather used to say that it could cure anything.â
âmm, just a regular kiss?â you prod.
gazing through the dark, soft, drooping eyes meet yours. the tips of his ears glow warm in the moonâs shine. âa kiss of true love,â silver answers finally.
beautiful boy, made of dreams and light and enough devotion to defy destiny and then some. you adore him.
that last thought settles in your chest. itâs the clearest one youâve had all night, healed of any waking ache. and finally, as your eyes begin to grow heavy, you wonder if silverâs story may just hold some truth after all.
âthank you,â you mumble. âi think that finally did the trick.â
gently, the blanket is pulled over your shoulder, and a thumb smooths down your brow. âi wanted to thank you too.â
âhm?â (your hazy eyes are luminous in the moonlight. beautiful, silver thinks. beautiful in a way that invites those to look closer, to reach out for an existence that haunts wonderland phantomwise.)
âiâm grateful,â he clarifies, âthat i had you with me throughout that journey, and that you were there every time i faltered. i reallyâŠi canât thank you enough.â
âyou donât have to thank me for that, silver.â and as you surrender to the night, you whisper, ânot at all.â
