★` mostly gender neutral x reader (2nd person perspective) multifandom ficlets/oneshots; can be read as either—platonic or romantic; all lowercase; self-indulgent; little to no dialogue; canon compliant; english is not my first language; typically i don't take requests, but i can take your ideas into consideration.
☆` genshin hsr hxh (characters you can expect me to write—xiao venti wanderer lyney alhaitham kinich flins lohen blade moze anaxa aventurine feitan)
★` masterlist
hxh
butterfly feitan
masquerade of feelings feitan
genshin
never meant to be a god wanderer (swallow the river of lethe: prologue)
only with you wanderer (only because of you series pt1)
you complete him wanderer (only because of you series pt2)
You may be thinking not much difference/improvement but let me tell you one took almost 20 hrs since I didn't know what I was doing and the other took only 3 or 4 hrs :3
WAIT HELLO. if you could see my jaw rn, its dropped so low i cannot pick it up. IT IS SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL LIKE THIS STYLE???? oh man. visit me at my funeral<3
You may be thinking not much difference/improvement but let me tell you one took almost 20 hrs since I didn't know what I was doing and the other took only 3 or 4 hrs :3
WAIT HELLO. if you could see my jaw rn, its dropped so low i cannot pick it up. IT IS SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL LIKE THIS STYLE???? oh man. visit me at my funeral<3
☆ Note. In Greek mythology, River Lethe was one of the rivers that flowed through the Underworld. Some believe that after death, a person would drink from the river in order to forget their past life and cleanse their soul for rebirth to a new life.
Have you ever heard the story of a young boy who worshiped the god? One that had no believers but him. One that supposedly never existed.
Yet, every day he went on his knees to beg. To ask for forgiveness, for blissfulness, for a feeling of fullness. Honestly, for anything good to happen to him.
Everything he did was for a god that he called himself.
He worshiped an idealized version of himself—a god he tried to become because he felt unworthy of any other. If he could not be accepted by divinity, he would become it. If he could not be human, he would transcend it.
He figured that must be the reason the gods punished him.
Divine punishment—yes, that is what it is, he thought. He was meant to experience three celestial beings sentencing him to a never-ending cycle of self-hatred, rage, and feeling hollow.
Raiden Ei, the current Electro Archon of the Seven, and God of Eternity. A puppet would call her the creator. A human? The parental figure. Truthfully, to that said boy, Ei was neither, and both at the same time.
The punishment, or so he thinks, given by the God presiding over Inazuma was being set free, as he was too human. He was a puppet, capable of emotion— and that very capacity led her to seal his power and release him into the world. Not for nurture. Not for destruction. Abandonment.
He was wandering around; feeling lost, forgotten, and discarded. He felt like a nobody. No name, no home, no family. To him, that freedom felt like rejection.
Why was he punished? Is being a human a sin by itself?
Then came another dark age. Cold and painful. Except he did not feel it, he is a puppet after all. Or so they thought he was only that. Very contradictory if you ask me.
Tsaritsa, lady monarch of the Snezhnaya. To her, the boy was like a rather pretty doll to control, a weapon to wield. He was broken and fixed over and over and over and over and over and… again. Only to serve a purpose.
If he was punished for being human, then why would another punish him for not being one after all? In the end, who, or rather, what was he? He had no identity whatsoever, and his titles changed over time.
The third God he was punished by was Lesser Lord Kusanali. In truth, she is exceptional. Her punishment, if you believe it can count as one, was learning and repaying his own sins.
But that is exactly the hard part. The boy was never meant to undo his mistakes, he was meant to understand them. To relive the pain he had caused, not through direct punishment, but through realization.
God of Wisdom and Dendro Archon, in her boundless compassion, did not strike him down by her words (only he could make that call), nor cast him into isolation or oblivion. Instead, she set him upon a path of knowledge—one lined with memories, with echoes of the lives he had shattered.
He called it the punishment because he suffered. From oneself. By his own hand and mind. Yet he was met with kindness, still. Why was he met with warmth despite everything?
It was unusual to him, and he could not handle his yearning for more of it. Yet he did not mention it out loud.
Well, now you did hear the story of a boy who worshiped the god.
One that had no believers but him. One that supposedly never existed.
Everything he did was for a god that he called himself.
Because no other god could compare, no other god would be happy with who he is. He felt diminished into nothing. He was either too human or not one at all. He was always someone, or, rather, something in between those two worlds, never one of them entirely.
There was no one he could trust, nothing he would love.
If he was being punished for being human, and punished for not being one, then… who was he allowed to be, after all?
Perhaps the real story is not about divine punishment at all? Perhaps it is about someone learning that he was never meant to be a god—only himself.
i have one unfinished scara (wanderer) oneshot and if i finish it by 2027, it will be a miracle (currently writing tgcf fic for ao3 only and im stuck on both tbh)
it is chilly tonight. although that did not stop you from taking a trip deeper into the final light cemetery. you were careful not to trip over the stone tombs as you sat down on the slight edge of the shore.
stars were smiling down at you with an ache of yearning, and a drop of hope to reach and touch the hearts of humans.
it was pretty and serene.
“… it’s a cemetery," you hear someone say. his voice felt distant, a bit disdainful yet laced with something faintly warm—like a forgotten memory would echo in one’s mind.
in your peripheral vision, you see a blue, flowy flickering around the figure standing tall next to you. you just met a resident ghost, you think.
“i know," your lips form the answer without a second thought. and then, you continue, “i do not stargaze without purpose. have you ever wondered why, despite the gray atmosphere, the night sky at the graveyard is always painted with the brightest of stars?“
there is a pause between your monologue for the phantom. he does not answer, just hums curiously instead.
“each star seems to be the soul of the dead once they are put to rest.” you finally turn your head to look at your new friend.
notably, the man did not seem human. and yet, he wasn’t dead either—not truly alive, but not entirely gone. there was a strange stillness about him, a mysterious aura that bent the air around his presence.
“...oh,” flins looks up to the sky with eyes full of sorrow, longing, and maybe a bit of regret.
you felt his raw emotion just now and here.
he ponders for a while. “may i join stargazing with you?” and so, his question was met with a mellow smile of yours.
request: what about kinich as the pyro archon, and he's looking for a successor—which is y/n that can defeat him once ajaw took over his body one day. But when ajaw did, y/n couldn't lift her blade against him since she got attached to kinich smth like that
tags: angst, archon!kinich, angst, successor!reader, human!reader to archon!reader, fluff to angst, mentions of blood, possession, violence (just the part where kinich loses control), hurt and slight comfort, death, not proofread, english is not my native language so i apologize if there are grammatical errors! :)
word count: 5.3k (i know, guys. i know.)
now playing ── dynasty by MIIA
[ EVENT MASTERLIST ]
A man sat quietly in his room, watching the city basking in the sunlight from the window. The half-parted curtains prevented the light from not entering the quiet room, letting some of it rest on his sullen face. His jade green and yellow orbs, tired and helpless, stare out the world below.
The people moved in unison, unaware of the eyes following their movements. Lovers quarreled. Strangers’ shoulders touched. A child watched a balloon rise into a sky that he accidentally let go.
He isn’t looking at them because he wants to. He’s looking for something— someone.
He needed a successor. Not the kind who will inherit his will, wealth, or wisdom, no.
He needed someone who’s capable enough to kill him if ever the storm that he’s been hiding finally rages out of him.
Not now. Not tomorrow. But when the time came—if the time came—when the thing inside him broke free, when his mind, no longer his own, would become a threat to everything outside this window…. that moment would come. It always did, in stories like his.
That's his fate. To become a monster that will hurt the people he has sworn to protect the moment he loses control. But for now, he will keep searching. He may not see or meet them right now, but he knows that they’re out there.
So he will wait. For now.
A knock was heard from the door and the man waited for it to open to reveal who it was.
“Archon,” a white-haired man entered the room and bowed. “It appears you’re zoning out again.”
“Ifa.” the man addressed the visitor and resumed his little observations outside. “I keep telling you to just call me by my name when we’re not in public.”
“Ooop— you’re right. Sorry, Kinich.” Ifa chuckled and sat on his bed. “I heard you’re still in search of a successor?”
Kinich didn’t answer.
He’s getting impatient. He’s running out of time. He needs to find someone to replace him before it’s too late, before he lost everything he spent years protecting the people in this town the former Archon had entrusted to him. No, he cannot afford that to happen.
Kinich stands up and grabs his coat.
“It’s getting dark, where are you going?” Ifa asked, looking a bit confused.
“Night stroll.”
Without waiting for his friend to say anything, he left.
The city is buzzling with lights and the people’s laughter makes the place more lively. Kinich uses his power to hide his presence, turning invisible when people are starting to crowd him. He doesn’t want to impede the people’s fun by him being here. Although the hood around his head almost covering his face makes him look suspicious, he still tried his best to avoid being seen.
And so, he walked.
Then stops in front of a stall that sells dango. If he could remember, this delicacy is from Inazuma. He hasn’t tried it yet, so he wants to buy some.
But there’s a problem.
If I approach that stall and remove my invisibility, the people will figure out that I’m here.
He sighed. “I should’ve brought Ifa with me…”
“Ummm…. Sir?”
Now what do I do? Should I go back and drag him back here with me?
“Excuse me, sir….?”
But he might have left my place already.
“Sir, the one wearing the long coat? Hello? Can you move to the side please?”
Wait a minute.
Kinich slowly turns around. He was met with a girl carrying boxes that almost hid her face. The only thing that Kinich can see is her forehead peeking from above the box at the top.
But ignore the forehead— did she just call out to him?
“Are you perhaps talking to me?” he asks just to make sure
“Who else would I be talking to? You’re the only one standing in my way.” the girl answered, “And uh, can you please move? These boxes are heavy. I think my arms are going to fall if I don't deliver this to my granny asap.”
Kinich widens his eyes. Without saying anything, he raises his hand and gently removes the boxes from the girl. He can see her properly now.
Long (h/c) hair tied to a high ponytail, fair skin, and her (e/c) orbs staring back at him….
Eyes don’t lie. This girl can see him. And the way she looks at him, Kinich is sure of it.
This girl….
Finally, after years of searching, he found someone who can be his successor.
ᐟᐟ☆ —
“y/n!!!”
You almost drop the box you’re holding when your friend tackled you from behind. You turn around and glare at her.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop doing that, Mualani? If I drop this box and break the goods, I will have you pay for it.”
“Okay, sorry, sorry!” Mualani giggled and leaned in, “But hey— what happened to you girl?”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of answering you, your white-haired friend nods her head behind you. Not sure what she’s talking about, you slowly turn your head to see what she’s talking about.
And this time, you dropped the box and hit Mualani's feet when you saw a familiar two figures talking to your grandmother.
Them again?!
Before you could run to hide, your grandmother called out to you. You long given up asking your friend for help because she pushed you towards them before running off. Clearly leaving you all alone to talk to the Archon and his friend.
You took a deep, deep breath before making your way towards your grandma and visitors. You gave them a bow before greeting them.
“What matters you came here for this time, Archon?”
You received a hard slap from your grandma at that. “Ouch, I was just greeting them! No need to hit me!”
“Where are your manners?!”
“I don’t really mind, it’s fine.” Kinich smiled and waved his hand.
“See, he said it’s okay.”
“What am I going to do with you…” your grandma sighed and fixed the basket she’s holding, “Invite them inside, y/n. I need to take these fruits to your cousin.”
“But I have a delivery to make!"
“Mualani took over, it’s fine.” THAT GIRL—!
After a couple of minutes of persuading her, you gave up and invited your guests inside your house. You lead them to the living room and tell them to wait because you will make some tea for them.
You know why they—the Archon’s here.
Ever since that encounter at the Central, he’s been visiting you and keeps telling you to be his successor. At first, you laughed at him for telling you such a terrible joke. Because why is he suddenly asking you to be his successor like he’s asking you to be his friend? Dude, being an Archon is not in your bucket list! It’s not an easy task! Responsibilities are a big no-no for you! What did he even see in you for him to tell you to succeed his throne someday?
