tender in the wound way

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[rokutouxei]

the curse of memory

blade/dan heng | 2438 | also on ao3 (link in bio) the events at the Xianzhou Luofu forces Dan Heng to face the things he'd long run away from--at the end of it, including Blade.

(what is memory)

Remembering will do Blade no good.

It’s such a shame that it’s all he can do now. Splotches of the past stain his mind, clouding his vision. The only lens he can see the world through.

Inside of him, there is a smaller, more pathetic version of him that cries and scratches at the walls of his consciousness. He is begging him to forget.

Too bad the mara prevents that version of him from speaking up at all.

So now, he is always hungry, bloodthirsty, craving something he can never have anymore.

Good thing there is no sweeter feeling than the hunt.

--

(what is beyond recall)

Being an archiver and guardian on the Express is no problem for Dan Heng. He enjoys learning. His strength in battle is not an issue either. With the freedom to go as he pleases, Dan Heng finds the arrangement agreeable.

With Himeko and Welt with him, Dan Heng lets himself breathe a little easier. There is always the chance that he would be found here—by that man. Of course, he would. Maybe he already knows Dan Heng is here. But finding companions has softened the edges of Dan Heng’s worries.

At least, when he returns from battle bloodied and bruised, he has a place to come back to.

Eventually, he will need to leave the Express. There is only so much they can do for him. A stopover for an unknown destination.

But right now, he stares at the data bank until he’s dizzy, and knocks out from exhaustion. Looks at the blurred edges of dream and memory, coming face-to-face, cowardly, at the things he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

--

( what is memory)

There is only so much running he can do before everything catches up to him.

If fate will not do it, then Blade will do it for him.

Inevitably, they meet again.

There is something sickeningly comforting when they fall back to their usual. Weapon against weapon. While Blade’s technique has only been sharpened by time, Dan Heng’s hiding power is electric underneath his calculated movements. They go toe-to-toe. It only becomes a matter of who gets exhausted first.

Usually, it is Blade. And not because his body can no longer take it.

While nightmares haunt Dan Heng in his unconscious, Blade lives it. Slowly, as their sparring progresses, Dan Heng becomes not Dan Heng but ███, and he becomes not Blade but ██. Old names that at once no longer have any bearing, but at the same time, carry all their history.

Today, it takes shorter than usual. Blade aims a decisive blow at the young man, one that would normally push him back with a strong thud. Instead, his sword meets the bracer around Dan Heng’s arm.

And there is a moment of hesitation.

Just enough time to give Dan Heng the chance to dart backward, breath heaving.

After that, Blade falls into a state of acquiescence. Half-hearted blows until Dan Heng finally spears him straight through his uselessly unyielding heart.

Blade collapses.

Closes his eyes. There’s a moment, when he is killed, where all is silent. No more than a faint ringing in his ears so quiet he can barely hear it. In those moments alone does Blade know peace. The young man gives him a hard look before pulling his spear out of the flesh; Blade’s body follows for an inch off the ground before it falls back down.

Silence.

Footsteps fade away in the distance.

While Dan Heng retreats, Blade lays in a pool of his own blood, thanking the young man in his mind, calling him ███, as tenderly as he used to.

--

(what is beyond recall)

Dan Heng does not remember.

Not in the way you would remember what you did last week, or what you ate the other day. Dan Heng has no access to those kinds of his memories. Instead, it comes to him more like you would data in the archives—knowledge.

That is: with a distinct separation from the self.

“I am not him,” over and over again until someone—anyone—believes him. It is painful because Dan Heng knows it is only half-true. In a way, he is still Dan Feng. The same way he is still all the past High Elders that have come before them both.

But doesn’t it count?

Even if he hadn’t molted completely—even if he and Dan Feng were the same in body and soul—would it really not count, the rest that he’d lived afterward? Ship to ship, the Express, the Nameless—are all those lofty illusions in the face of facing who he had been before he was who he thinks he is now?