You don’t have a vision. You cannot fight. You can’t even handle a sword right.
Is he getting old? I think he needs to do an eye check up because I’m pretty sure I’m not suitable for that job. Even if he tells me I will earn 5 million mora per week, I’d still refuse.
“─y/n?”
“Miss y/n?”
You snap back to reality when you hear someone calling out to you.
“Ah, yes? I apologize for spacing out, sir.”
The Archon’s friend chuckled, “I should be the one apologizing to you. We’ve been intruding on you for almost a week now.”
Damn right you are!
“I think you should go find another successor. I’m not suitable for that job, I’m just a simple delivery girl from the countryside.”
“Trust me, I tried convincing Kinich to find someone else. But once that guy’s made up his mind, he’ll never listen to anyone until he gets what he wants.” he sighed. Then he looks at you, his smile gone and replaced with a serious expression. “But please understand that he means no harm. He needs to find someone to inherit his throne because he’s running out of time.”
“What do you mean, he’s running out of time?”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he removed his hat and bowed.
“W-wait why are you—”
“If he chose you, then that means you’re capable of granting his wish. I ask you this on his behalf, and for my own selfish request— please become his successor, y/n l/n.”
ᐟᐟ☆ —
It took you five days to decide if you’ll accept the heavy responsibility you’ll bear months from now or not.
So here you are. Standing in your new room that you’ll stay in starting today. The room is quite spacious, and there is furniture already. The bed also looks nice.
How did you agree to this? Just thinking about it makes your head hurt. Ever since Kinich— he said to call him by his name and not ‘Archon’—revealed his real intention of visiting you every day, your grandmother didn’t leave you alone. She keeps persuading you to accept his offer. She clearly doesn’t have any idea that once you accept Kinich’s offer to be his successor, you will have less time to spend with her. You will leave your home and that means she will be all alone.
Mualani promised that she will take care of your grandma once you leave, but you can’t help but be worried still.
You flop down on the bed face-first and groan.
I’m too tired to think. I’m sure Granny will be fine.
ᐟᐟ☆ —
It took you a month to become fully accustomed of bearing the title of being Kinich’s successor.
The training was literal hell.
Home-schooling was also hell.
Everything in this place—except the food—is hell! Did Kinich also go through this before he became an Archon??
You cried for two days when the sword-fight training started. You don’t know what you were doing. You were too stiff, but because of your experience of lifting boxes from deliveries, your instructor told you that you will become a swordsman in no time because your stamina is quite high and cut out for this kind of training.
That was a compliment, right?
“Ah… I want to go home…”
You’re lying on the ground, watching the blue sky and clouds pass by.
“Today is your rest day, right?”
You don’t need to turn your head to see who it was.
Kinich sat beside you. Come to think of it, this is the third time that you see him. Ever since coming here, he’s been coped up in his room and never came out. The audacity to leave you all alone to suffer after a week of pestering you to become his successor???
But you cannot even be mad at him because you keep remembering Ifa’s words when he comes to pick you up.
“He tends to shut himself up in his room for days. I feel like I needed to tell you that. He’s… battling his own war, you see.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Hm?”
Y/N WHAT THE—?! YOU ALSO NEED TO LEARN TO CONTROL YOUR MOUTH!!
You can feel Kinich staring down at you and you quickly sit up and face him.
“I-I mean—! Ifa told me that you’re battling something, and that you’re running out of time, that's why you were desperate to find a successor…”
Kinich was quiet for a few seconds, before giving you a smile. It… looked sad and you purse your lips to prevent yourself from asking unnecessary questions again while waiting for him to say something.
“I wouldn’t call it finding a successor, actually.” he said and looked up. “It’s more like finding someone who can grant my wish when the time comes.”
You remember Ifa’s words again.
“If he chose you, then that means you’re capable of granting his wish. I ask you this on his behalf, and for my own selfish request— please become his successor, y/n l/n.”
“If you don’t mind me asking… what is your wish?”
He looks back at you, still smiling that sad smile.
“To have someone who won’t hesitate to kill me when the time comes where I lose control of my powers.”
ᐟᐟ☆ —
Oh this is bad. Really, really bad.
You would’ve never thought that the reason for Kinich coming to your house was this deep and serious! Now the responsibility you keep imagining and mentally preparing for just got doubled!
His wish— oh that cruel wish. What do you mean you’re doing those hellish training not for preparation but to kill him? You can’t even kill a cockroach! And just thinking of killing someone made you shiver.
Kinich reassured you that what you will do is not a sin, it’s to save everyone— including himself.
But still, the thought of using a blade to end someone…
It’s already midnight, but your mind’s still wide awake. You tried all possible ways to fall asleep but none of them are working!
“What did I just get myself into…”
All this thinking is making your head hurt so you stand up and leave the room to fetch some warm water to calm your nerves. Ever since hearing that… k-word, you couldn’t sit still.
Do I really have to kill him? Is that the only choice? Is there no other way to save him? Can’t Ifa just help him when he loses control of his powers??
Then it happened.
While walking through the dark and cold hallways, you heard something breaking and crashing. You let out a loud shriek and drop on your knees, covering your ears.
What the heck just happened!?
It didn’t stop. Realizing that just sitting there won’t solve anything, you run towards Kinich's room despite the fear that's starting to build up inside you.
“K-kinich?” you called out when you reached the door. You didn’t receive a response from inside so you called him again. “I-is everything okay?”
Wow, y/n what a dumb and helpful question.
Silence.
Your heart beats so loud you can almost hear it. The silence is cold and eerie. You looked around, silently hoping that someone would come to help but sadly, you and Kinich are the only ones staying in this mansion.
Calm down, y/n. Empty your mind. Open the door, and enter the room then check if Kinich is okay.
Taking a long, deep breath, you hold the doorknob and slowly open it. The room was dark, and the mess inside made it harder for you to find the Archon.
“.. Kinich?” you tried to sound calm but your body says otherwise. You’re not scared, you’re terrified.
The moment you took a step inside his room, a hand grabbed your neck and you were slammed against the wall.
What the!?
The door closed with a loud bang and the room was engulfed in complete darkness.
Your fear doubled.
You tried to break free but he was strong. He doesn't even budge as your hands try to grip his arm to make him release you.
I can't breathe….!
Even though you couldn't see anything, you can feel that your vision is blurring due to lack of oxygen. You’re scared. You’re terrified. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream.
You want to go back home.
Grandma….
You open your mouth in an attempt to say something. Although the person in front of you might be different, you know that Kinich is still there. So you still tried whispering assurance after assurance.
“He’s… battling his own war, you see.”
“I-it’s okay… ev.. everything.. will be okay…” your grip’s starting to loosen, but you still keep going. You can feel tears forming in the corner of your eyes as you whispered the next words to him— silently wishing that he would hear them.
“Y-yo… you’re going… to be fine… K-kinich…”
Then you completely lose consciousness.
ᐟᐟ☆ —
It’s been a week since the incident happened. Ifa said that you were unconscious for three days straight. He also mentioned that Kinich stayed in your room to look after you. Maybe it was out of guilt, who knows. After all, you almost died.
So to prevent the same thing happening again, Ifa decided that he will stay in the mansion for a while to keep things on track. And you couldn't be more thankful. You need some company.
Yes, you’re scared. You experienced first hand what Kinich meant when he said ‘lose control’ of his powers— of himself. But despite what happened, you’re also starting to understand him. Although his wish is still bothering you, you decided that you have to do something for him. You need to find something that can help him.
Anything. Just not killing him.
“I have a proposal.”
Kinich stopped walking. He slowly turned his head to look at you and raised an eyebrow.
“A proposal?” you nodded, “Do tell.”
“Let’s go to Central thrice a week. In exchange, I will train. For, you know…” you really cannot bring yourself to talk about that topic.
But Kinich remained still, not saying anything and just staring at you as if waiting for what you will say next.
Hello…? Mr. Archon? Are you still there?
To be honest, you didn't come up with this proposal for him. You also came up with it for you.
Because you feel like you staying here and not going out for days would make you crazy. As someone who grew up in a large neighborhood, being strained to only one place makes you feel trapped and lonely.
You're a normal person. You need to see the outside world. Same goes for the Archon.
So, this proposal should be a good idea, right…?
“!?” you almost drop on the floor when he’s suddenly in front of you. It happened too fast, and you didn't even have the time to blink when he raises his hand and gently touches your neck that's still wrapped in bandage.
What's with him all of a sudden???
“Um…”
“Does it still hurt?” his face is too close, and you had to look away before giving him an answer.
“No.” you took a step backward, but his hand remains midair as he stares at you. “Don't worry about it anymore, it's fine. It wasn't your fault.”
Kinich smiled, “You won't accept an apology, would you?”
Just as promised, you and Kinich would go to the Central thrice a week, and once weekends hit, you would train with him.
Yes, with him. Kinich said he would be the one to personally train you. Of course, that left you speechless. Because why in the world would the Archon himself train a visionless like you?
You cannot fight.
You cannot handle a sword right. (Deja vu?)
Anyway, a promise is a promise.
Spend leisure time in Central and train with Kinich: commence!
ᐟᐟ☆ —
The city is bustling with lights and people. Lively as always, the vendors lightens up the mood with their cheerful voices followed by the laughter of the passerbys.
And among those people, you and Kinich walk side by side— carefully watching the surroundings and making sure that no one would get suspicious.
I mean, who wouldn’t?
“Uh, are you sure you’re okay with that get-up?” you whispered
Kinich is wearing a large cloak that covers his whole body. He is also wearing a mask that also covers half of his face. The two of you continue walking, and every step and every second, you’re starting to get uncomfortable.
“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Honestly? Yes.
“You’re kind of suspicious right now, to be honest.”
“How so?”
Dude, did this guy not experience being a human normally before?? Who wouldn't get suspicious of a man walking while wearing a large cloak like he’s some kind of an assassin or hero from another land??
You sighed, “Nevermind… I get that you wanted to hide from everyone. But how are you going to eat if you keep that appearance?”
“Let’s just eat them where no one would see us.”
He replied curtly, and that's final.
So after a few minutes of walking around, you finally found a stall that sells skewers and crackers. You were the one who approached the stall and bought them. You left Kinich at a place where a few people would see him.
When you came back, you saw him standing while watching the people in front of him. The light doesn’t reach him but you can see a glimpse of his eyes.
Sad. Lonely.
Those two words were the first ones that came up on your mind the moment you laid your eyes on him.
This guy is fighting his own battles.
He’s fighting the evil inside him that's threatening to control him.
He only has one goal and a wish— a goal to protect these people and a wish that will maintain the peace that he’s seeing right now with his own eyes.
When the time comes, you will be the one who will watch over these people and protect them.
“...”
There was something tugging on your chest as you took a deep breath, but you let out a smile before slowly walking towards him.
“I got you a skewer and crackers, Kinich!”
ᐟᐟ☆ —
“You have to bend your knees when you’re planning to attack your enemy, y/n.”
“Like this?”
“That’s right. Now grip the sword and try hitting the target.”
“Haaa—!”
…
“I don't think I can do this.”
You lay on the ground, facing the sky. Your arms were spread out and you’re sweating and breathing heavily.
Kinich sat beside you. Silence envelops the two of you. You’re just watching the clouds moving slowly. There were also birds and you unconsciously let out a smile.
You started wondering, what if Kinich is also like those birds?
Free. Without any worries about everything.
Maybe he isn’t suffering. Maybe he’ll be allowed to go outside and interact with people without worrying about him losing control. Maybe he is happy.
God… please save him…
Your smile twitched and suddenly, your vision started to blur.
You wiped your eyes and as you did, the tears started flowing like a river.
You didn’t have to ask why you’re crying because you already know the answer.
“y/n? Why are you crying?” Kinich’s voice was laced with worry. You felt his hand touching yours but you didn’t remove them from covering your eyes.
You couldn't answer him. You couldn’t stop crying. But for some reason, his presence felt reassuring.
“Promise…” you managed to say between your cries, “I’ll save you, Kinich. I promise I’ll save you and release you from your suffering.”
That's why… you have to stay strong and wait for me, okay?
With his hand resting atop of yours, Kinich leans down and puts his forehead against yours before whispering, “Thank you, y/n.”
ᐟᐟ☆ —
The next day, Kinich isn't waking up.
You don’t have a vision, so you cannot feel the energy that Ifa was talking about when he came to check up on him.
“The energy inside him is unstable. He’ll probably wake up in three to four days.”
But it’s been a week.
That's what Ifa said, but based on his reaction, you know there’s something deeper about this situation.
He reassures you that Kinich will be okay, and that he’ll stay in his room to look after him. He also told you that you can take this chance to go home and visit your grandmother.
But you told him it’s fine and that you’ll stay here. You also need to train because Kinich suddenly falling into a coma gives you a bad feeling.
You stood alone in the training grounds, a wooden sword in hand while getting lost in thoughts as you stared at your feet.
We only went to the Central once. There are so many things I still want to show you, Kinich. Are you in pain? Are you facing your “darkness” right now?
A sudden explosion makes you jump, and you drop the wooden sword to cover your ears. What the hell was that!?
Shaking, you slowly remove your hands and turn around. The sky is getting darker, and there are clouds gathering above.
No way.
Without thinking, you ran inside and straight to Kinich’s room. When you arrived, you saw Ifa lying on the floor unconscious. The room is a mess, the window’s broken, the bed is filled with shattered glass, the walls are tainted with black marks and you don't have any idea what that is and where it came from.
After scanning the room, your eyes slowly moved towards the person standing beside the window.
“Kin—”
You froze.
The person standing six meters away from you was Kinich. But when your eyes met, you immediately knew that it wasn't him. His presence alone made you glued to your spot and you couldn’t move.
And the color of his eyes… The once warm jade green is now crimson red.
Who…?
“So it was you.” he spoke, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
You look back at Ifa and he’s not moving.
“Oh, don't worry about him. I just knocked him unconscious. He screams trouble for me, you see.”
“W-who… who are you?” you managed to ask, “What did you do to Kinich?!”
“Why aren't you happy? I saved him.”
What?
“You’ve been praying for him to be free, right? So being the kind soul I am, I granted your prayers. Now he’s free. Inside me.” he laughed then suddenly, he’s in front of you. “If you get in my way, I’ll kill you.”
He grabbed your neck and you closed your eyes.
“I know you're still there, Kinich.”
You felt his hand twitch and you continued.
“Don’t let this monster take over your body! Come back, Kinich!”
“No matter what you say, he will not come back! This body is mine!”
“No!”
Suddenly, you feel your body growing hot and your senses are heightening. You took a hold of his arm and kicked him. You feel bad hurting Kinich’s body, but you don't have any choice.
If you don't do anything, this monster will take over his body completely.
“Thank you, y/n.”
Everything that happened next was a blur.
First you were thinking on how you will make that thing out of Kinich's body, then the next thing you know, you were already on top of him.
A sword— you don't have any idea where and how you got it— was on your hand and the blade was just a few centimeters above his neck.
He didn't struggle. He didn't move. He's just looking up at you with a smirk evident on his lips.
“Why the hesitation? Come on, kill me. Kill him."
You hated that his voice sounds exactly the same as his. You hated that his face looked exactly like his.
What happened to enjoying our time in the Central? What happened to training me ‘til I bled so I’ll get as strong as you? I told you to wait for me, didn't I?
You feel a hand touching your cheek and your eyes widen when you see that Kinich’s left eye has turned back to normal. He’s looking at you with such gentleness and assurance.
“You're crying again…” he wiped the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. You didn’t even know that you were crying.
But those eyes… that voice…
“Kinich…?”
Your hand that's holding up the sword trembled, you were just about to drop it but Kinich held it to its place. He guides the tip of the sword to his chest.
“What.. are you doing?”
“I don't have much time. I can barely keep him, so do it.”
Those words felt like a stab straight to your heart. You don't understand. He’s back. He managed to stop the darkness from taking control of his body. He’s here. So what is he talking about now?
“Do it before I fully lose control, y/n.” you were just about to refuse but he cuts you off. “Ifa is heavily injured. He needs to be treated immediately.”
At the mention of his friend’s name, you turn your head to where he is. There were red liquids slowly pooling out from his body and you gasp. Blood.
You slowly look back at Kinich. There's a deafening ring on your ears and you feel like your body's starting to get numb.
You tighten the grip on your sword’s handle and you close your eyes, still crying.
“I’m sorry for making you cry— for making you do this.”
Stop. Don’t say anything.
“It was short, but I’m glad that I got to feel alive again. And it was all because of you.”
I said stop. I don't want to hear your voice.
“Thank you, y/n. For fulfilling your promise.”
“I said stop talking!” your eyes remain closed as you scream those words. Your hands start trembling and Kinich is holding the blade so you wouldn't drop it.
“I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to look at your face.” you sobbed, “Just… don't do anything.”
A pause. Then, “Okay.”
Eyes still closed, you raise the blade higher and plunge it straight to Kinich's chest.
ᐟᐟ☆ —
“Can I really go see her now!?” Mualani exclaimed as she looked around while walking. Ifa is right behind her, watching her with a small smile.
“Yes, I’m sure she would be happy to see you.” he replied, “Besides, today is the coronation day. I think it will be better if she has someone by her side.”
Hearing those words, Mualani stops walking and turns around to face him. There was a look of mix of happiness and reluctance on her face.
“Hey… I know I shouldn't ask this because I don't know anything about what happened..” she said, “But… did y/n really kill the Pyro Archon so she can succeed to his throne?”
Ifa was lost for words. He just stared at your friend, trying to find the right words to say to make her feel better.
Then suddenly, he’s back to the scene from that night.
He remembers being knocked unconscious by Kinich. He couldn't move, he couldn't talk. He just lay on the floor, unable to do anything while his best friend is slowly becoming the monster he fears the most.
He also heard everything. From the moment you barged inside the room, the words you exchanged with Kinich… until you ended his misery with your sword.
You weren't even aware that you received your vision.
Ifa couldn't forget your cries, your screams, you calling Kinich’s name and praying for him to come back. He forces himself to move his head to look at you, and his heart shatters when he sees you hugging him, with the sword pierced on his chest.
There was a sharp pain on his head and Ifa stumbled. Mualani was quick to run to his side.
“A-are you okay!? I’m sorry, I shouldn't have asked that!”
“It’s fine…” I’m fine.
Ifa straightens himself. Mualani looks worried, so he gives her a smile. “Let’s go meet our new Archon, shall we?”
When Mualani turns on her heel and leaves, Ifa looks up at the clear blue sky outside the window.
“We’ll be fine here, so I hope you’re also okay and at peace there, Kinich— just like you always wished.” Ifa wears his hat and starts walking to your room.
You finally granted your wish, but man, look at the pain you put your successor through.
When Ifa reaches your room, he can hear Mualani’s voice, followed by your laughs. Hearing your voice puts him at ease. After the incident, you refuse to talk to anyone and just lock yourself in your room.
But now… you can finally bring yourself to laugh again.
Hear that? Don't worry about her, Kinich. Y/n is fine. She will be fine. I’ll make sure that she will never meet the same fate as you. I’m sure… that was also your wish, so rest easy now. You did well, my King.
── ayo this is the first time i wrote a fic this long 🥹 also, you dont have any idea how many times i changed the ending 😭 hope it turned out well :")
Flins doesn’t look like trouble the first time you meet him.
Your superiors warned you he could be eccentric, but you accepted the mantle of Lightkeeper knowing full well the dangers you’d be walking into. You’re green, still learning the weight of the oath, while Flins has been wearing it for longer than anyone can remember. And when you catch his eerily yellow eyes, you can’t help but think: whatever he’s seen, whatever he’s survived, it’s more than any mortal soul was ever meant to bear.
Your first siege assignment takes you to Starsand Shoal. The Wild Hunt has manifested there as ghouls scouring the tidepools, staining the air with cold and dread. You’re half-expecting to be paired with another rookie, but when assignments are handed out, Flins requests you as his partner.
You don’t know why he asked for you, but you don’t dwell on it. Orders are orders.
The Wild Hunt isn’t easy prey, but with Flins at your side, the fight feels almost survivable. He doesn’t look like much of a soldier at first glance, yet every surge of electro he calls down cleaves through the undying like judgment itself. You have no Vision, but you don’t falter—you match his pace, blades and breath steady against the tide. When it’s done, crystals lie shattered across the sand, the Abyss dragged screaming back to whatever hole it crawled from.
You try to thank him, albeit awkwardly. “You, uh… you did a great job, sir.” Is that even the right thing to say to a superior?
Flins only smiles. For a moment, you forget the sea, the Shoal, and the carnage. His eyes hold you still in the last vestiges of Abyssal fog—striking yellow, brighter than any beacon. Then he leans in, close enough that his voice brushes your ear, murmuring words in a language you do not know. But the meaning burns into your mind all the same.
You have always done well. You always will.
The words unravel something in you. The Shoal fades, replaced by a forest drenched in silence. Suddenly, you are cradled against Flins’s chest, his arms steady though his body trembles. He looks nothing like the man beside you now—his ears taper to sharp points, a crown of woven branches presses heavily on his brow. Tears streak his face, each drop glinting gold as it falls onto your skin.
A frail, trembling hand rises to touch him. His breath hitches when your fingers graze his cheek, as though the smallest contact might shatter him. His voice breaks at the whisper of your name. It's a sound filled with anguish and love in equal measure—a sound that feels like it has always belonged to you.
The vision shatters.
You’re back on the shore, boots sinking into the damp sand as your hands tremble at your sides. Flins is already crouched by the wreckage, studying the Abyssal crystals as though nothing strange has happened. He glances over his shoulder at you with an unreadable expression.
“What are you doing? Come take a closer look.”
Your throat is dry. Your pulse stumbles.
Did you just imagine all that?
Still, you swallow the question, the ache, the ghost of memory. You obey—because you’re his subordinate, because you’re a Lightkeeper, because what else is there to do? You step toward him in the eerie silence, while the tide whispers secrets you’re not ready to hear.
summary: some university professors are oversharers, some share so little that his students had no idea who his elusive wife was.
word count: 1.7k
a/n: well this came out a lot longer than i expected.... (ᵕ—ᴗ—) i promise y'all i haven't died or anything, the ao3/fic writer curse hasn't hit me yet (iykyk) but i'm trying to juggle school and tests/exams with writing so pleek be patient TT
p.s. for those who follow/play genshin, LAWD have yall seen flins?? im so ready to write for him-
university professors are interesting creatures. some are so private about their lives that students often forget that they have their own lives, outside of teaching lectures, marking assignments and failing students.
take anaxagoras, professor of alchemy, for example: first day of university and his only introduction about himself is: “my name is anaxagoras, you may only call me professor anaxagoras.” no mention of a pet, no hobbies. no one dared to probe any further. professor anaxa was notorious among the students for being strict. late? extra work assigned. he sees a student beginning to contemplate passing a note to the cute classmate next to them? lose credits.
the only thing the students know about his private life is that he has a wife. when that bombshell slipped during a lecture about the origins of alchemy, the whole class went still, frozen in shock.
their grumpy, permanent resting bitch faced professor had a wife!?
behind the back of their stoic professor, his students began making quiet bets on who his wife was. someone from the university also? likely. professor algae? most likely option, they were the perfect enemies in public, lovers in private troupe.
on the other hand, you were the professor of literature. though you often shared moments of your life, you weren’t an oversharing professor. sometimes, you brought cookies to class, not only as an incentive for students to come to the lectures, but also because you ‘made too many’. other times, you would slip pictures of your pets into the slides for your powerpoints, knowing how dry learning content could be for students.
on the first day of university, your introduction had been much more different to professor anaxagoras’: “my name is [name], i have a few pets and i do have a husband. any questions?”
the mention of such a young looking teacher being married had sent the class into a frenzy. your students shouted to have their voices heard, throwing question after question at you, until all you could do was laugh and sigh exasperatedly.
maybe this wasn’t the best thing to expose on the first day of the school year…
as soon as your students exit the lecture hall, they huddle in groups, whispering amongst each other, trying to decipher who your mystery husband is.
mydei? too fiery. after much debate, phainon is the fan favourite out of all of the possible options. he’s sweet, bubbly and overall the perfect match for you. on the other hand, ‘prof nax’ is dead last.
it began with the small, off hand comments. students who took both professor anaxagoras’ class and your class began to notice small similarities.
the same day you mentioned adopting a small orange kitten over the weekend, professor anaxagoras muttered under his breath how ‘his wife’s new kitten was shedding its ghastly orange fur absolutely everywhere.’ However, from the small smile that involuntarily ghosted across his face, the students knew he was already attached to the small gremlin.
on your birthday, you baked cookies for your class and anaxa’s to bring to the lecture. as the students watched professor anaxagoras fish around in a comically large shopping bag, they were stunned into silence, watching him reveal a box of cookies in a familiar tupperware container, the same choc chip cookies their beloved ‘mother’ brought her class.
when students skeptically asked their alchemy professor what the occasion was, he only shrugged, pretending to sigh about how his wife ‘insisted he treat his class to her amazing cookies’.
“be glad she knows her puppy eyes are too effective on me,” their professor grumbled, passing around the box.
the next incident happened on an unassuming tuesday afternoon. after their latest alchemy exam, some students had gathered outside the hall, swapping answers and complaining about the difficulty set by their ‘wonderful’ prof nax.
one student in particular had gotten very wound up, his distaste for the exam, fuelled by his frustration and (slight) guilt in not studying very well, boiled into spiteful words, until he was left red-faced and waving his hands about like a mad-man.
“can you believe that the stupid professor set us such an impossibly difficult question?” he snapped, arms crossed and foot tapping. his rambling kept going, until his friends felt like they were watching an unstoppable snowball of complaints rolling down the hill.
click.
click.
click.
the student’s friends heard the tell-tale sign of professor anaxagoras’ shoes echoing down the hallway, accompanied by a cheery voice chatting to him. anaxagoras’ voice was a quiet murmur as he replied.
rounding the corner with you, anaxa’s sharp ears caught the tail of the unfortunate student’s rants.
“and it’s ridiculous he insists we call him professor anaxagoras. i personally would call him nax.” the student’s brazen rants are brought to a halt when he feels a murderous aura boring into the back of his head, a heavy hand squeezing down on his shoulder.
“would. you. like. to. repeat. that?” anaxagoras challenged, face ashen. beside him, you had stopped your small conversation about some trip that the two of you took a few years back. familiar with the intensity of anaxa’s pet peeve about nicknames, you laughed awkwardly, patting at his shoulder.
“it’s fine,” you tried to intervene, turning to the offending student, “he didn’t mean it, did he?”
the student, sweating and still as a deer in headlights, furiously nodded his head. his friends, faces a similar shade of pasty whitel, nodded in agreement, mumbling how ‘that’s how he usually is’ and internally thanking and praising you for saving their butts.
anaxa shot you a glare, though there was barely any malicious intent, just some leftover annoyance. you beamed innocently back at him, metaphorical sunbeams glowing from your face. finally, anaxa turned away, exhaling loudly – not satisfied than pissed, just that cold, anaxagoras-styled sigh that told you ‘you’re getting off easy here, buddy.’
before he could reconsider berating the student and threatening to take away marks on his exam, you grabbed anaxa by the hand, forcefully dragging him away with you, unaware of the chaos you’d leave in your wake.
as soon as the student’s legs stopped shaking from fear and he didn’t feel the need to piss his pants, his friends’ brains finally caught up to what they just witnessed as their professors departed.
“holy shit. professor [name] just grabbed professor anaxagoras by the hand and walked away.”
other students who had peeked their heads out of their own classrooms to observe the commotion began to yell over each other.
“no way!”
“we were seeing things right?!”
“i must’ve been so scared i hallucinated that.”
“WHAT.”
“did you hear their conversation before? they went on some trip together.”
whispers filled the corridor as students milled around to share their theories. some even chose to update their bets, choosing to wager their allowance on the less likely couple ships of their professors.
during one weekend online lesson, you’re in the midst of explaining literature concepts when your pesky orange kitten decides to jump onto your desk.
without breaking a sweat, you lift the little fuzzball into your arms.
“and here, is our little miso!” you introduced, waving miso’s paws in the air, as though in greeting. “she’s caused absolute mayhem for my husband due to her shedding, but it’s ok, he secretly loves her.”
the students immediately hop onto their group chat, sans professor.
‘didn’t someone in prof nax’s class say he was complaining about cat fur?’
‘surely that’s just a coincidence, right…?’
‘praying prof phainon has also mentioned having a ginger cat or else that’s my lunch money gone ㅠㅠ’
‘agreed.’
the theories and screenshots of your cat continue to flood into the group chat, even after you’ve let your cat scramble away to ‘go cause trouble for your husband’. in fact, they reach even further, flooding other group chats, some with students of professor anaxagoras’ alchemy students.
anaxa was really regretting leaving his door ajar. well, to be fair, how was he to know that his wife’s new kitten was so enamoured with him that she would squeeze through the door and jump onto his shoulder, tiny claws digging into his sweater.
the same time her furry ginger head through his hair, jaws fell and hit the desk.
students blew up the alchemy group chat and updated the literature kids who were generous enough to give a heads up.
‘holy fkn airball.’
‘i thought prof nax and prof [name] just went on occassional trips together…’
‘????’
‘THEY LIVE TOGETHER?!’
‘thats miso isnt it?’
‘[sent a picture]’
‘NO WAY PROF [NAME] IS MARRIED TO PROF NAX ㅠㅠ’
barely an hour after your cat causes mayhem amongst the students, the news that you and professor anaxagoras were married had spread like wildfire.
when you next see your students at the university lecture hall, the room is abuzz with curiosity. students steal glances at each other, whispering and nudging their friends, daring them to make the first move.
a singular hand shoots up into the air, asking the crucial question.
“prof, is it true that you’re married to professor anaxagoras?”
your signular nod of affirmation sends the class into frenzied chaos, until they’re all yelling to be heard.
“when did you get married?”
“why didn’t you tell us it was him?”
you sighed, “i knew this would happen, so we usually keep it more toned down and plus, naxie hates when his students bombard him with questions about his personal life…”
that night, when anaxagoras returns home, he immediately flops onto the couch, hand laying over his eyes in defeat.
“that stupid cat,” he begins sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, “shall not be allowed in my office during lectures. she’s caused enough trouble as is.”
you only chuckle at his statement, knowing he’d definitely give into the kitten’s big eyes.
“at least now you can drop by whenever at the university.” you suggest, sitting on the floor beside the couch and peering up at him, the offending cat padding up to curl in your lap.
“that’s true,” he affirms, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together, “i’ll be able to bring you your daily coffee at the uni.”
anaxa admires the wedding ring on your finger that glints delightfully in the light, glad to be shown off. he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss right over your wedding band, while fireworks exploded in your stomach and across your face.
This art actually made me realise that Natlan isn’t as “modern” in terms of design as people put it. With Kinich and Wriotheseley right next to each other, you can easily say that Kinich’s bandana and earrings make him look pretty old-fashioned compared to Wriothesely. Even in the background, the Fontaine girls’ fashion has a completely different vibe while Ororon and Ifa do look like they’re from tribal settlements.
“Kinich looks like he should be in zzz.” The more I look at it, the less likely it seems. Sure, Kinich’s design doesn’t give that same ancient vibe like some other characters from other nations do, but he doesn’t feel “modern” enough to fit into zzz either. He’s stranded somewhere in between.
I’ve seen some people say that they don’t know what “Natlan” is supposed to be, as in it’s difficult to group the Natlan characters as part of one nation. Well, I believe the very “Natlan” thing about the characters (minus Mavuika and Varesa) are their accessories and the patterns on their clothes. There is a certain tribal vibe to each of the characters-
Kachina’s little forehead accessory, her top, and the arm cuffs
Mualani’s beach theme along with her bangles and the patterns on her skirt
Citlali’s clothes, her hair accessory (especially with the feathers) and her bangles and arm cuffs
Kinich’s tattoos, earrings and bandana
Chasca’s earrings and her cape with tassels
Iansan’s arm cuffs, necklace and the feathers and tassels
Ifa’s necklace and feathers
Ororon’s tattoos, scarf and cape and the patterns on them
Xilonen’s bangles and rings and her excessive hand accessories
What is Natlan? Flamboyant earrings, tattoos, feathers in the designs, tassels on their clothes, bangles and arm cuffs. Natlan character designs are not simple, they all have a bit too many tiny patterns all over them.
The main problem came with Mavuika’s design. I don’t remember Natlan hate being as overbearing as it is now before Mavuika’s bike was revealed. On top of all that, she is supposed to be from 500 years ago. And yet, she was seemingly the most modern character in Natlan.
As for Natlan’s technology, no, most of it is not more advanced than Fontaine, except Mavuika’s bike which was pretty uncanny (and Varesa’s stickers).
Chasca’s gun feels like a very primitive, very risky, attempted two-in-one version of the Antoine Roger Aircraft and a gun. Xilonen mentions that her gun is harder to tame than the wildest of qucusaurs.
Ajaw is an ancient dragon, and according to the lore, the dragons were highly advanced. Ajaw can also be referenced back in the “Little One” world quest in the Sacred Mountains. Also, during Tighnari’s quest, Abattouy’s experiments were recorded and were displayed through a projector. We also have film makers in Fontaine, and to present films, we need screens where they can be projected. So, we can say that the ‘projection’ technology is not a sudden thing unique to Ajaw.
Another problem with Natlan was the pace of the story.
Being released after Fontaine, people had high expectations for Natlan. Those high expectations only led to people being more disappointed with the archon quests. In Fontaine, every character got enough screentime or mentions for us to learn about their character. They made us grow attached to the characters and created a very emotionally immersive experience where the traveler wasn’t the main character. Almost every Fontaine character was the mc in their own rights.
Natlan, on the other hand, leaned into the typical “otherworldly hero saves the day” cliché with the traveler. The quests were also much shorter, not giving us any time to sympathise with the characters.
Giving credit where credit is due, the 5.1 war quest was phenomenal. The voice acting conveyed panic and the environment showed the destruction of war. Hoyo, overall, was heading in the right direction. And yet, Chuychu’s death didn’t hit hard enough because we barely knew her.
I don’t think most of the people would have minded it if the overall quest was 2 hours longer but elaborated more on the characters. Hoyo should have given us more time, more instances to familiarise with the cast while slowly building up for the war.
Commissions with Kachina to clear out hilichurl camps, visiting the Scions of the Canopy with Kinich where we’re shown how much busier they’ve gotten, searching for Xilonen only to realise she’s all over the place trying her best to get the weapon ready. Nature is very sensitive to changes and animals are highly perceptive to disturbances and this could have been conveyed through Ororon and his farm and Ifa and him noticing the saurians getting more restless.
The war arc should have been after all the tribes were released. This way, we could’ve gotten to know the characters better and the situation would’ve had even more of an impact. What made the desensitisation worse was the fact that the tribal chronicles, the supposed story quests, barely focused on the characters themselves, thus making us even more disconnected.
They didn’t have to give all the tribes their own, major region. They could have made the tribe areas smaller and released them as part of one region and instead given us land with destruction. This part comes under environmental story-telling. We could have gotten map expansions showing how some places have become inhabitable, like the islands in Inazuma.
We also could have gotten a really cool cutscene with all the characters during the war. Natlan has introduced new travel mechanics and a cutscene where we see the things in first person through another character’s eyes would have been really cool.
We could’ve had Mualani surfing over the water and falling in as she’s trying to get to places that need her, the camera angle switching to finally show Mualani, getting back on her surfboard. Kinich traversing through the thick woods, the leaves getting in his face. He turns to look at the destruction around him, knowing that the people laying on the ground may never wake up. Xilonen roller skating and trying to rescue people. Varesa rushing up the volcano and breaking the rocks along her way. A cutscene like this could have conveyed the sense of panic everyone felt during the war. It could have ended with Chasca, stumbling to the ground in front of the Stadium with Chuychu in her hands.
Also, you’re telling me the power of the six heroes was enough to break through the false sky, and yet Mavuika only needed the traveler to help her put an end to the 500 year long struggle? When the traveler needed to get to the hotspots, they had to wait for the hot air balloon to slowly take them there? While Mavuika, the only person with a bike, the fastest vehicle in the nation, stayed back in the Stadium?
If Mavuika didn’t have a bike, perhaps certain parts of Natlan wouldn’t feel so odd.
What could Mavuika have had instead? I was imagining her abilities to look like Bakugou’s from My Hero Academia. To put it in simplest words possible, Bakugou can create explosions from the sweat on his palm, and can use those explosions for movement and attacking. Mavuika’s abilities could have revolved around thermodynamics.
Another thing I wish they had highlighted with Mavuika was why the pyro archon is human. Perhaps they could have added points such as “the fire power burning away at the weilder’s body, and since it gets too much for them to handle, the pyro archon has to be switched regularly, and is thus human.” They could have added other clues to this in her design, such as making it seem like her skin is slightly burnt near her hair.
I will add more to this as and when I notice things. This was just me clumsily putting together my thoughts on Natlan’s design and story. And the more I think about it, the more I realise that my distaste for Natlan was more heavily formed by community opinions rather than my own. “Complain impact” really does feel apt when all the people have done is point out the shortcomings rather than appreciate the overall details.
If you got this far, thank you for being patient with me. I would love to hear your thoughts too!
as the natlan lover i looove that there are some people who can acknowledge all the parts of the nation, not just plainly hating. truthfully, every single nation had problems with one thing or another, and was the best in one way or another as well. everyone has their own tastes, their own reasons why its their favorite regions and so on. therefore, it is such a beautiful thing in this community, to see everything in a big picture rather than just small detail in it—just to hate.
personally i did not expect much from natlan’s story anyways. i will continue the point of fontaine setting high expectations. for me, fontaine is not the nation close to my heart, i only liked some characters, but the whole cast felt distant. their designs are top tier and yet, not my style at all. exploration was repetitive and ohhh i hate underwater exploration the most. as for storytelling, even as a lore player, it felt boring and predictable, so i thought, natlan might be in trouble if it goes further down form here.
and actually, i was right. it had so many interesting characters and systems and it did not work the way it could have been. tribes are cool as well. although it would have been better to introduce them all before the war.
despite the story, i loved everything else. exploring was the most fun, side quests were so nice, the cast seemed so close. i adore nightsouls and don’t have any problem with their mechanics, because it is manageable. at least for me. natlan felt like home to me, reminded me of sumeru and mondstadt in a way, my favorite regions.
my problem with natlan is not entirely the story itself. well. it had an interesting lore, loved it, it’s just storytelling. but yeah, i figured that much. the main problem is racism and cultural appropriation. even if story was good, it would not change the fact of this due to genshin having cn writers.
as for characters, i have a lot of favs, and a lot of disliked characters. it does trigger the fandom, because it is the opposite of how everyone thinks. and that is, again, where taste comes in. so childish of this fandom, if it is not a constructive criticism (that is usually just a skin color problem in their characters).
having an opinion of pros and cons of natlan as well as of other nations is important and plausible!! it is part of experience. those, who like natlan as a whole are hated, that is confusing to me. just let each other play and have a reasonable say why it does and does not fit your taste, that is all.
genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst
summary.
in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.
author's note. after this chapter is when a lot of the natlan plot becomes ACTUALLY important LOL so if you care about spoilers.... sorry. reblogs/interaction are highly appreciated!
↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣
𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗠𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧 (𝗕𝗨𝗧 𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗡 𝗔𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧)
Kachina disappears, and so does Kinich.
He doesn’t disappear in the same way she does—failing to emerge from the Wars, Mavuika’s blazing hair emerging from the Sacred Flame alone.
When it happens, the crowd leans forward in a collective inhale, confusion rippling through in harsh waves. You’re not like Kinich, or Kachina, or Mualani—you don’t possess an Ancient Name. You’ve never participated in the Wars. But even for someone like you, the implication of something nefarious underfoot is obvious.
No one has any answers. Not even your Archon, and that thought has your heart squeezing in your chest.
It all becomes a blur—the crowd arguing over Kachina’s feats, Mualani’s outcry, Mavuika’s resolution. You don’t really find your bearings again until you’re standing outside the Speaker’s Chamber.
Kinich is with the others, standing by the doors and muttering about something with Iansan. He’s so focused that he only turns when you call his name for a third time. Glancing back toward the Archon, he jogs over to you quickly.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, breathless. “I don’t have long.”
You shift your weight between your feet. “I mean…it seems like a lot is wrong. About Kachina, is there something I can do to help?”
Kinich’s disposition hardens, lips pressing into a thin line. “No, you can’t. Just let us worry about it.”
“I’m sure there’s something I can do though—”
You try to step past him, to ask Mavuika what you might be able to contribute, only to be yanked back into his grip.
“Don’t,” he mutters, tugging at the back of your shirt. You glare at him in disbelief. “Don’t go in there. Please.”
“I’m just going to ask—”
“Just don’t.”
The words are icy. You shrink in his hold, feeling small—like if you get even more microscopic, he might forget that you’re there and let you be his shadow.
Like you used to be.
But his grip is still just as tight, his stare just as intense as it pierces yours.
“Please,” he pleads, glancing back toward the Speaker’s Chamber.
Mavuika and the others are just slipping inside, the wide-set doors falling shut behind them with a tone of finality. You’re running out of time—you doubt they’d delay acting on Kachina’s disappearance to wait for someone like you.
“What are you even saying? It’s not like I’m asking you to tell me anything. I might not have known her as long as you, but I’m still worried—”
He sighs, voice gravelly. “You shouldn’t be involved in this.”
Your throat tightens around the rejection, constricting until you can’t manage another breath. He’d seen you fight. He must know that you’re more than capable of helping Kachina, or at least searching for her. And you’re certain that that’s what he’s going to do anyway.
But he doesn’t want you with him at all.
“Are you serious?” you ask, almost begging him to tell you differently.
“You said you would trust me,” he asserts, tone not quite angry. It lingers somewhere between desperation and disappointment, and you somehow hate that more.
“I do trust you,” you say, tearing out of his grasp. “But I guess I just thought you might trust me too, in return.”
He winces, like your words sting, only to look back toward the Speaker’s Chamber once again. The action almost makes you laugh—these days, he seems to look anywhere but at you.
“I have to go,” he says lowly.
“Then go,” you hiss. And you don’t really mean it, but still in the heat of the moment you say, “you don’t have to worry about me trusting you. Just stop worrying about me at all.”
You don’t give him a chance to answer, don’t turn around as you storm away. Even though you can feel judgmental stares on you, you don’t crack. If Kinich doesn’t need your help, then you won’t say another word.
(If you had turned around, you might have seen Kinich’s eyes slowly flutter shut, fists tightening at his sides as he disappeared inside the Archon’s Chambers.)
/
You don’t seek Kinich out after that.
It isn’t difficult—no one seems to see him around these days. He’s always busy, taking commissions and whispering with the Archon. Something about Kachina, you’re sure, but not any information that you’re privy to.
You decide that you don’t care—or, at least, you convince yourself that you don’t. Even as more and more time passes, you keep reminding yourself of that fact. If he doesn’t need you, then you don’t need him either. No matter how much it pains you.
So you do the only thing you can think to do.
You go home.
Chief Wayna’s house is warm, lantern light flickering dancing shadows across the brown walls. The earthy scent of wood fills your senses, sharp and familiar. The whole village smells this way—like earth and wood and stone, like the natural environment that protects and houses you.
It’s been so long since you sat down like this, cushion beneath your thighs as he sets the table. It’s not that it’s awkward, not even close, but the nostalgia runs thick in your veins, leaving you wordless.
“Thanks for making me dinner,” you finally mumble, somehow feeling like a child again.
A large pot of meat stew is set down on the table, your stomach rumbling at its richness. Chief Wayna had even remembered your favorite meal. The thought makes the corner of your lip twitch as you thumb over the edges of your utensils.
Raising a brow at your fidgeting, Wayna ladles a hefty bowl of soup, carefully handing the ceramic over to you—it’s steaming hot against your fingertips, the hearty scent permeating the air. You can already tell it will be delicious before you take the first spoonful; it’s pleasantly spicy, just the way you like it.
“Is it good?” Wayna asks cheekily.
You nod. “Really good. Thank you.”
He seems content with that answer, humming an old folk song to himself as he serves his own bowl. The Chief always seems happy to see you these days, maybe out of relief that you had turned out okay—you know he’d spent so much of your childhood worried about your wellbeing, after all.
As you watch, his gaze lifts to you, eyes twinkling with curiosity.
“So, you and Kinich met again?”
A chunk of meat lodges itself in your throat—you choke, spluttering into your napkin as Wayna laughs to himself. This bastard, you think.
Maybe it’s a good thing that he sees you like his own child, but it’s to the extent that he’s almost too comfortable teasing you all the time.
By the time your airway clears, Wayna is staring at you expectantly, hands folded neatly on the table.
“How did you know?” you demand, dabbing at the corners of your mouth.
The Chief winks. “Ah, so I’m right. How was that?”
There’s a lot you could tell him. About everything that has gone right, and everything that has gone wrong. About all your regrets, and everything you wish you had said differently. But instead, all you can say is this:
“I don’t get him.”
Wayna tilts his head. “That’s surprising. I’d think that you of all people would get him—”
“You’d think, right?” you interrupt, a bitter smile lining your lips. “But he doesn’t seem to want me to know anything.”
One of the things you’ve always really liked about Wayna is that he doesn’t ask too many questions. He’s concerned, sure, and he cares about every single individual in the village, but he never oversteps his boundaries. After all, one of the foundational values of the Scions is your independence.
The Chief’s expression softens, spoon stalling halfway to his mouth. “You and Kinich are different from others, you know. I think anyone else would have a hard time understanding why you are the way that you are.”
Your grip tightens on your napkin, frustration pouring out in your actions. “Then why doesn’t he want to tell me? Whatever I ask him, he just shuts me out. I mean, we used to lo—”
Slowly, your voice tapers off, skin warming in embarrassment.
We used to love each other.
Sighing, Wayna ladles himself another bowl. “I think, for him, it’s never been about loving you or not loving you—that boy has adored you since the day he met you.”
You should’ve figured that the Chief would say something like that. He more than anyone would’ve understood the depth of your relationship with Kinich, including whatever previous feelings you might’ve held for each other. But the same doesn’t seem to hold true for the current you, nor for the current Kinich.
“Then what is it about for him?” you ask, shifting in your seat and pouting as you stir your stew.
That question seems to stump him. For a moment, Chief Wayna looks puzzled, arms crossed and brows furrowed like he can’t quite find the words.
“What’s best for you, maybe,” he finally decides, nodding to himself. “What he can do for you in that moment.”
A silence blankets the room as you turn his words over in your head.
You want to trust Kinich, you do, but you just can’t shake the constant secrets and rejections. After all these years, how could you trust things to be exactly the same?
As you take another bite, you realize your soup is lukewarm now.
Wayna watches you with a careful weight in his stare. You pretend you don’t feel it, but you know he’s observing the way your nose scrunches, eyebrows knitting together in exasperation.
“Do you know why I let you go live with Kinich back then?” he asks quietly.
Your eyes widen in surprise. Truthfully, you’d never thought to ask—you figured it was probably just easier to let the two orphans live together, and it’s not like you were living that far away from the village anyway. But Wayna looks burdened, shaking his head as he continues.
“It was ridiculous, now that I think about it,” he chuckles, almost in disbelief. “If you’d asked me now, I probably would’ve said no way.”
You’re mumbling into your spoon when you ask, “Why did you let me leave, then?”
The mood shifts, tension thickening in the air.
“Because it was you and Kinich,” Wayna finally answers gently, so soft that each word is practically floating. “And I saw that look on his face.”
Because it was you and Kinich.
You don’t have to ask what he means. Not about that, at least—the fact that the two of you were the only ones who could relate to each other, or maybe the only two brave enough to try.
Instead, you wonder aloud:
“What look?”
The front door is ajar, the passing laughter of children playing tag resonating through the waning sunset. Memories nip at your chest, and you suddenly realize just how long it’s been since you really spent any time in the village.
Wayna stares into the pot pensively, like the answers are written in the array of floating vegetables and chunks of beef. You take another spoonful, letting the savory warmth melt against your tongue.
“You’d know it if you saw it. I knew that he would never leave you behind.” His voice is barely above a whisper—you have to strain to hear him. “I bet in his own way, even after all these years, he’s always imagined himself at your side.”
You swallow. Your next breath is shaky as it sinks into your lungs.
Suddenly, you have an urge to go home. To your real home.
“I should head out,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. Wayna pauses, like he’s considering whether or not he should ask you to stay, before he nods slowly.
“Sure, sure. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.”
The light clink of dishes fills the air, and you swat his hands away when he tries to insist on washing and drying them on his own. As much as you missed Kinich, you missed this feeling too. Based on the way he smiles, the Chief feels it too.
He walks you to the door when you’re all finished.
“One last question,” you say, toying with the laces of your boots. Wayna raises a brow. “How did you know I’d met Kinich again?”
“Oh, an easy one,” he chuckles. He points to the cushion where you were just sitting, still-warm from your presence. “Because he came to see me too.”
That surprises you—Kinich usually keeps to himself, even when he returns to the village. Unless it’s about Mora, one would be hard-pressed to hear him say more than a few words.
You swallow thickly. “He talked about me?”
The hope lacing your tone is obvious, but Wayna merely shakes his head, waving a flippant hand.
“No, that boy’s not a gossip. He just came to talk about a commission.”
You sigh—that sounds more typical. But it still doesn’t answer your initial question.
“Then how?” you probe further.
Chief Wayna hums, expression unreadable behind the lenses of his yellow-tinted glasses.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, though his tone is anything but uncertain. As he leans against the doorframe, he’s unabashedly grinning. “Maybe because the moment I asked him if anything had changed recently, he smiled for the first time in years.”
/
The house is far lonelier than you remember.
That’s your first thought as you push the front door open, the wood cold beneath your fingertips. It swings open with a slow, ominous creak, revealing the vacant room to your eyes. Nothing about it is unfamiliar, but it’s because of that fact that anxiety wells up in your throat.
You can only manage a single step inside at first, somehow feeling pressured. It takes another minute for you to fully plant both feet on the floor, softly shutting the door behind you.
“Hello,” you mutter quietly, feeling awkward in the empty house. Everything looks exactly the same as you remember, save for the icy air—you recall it being so much warmer, somehow.
The silence settles over you like fresh snow. Each footstep is hesitant, like you’re too nervous to disturb the tranquility of the place.
The floorboard creaks.
There are memories in everything here. You fear that if you touch something, they might dissipate along with everything else.
A glint draws your eye—one of the silver picture frames decorating the living room shelf. It’s a picture of you and Kinich from a past Turnfire night, your eyes crinkled with laughter, his gaze soft as he looked down at you.
The recollection is like a breeze swirling the ashes of your feelings in your chest—you force yourself not to think about it too much.
Instead, you run a languid finger over the top edge of the shelf, pressing your thumb and index finger together to rub away the coated dust.
Except your fingertips come up with nothing.
It shocks you for a moment—the whole house is still impeccably clean, as if you hadn’t left it for even a moment. You don’t think it was this orderly even when you were living in it.
There’s only one person in the world who could’ve maintained it this well.
You wonder where he is right now. If everything is this orderly, he must return here often.
You tiptoe carefully through the whole house.
The bedroom is clean, sheets freshly pressed and bed perfectly made. The bathroom mirror is devoid of any marks or cracks, though your eyes flicker over the missing vase on the windowsill. Even that one broken kitchen cabinet is fixed.
It’s perfect. Hauntingly so.
You find yourself standing in front of the worn couch, trying to imagine yourself sitting there. If you think hard enough, you can just about remember it, laughter filling the air and Kinich’s arm over your shoulders—
The door creaks, a shiver simultaneously running down your neck.
In a single, swift motion, you pull the bow from your back and nock an arrow, bowstring pulled taut as you aim toward the door.
Outside, a cricket chirps once.
Shadowed figure traced by silvering moonlight, it’s Kinich’s familiar form that greets you.
With an echo, his bag lands in a heap at his feet.
He’s lacking his usual headband, the fabric slung around his neck, bangs messy like he’d just run his fingers through them. His hands are up in surprise; he looks more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him.
Even from this distance, you can smell the wind and sweat on him, like he’d come running here.
Your arms quiver, bow shaking alongside them.
Kinich doesn’t lower his hands, doesn’t even glance at the arrowhead glinting as it points to his throat—his focus is solely fixed on your face. It’s as if he’s surrendering himself to you completely.
You give him a once-over.
“Why are you here?”
Your tone tries for anger, but the words come out wobbly, unable to bear the weight of your emotions. A pressure builds in your throat like you have more to say, and yet not a single word is able to bypass the thickening lump there.
This place, this person, this feeling—your heart aches and screams in desperate familiarity.
The wind shifts, the kitchen curtains billowing inwards like even they are awaiting his response with bated breath. Kinich sighs.
“Because I know you,” he murmurs, and it’s a complete answer.
Because he knows you. Because he’s always known you. Because he’s always been the only one who did.
Because even now, after years of searching and growing, there’s no place you’d rather be than here, with him.
“Where’s Ajaw?”
“Away.”
“I thought you were running errands for Mavuika.”
“Finished.”
“What about Kachina?”
“If everything goes right, she’ll be back soon.”
You’re not used to the ease with which he answers each inquiry—no fuss, no secrets, like he’s laying it all out for once.
Slowly, you lower your bow, corners of your eyes stinging, teeth gritting. Sure, he’s not avoiding you anymore. But the only question that really matters is this:
“Where have you been, Kin?”
Your voice thins and cracks, the razor-edge of a glass shard.
It’s not just about the past few weeks. It’s about the past few years, the experiences that shaped him, the formative moments that you’ve missed. It’s about the version of him that you’d lost, and the new parts of him that you don’t recognize.
You want to know everything.
For the first time, Kinich doesn’t look conflicted at your interrogation. His eyes are clear, rich stones of emerald and gold that seem to peer right through you.
The door clicks shut behind him. He walks toward you at an easy pace, slow steps that crawl to a stop at your feet.
Your heart clenches at the wild, desperate look in his eyes.
You’d know it if you saw it. I knew that he would never leave you behind.
He draws closer, close enough that you can feel the heat permeating his body.
A sigh leaves his lips, and it feels both deliberate and familiar. Like the way he used to sigh in contentment upon returning home post-commission—a murmur of comfort.
“I talked to Mavuika about it,” he admits, voice hoarse. “About you, and me. And everything.”
You don’t know what that means, but it says enough—he’s finally going to tell you something.
The first tear splashes to the floor at the edge of your boot.
His forehead meets your shoulder, the thin strands of his hair brushing your neck and collarbone just as you start to cry. Kinich lets you; for a few moments, he doesn’t say a word, not in comfort nor in interruption. Because he knows it’s not sadness that fuels your tears.
It’s relief.
“It’s been long enough,” he finally murmurs as he lifts his head, thumbing a tear from your eye. “Can we talk?”
“Maybe because the moment I asked him if anything had changed recently, he smiled for the first time in years.” broke me actually. something cracked in me
note. the reader is addressed as the queen and wears a stereotypical female wedding attire, which is why this is tagged as fem!reader, but if it fits your persona, it can be read by anyone, nonetheless.
anyways. really wanted to get rid of this idea as fast as possible. i dislike it a lot since i tried to be a bit more poetic and write it abstractly yet i figured it is not entirely in my style. so.
summary. bonnie & clyde reimagined
you never meant to fall in love with him, yet you did.
that day, he got too close. he was reaching out, a hand so shaky and scarred held your wrist; peculiar eyes were swimming through yours like they are an ocean; kneeling so desperately, begging. his breath was touching your skin and you got dizzy.
you took him into your heart. told him all your deepest desires. it is all a curse, a criminal love one would say. money, power, fame? aventurine has got everything, and he will give you everything as well.
he is pretty—like a greek statue you will never be able to fully touch, yet you still reach your hand toward him like he used to reach for yours.
you never know what is underneath his skin. dissecting him piece by piece is beyond one. he uses lies and that sickly sweet voice of his to mask the wounds of your tries.
and to tell the truth, it does not matter in the end. because he is yours and you are his.
you hear people calling you his ride-or-die; the pair of you the modern version of bonnie and clyde. you let them point their fingers and laugh at who you are, stick a tongue out when they cannot bring you down, if they even try.
it is a little wild as the world is falling at your feet. you are like a piece—the queen—on an aventurine's own chessboard. you stay still, as it rooted to your rightful spot, not doing any risky moves into the middle of the board. while he, a mere pawn, stands far in front, unwavering.
you are the only one behind him, so you see. you see his clenched left hand. you see the rollercoaster behind his poker-faced stance. aventurine is living amid the carnival. it might be fun but it might be fake, it might be so dangerous it kills.
aventurine is used to being surrounded by the thrills. and lately? it is numbing. he thirsts for something more than games that are too easy for him. love is not easy for him; love feels like a game he does not know the rules to.
he thinks love is thorny. it pricks his skin and you are bathing in the sea of his crimson red. he is satisfied by that.
he has got your devotion on the leash. your hands are cuffed, a veil decorating your head. you are not sure whether it is the right choice.
it is a curse—an urge, a compulsion; the promise to be with him forever. you are the breath that keeps him alive; it keeps you chained down to his body.
what a pity life. guns, cash, sloppy kisses, retreat, repeat. although, there is sweetness in the fairytale, the dream world you had built together.
so it continues into the night as well.
you hold him down at his waist, your head on his upper back. aventurine pushes the pedal of the stolen motorcycle harder to roar through silent streets. your long white wedding dress is stained with dirt, almost torn down by the wheels.
you are not married, nor you ever would—you held hands and ran down the altar, because the dramatic performance is all you ever cared about. it was fun to laugh at their faces. no marriage can ever label what and who you both are.
you found yourself brought straight under the silvery moonlight. it shone so bright, the light burned into you. for the first time you saw a twinkle in the corner of his eye.
the smirk he had on his face—oh, so fatal. you were drawn to his face, to his intoxicating, scarred yet soft lips. he let you lead, for once. to make you feel in control, to believe you are in control.
until he overturns.
aventurine holds you slightly bent back down, one hand under your head, another, shakingly holding yours.
“promise me. promise me you will never leave me, ” he whispers. and, of course you will. you know that well.
only you were late for that thought to be voiced out loud—the lips you just kissed were painted bright red, the eyes that just sparkled under the moon glow looked gray and he could barely stand. you did not feel the impact until you saw his face, masked with a smile, still.
one hot golden bullet. it went through your neck and pierced his heart at the same time.
you both died holding each other firm, like you were bound by the invisible force. death on your wedding day? it felt like a fated ritual to complete the promise. the promise to be with him forever, even in hell.
because heaven without him must be like hell anyway.
love is an empty mirage—it always cracks into billions of mirror shards. each time you have to gather them with bare hands as warm gold streams down your palms. you do not feel the pain. not anymore. but the cold is there.
you never expected to fall in love again. you never expected to fall in love with him again.
anaxagoras does not believe in fate, not when there is no definite reason to; not when fate is so cruel to you. contrary to him, you do. though it hurts, you can not defy your doomed destiny; you are trapped in this infinite cycle.
sisyphus might as well be your name, as you are punished eternally to carry on loving and killing the same person, over and over again. being the perfect marionette of destruction. it feels futile to try to disobey your role—it never once worked.
the pandora’s box is opening once more. all the miseries and fragments of memories, naively put away by you from the past cycles—breaking free, and that small segment of hope staying chained in the deep end, still.
it clicked again, like you just found a missing piece of the puzzle of your life. you kneel and crumple at his feet. ”i did not succeed, anaxa–“.
“do not,” he says it as if he had said it hundreds of times. yet again, he failed to help you out. he did not manage to find a single cure, nor a way out of this game of destruction.
you are like a caterpillar in a cocoon. it is getting blurry as everything is falling apart—trust, faith, promises, friendships, love. you are losing everything that made you human. you do not look familiar anymore; eyes are bloodshot, your alter ego smiling.
and there was he, anaxa. in the midst of this rushing pain ordeal, he yet stood unyielding.
tonight the moon shines crimson red—the heart of selene’s is bleeding. you always knew the blood moon brought the worst of you, because when it rises, the world flips upside down. red moon brings the reaper who takes the souls of thousands of moonstruck.
your crescent blade is rusty; one can no longer tell how much flesh and blood it tasted.
he is under the moonlight, and for a moment, you feel like falling in love again; you find yourself resisting what is about to come. those minutes felt like hours.
anaxa met your steel like it is an old friend, like he knew he would be reborn, and you will find him again. your smile twists as you drive your blade deeper into his gut.
ok ik this falls into the realm of like ~fanfiction discourse~ so if u don’t care for that then pls skip this LOL
i feel like as a fanfic writer nowadays, it can very much feel like you are operating as a machine almost rather than as an active member of fandom space. reblogging/other kinds of interaction as a whole have gone down SOOOO much compared to all the other years i have written fanfic and participated in the space.
and i’m not someone who will be upset about not getting engagement or whatever, i have posts with 0 notes and posts with 1k notes. it just comes w the territory.
i think part of it is it can really feel like a lot of ppl do not interact w fanfic writers’ content in a meaningful way, and then get upset when a) the author stops posting or b) the author does not post as much as they would like.
like any fanfic writer will tell you, 95% (im making this up but it feels like this) of interaction will be likes. which is essentially the equivalent of like 50 people just going 👍 at you. it isn’t really any sort of feedback besides “this was fine to me”.
but writers post because they WANT to interact with you in fandom space. like we don’t post because we want to post AT you, we want to post WITH you. so when you’re getting little to no feedback, it can really feel like you’re just interacting with a sea of xyz usernames rather than like … other people who like the thing that you like.
and again, i am very fortunate in that i get a good amount of interaction on most of my posts. that is not what i’m talking ab, this isn’t ab me specifically.
but i always think about NEW writers, ones who are freshly posting, who get little to no feedback and can often feel like they’re kind of posting into the void. that can get really lonely/isolating, and that’s not what participating in fandom should feel like.
all of this to say, if you’re someone who is a relatively “silent” reader, or you only like posts, just try commenting/rbing a few w some tags. i promise you it really gives every writer a huge boost in their confidence and inspiration. it is like crack to us.
or you can ignore me and go “omg serina it’s not that serious!” which like sure it’s not, but then don’t act surprised when writers stop writing/deactivate is all i’m saying!
reposting cause yeah! as someone who always tries to leave at least a little message or comment that i enjoy their work/works (or leave a like to remember to get back to it), it feels rewarding to get something back on my posts as well. it is such a warm feeling that not only you liked that idea to write it, but someone else loved it too. and i have a few regular readers whom are so dear to me bc i believe they feel this feeling even if they do not write themselves. they appreciate a piece that much to comment their emotions; to say that they were moved by me.
i am not a new writer, but i rarely post and switch platforms, so i never reach a great amount of people who like my works constantly. therefore it is mostly auto post likers. i do not get upset bc i have been so long into fandoms, i saw the change, but it might matter to others and THAT upsets me specifically. every time i see a new writer i make sure they feel appreciated, so i comment. this feeling is so damn precious to me.
two professors. one office door away from kissing or killing each other. maybe both.
feautuing . theoretical philosophy professor!anaxa x practical philosophy professor!fem!reader.
tags . university au. nodern au. suggestive. semi-public sex mentioned/referenced. (you make so many) sex jokes. fluff. ooc. soft anaxa. comedy. mild language. academic rivalry but make it professors. mentions of alcohol use. workplace romance. bickering as a love language.. flirting. so many philosophy terms (that i barely understand). wc 3.1k.
a/n . a friend dabbed me into philosophy and i folded. the handjob joke was initially hers but i couldn't help myself. im not a philosophy major so if you are please forgive me for any mistakes, my friend who actually majored in it helped me a small bit and im still confused. lmk if there are any typos. enjoy <3
"your handwriting is offensive," you mutter, turning the paper sideways, then upside down.
anaxa doesn’t look up from his tea. "you still read it, though."
"barely. is this supposed to say 'conscious' or 'conscience'?"
"both."
"no."
"well, that’s why i'm a philosopher."
"i also am one. your last footnotes gave me a headache."
he finally looks up, raising an eyebrow. "then my work here is done."
"so you’re telling me," you, crossing your arms. "that again, you rewrote the entire reading list after midterms?"
"no," he replies, not looking up from his notes. "i rewrote it because of midterms. frankly, your students deserve better than whatever you assigned them. i read the discussion boards."
"you’re on the discussion boards?"
"i moderate three of them. and i banned a user who called you hot. you’re welcome."
you pause and tilt your head. in the end, you mumble "...that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me."
"don’t get used to it," he mutters, knowing you're exaggerating. "they spelled ‘epistemological’ wrong."
your bring in tea and fruit for your students. anaxagoras brings nothing and cancels half his office hours because, quote, "philosophy isn’t learned in panic, it’s metabolized in silence" (half the admin hates him).
his and your students are in quiet (jealous) war. campus hallway signs include:
"vote: whose exam will kill us with more dignity?
team prof [name]: understanding through application
team prof anaxagoras: no multiple choice, only anguish"
you and anaxa both pretend you don’t see the posters.
you end up stealing one and taping it to the wall in your office. anaxa responds by using it as part of a pop quiz question.
the students get back by gifting both of you matching mugs that say: "#1 philosophical threat". anaxa mutters about not joking with philosophy majors anymore. (they're literally his students and he's starting to get scared)
him and you sit on opposite ends of the philosophy department’s couch like it’s some kind of contested ground.
you're reading ethics of desire upside down. he’s pretending not to notice.
"why do you hate me?" you ask, out of nowhere.
"i don’t."
"then why do you argue with me in faculty meetings like we're at the fucking olympics?"
"because you like it," he looks over, holding eye contact.
"and," he adds after a beat. "because you're brilliant. and you're wrong about kant."
"i’m never wrong about kant," you frown.
"see? fun."
the dean told you it's mandatory to be in the department-wide group chat. anaxa has notifications off, your have them on, and neither of you participate until absolutely necessary.
today, someone sends a meme about faculty budgeting. it evolves quickly into... something.
@ecologywillsurvive_vaelis: what if we held a bake sale for chalk
@anaxagorastheory: what.
@cai_NaOCl: maybe we should sell naming rights to the new ethics wing. welcome to the ‘crypto.com moral foundations lab’
@anaxagorastheory: if you sell naming rights to a lab about ethics i will personally remove my eye patch and stare into your soul.
@praxis[name]: we’ve talked about this, the patch stays on in public spaces
@praxis[name]: and cai i'm going to rename your organic chem wing to 'half baked molecule lounge' if you bring up the ethics wing again
@anaxagorastheory: i’m just saying. the thread of reason is fraying.
@praxis[name]: your self-control is fraying
@anaxagorasthery: say that in office hours.
@epiphany_uni_admin: hi everyone! just a reminder that this is a professional chat
"you're late," you say without looking up from your laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard like you've been waiting specifically to outpace him.
"i was grading," anaxa responds, setting down a stack of painfully annotated printed philosophy 201 essays with a grimace. "your TAs let them write in first person and i nearly hemorrhaged."
"they’re freshmen, let them think they matter," you reply, finally glancing up at him.
"dangerous ideology for a praxis professor."
you hum. "dangerous man to say it."
"you’re wearing my coat," anaxa notes when he opens his office door and finds you there.
you blink once. then, "i spilled tea on mine."
he steps aside to lt you in, utterly unsurprised.
"also," you add as your shrug the coat tighter. "yours smells nicer."
he doesn’t say anything for a moment.
"would it be weird if i told you i hope you spill more tea tomorrow?"
you smile, mischievous.
"depends where."
"you always write in pen," your mutter, flipping through the latest draft of his paper with red ink bleeding into printed black. "only pen."
"i trust my convictions," anaxa replies, deadpan.
"you misspelled 'epistemological' three times after getting distracted by me."
"i was testing you."
"were you?" you ask, eyes narrowing. "you wrote 'epistomagical' at one point."
he shrugs, takes a sip from his coffee. it's black and bitter and you know he hates it.
you bite back a smile. "idiot."
"your handwriting is worse," he mutters. "at least i try."
"i write in runes," you say, prim.
"those are hearts above your i's."
"...runes of war."
"do you always grade with red?" you ask, leaning over his desk, some random paper in hand that you forgot about long ago.
anaxagoras doesn't look up, "of course. red forces clarity. confrontation."
"you wrote 'source?' in all caps across a paragraph about love in greek tragedy."
"and?"
you smile, as if holding back laugter. "it was a quote. from you."
he looks up. slow. silent.
you set the paper down with calmness he swears one can only see in fiction.
"next time, check your own citations, professor."
wednesdays are mostly alright. you walk into the staff lounge and there he is: anaxagoras. at the coffee machine. holding two cups.
"brewing double today?" you raise an eyebrow.
"i had to offer the students a choice," he says, pressing the start button. "do you want to study logic, or do you want to study… your soul?"
"you’re so terrible," you say with a sigh, taking the second cup from him. "you know no one really wants to study their soul?"
"not true," he replies, smiling smugly. "they want to study it, they just don’t know it yet."
he takes a sip of his coffee, watching you. you narrow your eyes.
"and what's this 'quiz' you’ve decided to torture them with?"
"it’s not a quiz. it’s a philosophical challenge," he says, moving to the small whiteboard. "i ask them to define their own existence without using ‘i think, therefore i am'.
"you’re evil," you raise an eyebrow.
"i'm not," he argues. "they tiktokified descartes!"
"they what?"
anaxa finds a note slipped into his bag.
it’s folded on thick paper, smells like your hand cream.
in that unmistakable handwriting, hearts a constant above the i's like it's a love letter (maybe it is):
"you didn't have breakfast this morning, so i left a little something in your office
<3"
he stares at it for five minutes straight. then folds it again and tucks it into his coat pocket. the 'little something' ended up being a bento of salad and two bacon sandwiches.
he won’t ever admit it, but he carries it for the rest of the week (and he will absolutely not start mimicking your handwriting later).
it's a faculty party. you're in black silk and sipping terrible wine. anaxa's next to you, lecturing someone on metaphysical paradoxes. again.
"you could’ve worn a bow tie," you murmur when he leans in.
he looks at you like he’s already undone. "and you could’ve worn less loud heels if you didn’t want me distracted."
your fingers pause on the stem of your glass. "hm. touché."
"that’s french."
"you speak french?"
he leans closer, "i learn languages for spite."
you lick your teeth to hide a grin. "is that how you learned to say je veux te baiser in the hallway last week?"
anaxa chokes on his wine.
"you're in my office," he says, arms crossed, glasses half-lowered.
"your sign says 'office hours clpsed unless it's a crisis'. this," you say, dropping a thick bundle of papers on his desk, "is a crisis."
he glances down.
"this is… a peer review."
"your peer review. you cited a wikipedia page in a footnote."
anaxa doesn’t look even remotely sorry. "it was cited ironically."
"you teach epistemology, anaxagoras."
"and irony is a form of knowledge."
you blink. “oh my god. leave."
"it's my office."
"i don't care, leave."
obvious enough, your offices share a wall (god bless the dean and the department chair). it’s the point of thus where, sometimes, you hear anaxa recite passages of obscure texts to himself aloud; sometimes in ancient languages.
today, it’s greek.
"…lógos eikós," he says. "reason is likely—"
"and so is the fact that your argument on practical virtue is still wrong," you call through the wall.
"it was metaphorical!"
"so is your whole career!"
you hear the sound of a book being thrown at the wall and smile.
"you rearranged my bookshelves," you say flatly, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.
"i reorganized them by author. the fact that your copy of moral letters to lucilius was next to the hungry caterpillar is—"
"—educational range."
anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not really, just sips his coffee like it's the antidote to your nonsense.
"you’re impossible."
"and yet you still broke into my office to alphabetize my praxis."
"it was unlocked."
"it was not."
(it was.)
anaxagoras gets sick and refuses to take time off. you physically remove him from the building.
"i’m fine," he rasps.
"you’re a hazard," you say, throwing his bag over your shoulder. "you coughed on three students and almost knocked over aristotle's bust in your auditorium.
he slumps into your car without protest. later, you make him him soup and read aloud from his own research while he’s half-asleep just to see if you can make him correct your pronunciation mid-fever. he does.
"you’re ridiculous," you murmur.
"you’re warm," he mumbles, drifting.
"i’m human."
"keep being that."
@epiphanyconfessions
"i’m just saying. if prof [name] leaned over my desk the way she leans over prof anaxagoras’s desk i too would forget how to spell my own name"
@epiphanyconfessions
"anybody remember that one time she called him 'anaxagoras' during a rare joint lecture and he straightened up like a victorian man seeing ankle for the first time. someone sedate them."
@epiphanyconfessions
"i heard prof anaxa say ‘consent is the highest form of logic’ and i haven’t been the same since. like sir i just wanted to pass intro metaphysics please don’t take me apart like that"
you're the one who finds the twitter account. it's an automated bot which quite literally posts all the gossip in the university. unsurprisingly now, 70% of what you've seen include you and anaxa.p
you scroll for three minutes in silence, then turns your phone around so he can see it.
"i think your students are obsessed with me."
anaxa doesn't look a single bit impressed.
"well, at least i've managed to teach them something about attention to detail."
you end up paired for the damn symposium panel because someone in admin has a cruel sense of humor.
"just be civil," the dean says, sipping bitter coffee as the two of you stand on either side of the projector.
"civil as in—" you start.
"no blood on the mic."
anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not quite, but there's a twitch of something near his mouth when he says "i'll keep my composure if she does."
"i never lose my composure," you shoot back.
his eyes go to your mouth. "you have. once."
your silence is thin and sharp and full of fuck yous that do not get spoken.
the dean groans. "if either of you fucks the other on the mic, i swear to god i'm retiring."
you're walking out of the symposium together, the cold air catching your hair just right.
"they misquoted kant four times," he mutters, voice slightly hoarse
"only four?" you tease. "you’re mellowing."
"i’m trying not to ruin our evening."
"oh?" you glance at him. "are we having an evening?"
he stops walking and you take two steps before realizing he’s still behind you.
"…yes," he says. "if you want."
your expression warms without looking at him. "i do."
he doesn’t say anything else, just walks beside you the rest of the way, hands close, not touching.
it's christmas eve and everyone’s a little tipsy in the lounge, even the department chair.
anaxa is holding a glass of deep red wine and trying not to react when you make a joke about morals and oral fixation in the same sentence.
later, outside under the garden lights, you speak.
"brynn told me your students think we're sleeping together," you say, watching the breeze catch your own hair.
"we are."
"they suspect, anaxagoras."
"then they’re late to class."
you laugh, quiet and unguarded, the kind of laugh that makes his shoulders drop. he reaches out to fix the collar of his your coat.
"you're soft when you're smug," you murmur.
"you're smug when you're soft," anaxa retaliates.
"you’re in love with me."
"that too."
youre both tired. the grading deadlines loom and the campus heating is out again.
"sit down," anaxa mutters, patting the seat next to him on the floor of his office.
"your carpet has chalk dust on it."
"so do your pants, professor."
you sigh as if you're bearing the weight of the world on your lone shoulders and sit.
there's no light in the office but the blue glow of his screen, and the soft static of the heater humming through the vents.
"i'm not rewriting the conclusion," you murmur, almost asleep on his shoulder.
"i know."
"but i miiight let you footnote me."
he hums, head tilting against yours. "if you do, i'll stop quoting you out of context."
"...maybe don't. i sound smarter when you do it."
"you are smart."
you hum, noncommittal. anaxa sighs.
anaxagoras is having a deja vu; a really strong one.
you're seated across from each other at another faculty mixer (he complained about seeing too many people outside his lectures in the past three months on the way to this one). you're wearing black, sharp eyeliner, and a gold pin in the shape of a crescent. anaxa is halfway through a whiskey and trying very hard not to look impressed.
"you know they’re calling us ‘the debate club’?" you say, lazily stirring your drink. "it’s not flattering."
"they only say that because you get louder when you’re wrong."
"you’re still upset i said plato would’ve folded if someone gave him a nice handjob."
he tried to mask laughing with accidentally choking on his whiskey.
he definitely is having a deja vu. (he loves it with you.)
you kiss once in the archives.
it’s a study break, technically.
you're sitting on the dusty desk. he’s standing between your legs. you're surrounded by books about love and logic and ancient epics, and you don’t speak about the copy of whatever book you were supposed to help him with looking for.
later, as you fix his messed up hair again for him, when he’s too flustered to do it straight, you murmur,
"you lose arguments better than anyone i've ever met."
he leans into your palm where it cups his jaw.
"i only lose to you."
"i hope so."
he sees you grading in the courtyard and sits beside you, uninvited.
"your first-years are circulating a petition."
"ah. is it about the essay extension?"
"no. they want you and i to 'just publicly kiss already and not torture us anymore'. their words."
you don't pause your hand. "did you sign it?"
"...maybe."
you're more often in his office than you're not.
"if we get caught—" he starts, breathless.
"it's your fault. stop kissing me like you’re too lazy to drive us home," you cut him off, sliding your hands into his hair.
"i’m not built for scandal," he breathes against your mouth.
"you’re wearing an eyepatch, anaxagoras."
"...it’s academic."
"so is this," you say tilting his head back, climbing into his lap as your hand loosens his tie. "let me study you."
"you’ve been reading the same sentence for five minutes," he murmurs.
you don’t look up; your head is resting against your palm, pen slack between your fingers. "because it says 'therefore, subjectivity is inherently sus'."
anaxagoras blinks. "they submitted that in ink?"
"typed," you sigh. "with a footnote that just says 'as per amongus'."
he leans over, eyes scanning the page, then: "…expel them," flatly.
"i can’t expel them."
"i can."
"you teach philosophy, not moral hygiene."
"same thing, if you ask the right philosopher."
you're sprawled on the old couch in his office, shoes off, his coat folded under your head, flipping through his notes. your eyes hurt. you flip the papers upside down.
"you really wrote a thirty-page rebuttal on the concept of divine intervention just because i said some gods might have been hot?"
"you said apollo could get it in front of our students."
"and you wrote a philosophical hitpiece," you counter.
"i cited my sources," anaxa grumbles, tired.
"you are absolutely insane."
"we're pretty much equal in terms of that, i believe."
he brings you coffee exactly how you like it before every morning seminar. you make his lecture slides look presentable. you pass post-it notes through interdepartmental mail—yours are gold-trimmed, his are so painfully neat. once, someone intercepted one. it just said:
'you were right about that footnote. bring your smugness and your mouth to my office at five. i need to be convinced again.'
you're reading in the living room. anaxa's half-asleep next to you, head on your lap, one hand absently tracing lazy circles on your thigh.
"what are you annotating now?" he murmurs.
"your latest essay."
"and?"
"you cited yourself fourteen times."
"i trust my sources."
you hum. "sure you do."
"if we were set to constantly teach a class together," anaxa says quietly, "we’d probably get fired."
you yawn. "i think we’d start a cult."
"that too. if we didn't already."
a hum. “a sexy cult."
he laughs, soft and tired and you want to kiss him until your lips remember his skin for the rest of your life. "you’re the one who brings up sex every time we talk about curriculum."
"it’s integral to ethics and aesthetics."
"and not philosophy?"
"it is philosophy," you grumble. "do you talk about pleasure in your lectures?"
he pauses. "…not directly."
"coward."
he squeezes your hand. "i love you."
"i know," you say. "even if your syllabus doesn’t include eros."
OH MY GOD I FEEL WEAK???? tried to read it so slowly so that i would be able to enjoy it for longer but nooo omg i was greedy. i love writers i love fandoms imagine i it never existed and i would have never read this piece of an art??? it's sooo simple and nice to read (i just got my period early early morning and this has been my first fic to read for comfort AND it became a complete cure!)
I don’t usually like “nice” feitan because people seem to change him into a completely different character but your soft Feitan i just looove 🩷🩷🩷
saw this after a REALLY tiring day and it made me smile<3 i am glad you like how i write him!!
there is a reason why i choose the reader to be one of the spiders—feitan can and would only be softer & nicer than he seems so (is) towards them than outsiders. it is really obvious in his character and, given phantom troupe's story, it is natural.
i also tend to not write dialogues. well i hate dialogue either way (to write, i mean), but with feitan, i believe, i would mess him up. what i do want, is to keep his imperfect speech and his inability to express himself fully, so i keep writing little phrases here and there anyways. yet, if i tried to write "soft" dialogue, that would go SOOO OUT of character real quick.
overall, me, myself, don't really like feitan being written in an opposite way of "nice". because he is not that either. he is complex and understanding him is hard. that comes from his almost non-existant background and stuff. so yeah, short moments like i write feels right for me to not stray far from his actual character, but also keep my fantasies on how i imagine him.
ok yap time is over, im really tired idk why i wrote this. love you for reading and taking ur time to send a message like that as well<3
summary. last dance of the masked ball! it takes part shortly after this event of my timeline:)
as the night of shadows and mysteries drew closer to an end, you noticed a lone figure standing by the southern wall of the ballroom. you never expected to see feitan at the masked ball—was he there from the beginning whilst you were so engrossed in swaying to the music of the orchestra? his eyes meet yours.
you feel out of breath over so many rounds of swift viennese waltz with dozens of contrasting partners, but seeing him out there just calmed your heart and steadied your blood pulse. it felt like you truly had to experience his softened gaze on your body to finish the night euphorically.
in a minute, the lights are dimmed along with a slower tune played in the background. this is a call for dancers to take their precious time towards the huge arched doorway, to finish the last glass of bubbly champagne and youthfully giggle this magical late night away.
despite the ball being at its closing act, it was the cue for feitan to move closer to you. he is stretching his hand, inviting you for one final dance.
he is new to it, trying so diligently to keep up with your moves. although his face showed no reaction, you know how blissful he is—he never gave up as he danced somewhat clumsily and he held you close, sensually supporting your arms and waist.
partakers are leaving, although, neither of you moved closer to the passage out, rather inwards to the middle under the stunning renaissance chandelier of quartz crystal.
“we go together. another time,” feitan whispers. he does seem nervous yet unyielding in his statement.
“another time?” he does not answer, leaving you dancing all alone in your masquerade of feelings as he danced in his.