A sigh.

“As a descendant of the Vidyadhara, I will fulfill my duty to the Luofu.”

Something banging in his chest. Already in Imbibitor Lunae’s form, he buys time. Walks around the Dragonvista Rain Hall looking for answers—in the walls, in the people he knows, in the statue.

He does not find them.

So eventually, inevitably, when he steps up in front of the High Elder monument, when the waters part and the power inside of him responds to his call, something in him breaks.

--

(what is memory)

Blade wakes up from a dream.

Blade rarely dreams now. In a rare gesture of kindness, the mara spares him in his sleep the agony of reliving what has long past. 

But when he does dream, it is always crystal clear.

Oftentimes, what comes are nightmares. The calculating, cold gaze of a swordswoman who would not let him go. The prisons on the Luofu. The vague haze of a catastrophe unraveling behind him. Not memories—but engraved in his body nonetheless.

But there are nights like these when the dreams are gentler to him. A gift being given. A garden. Talking in hushed whispers. Alcohol under the moonlight. It hurts worse the more he tries to recall it. 

He does not want to recall it.

Blade gets up from the sofa.

No one else is there with him, the rest of the Stellaron Hunters god-knows-where. But he still hides away, in the room he refuses to call his own. Still, it is there where he feels most alone.

On nights like these, he wears that bracer around his arm even though it makes him sick to the stomach.

Masochist. 

He enjoys it. He hates it.

When Blade finds that, even now, this bracer still remains warm, he does what he can not to cry.

In becoming “Blade”, he had made an effort to become someone else. Shedding his old name in favor of a new one, the same way his body had succumbed to the fate of infinite repair. 

But then why can’t he let him go?

Why do those emerald eyes still haunt him like a waking dream, coaxing him forward?

It hurts , he thinks, it hurts to think of . Their twin promises, their broken vows.

For only a few seconds, he gives himself permission to muse what’s impossible. ██ wonders, if his beloved eventually remembers,

what then?

--

(what is beyond recall)

After the conclusion of the events at the Luofu, Dan Heng finds himself wandering the hallways of the Express like looking for answers.

The more he thinks, the more he wishes he could remember it all, all at once.

Instead, things rise to his mind one at a time, a patchwork of memories he still has to rearrange. Reasons. Events. Feelings.

The ghost of Dan Feng looming over him, cursing him for forgetting.

Dan Heng still wakes up from nightmares. Only this time, he no longer remembers them. They float away like a fog of memory not his own. But when he wakes up, he is crying. He is asking for forgiveness, the taste of “sorry” sour in his mouth. His hands trembling in his lap.

One night, he has enough of it. So much has risen to the surface and yet the core of it hangs, invisibly, in his mind. So he forces himself to recall it. Sits in his bed with his hands fisted at the roots of his hair. 

Eventually, the past coalesces into a vivid memory. The aftermath of a devastating tragedy. Arrogance rising. Decisions made at the last minute. The face in his dreams so familiar and yet so different. A name that echoes like stars.  

Oh, a pang in his heart.

He knows him. Then. Now. They made promises. They made vows. They promised they would meet again—somehow. 

Dan Heng would recognize him anywhere.

He wishes he wouldn’t.

For now, though, he gets up from bed to go splash water on his face. When he looks up at the mirror, he is forced to face the hollowness in his eyes. The past, a specter haunting him relentlessly. Wanting something out of him. Something he no longer knows how to give.

Just die, Dan Heng thinks. Just die and leave me alone for good.

Except it won’t.

Perhaps it never will.

--

( now or never)

“What do you mean you’re going alone?!” March’s shrill voice cuts through the parlor car. “You just said he’s been wanting to kill you!”

“There are things I still need to settle with him,” Dan Heng says, maintaining an icy composure. “It is not necessary to drag you all into our mess.”

“It’s not—Himeko, Mr. Yang, tell him!”

“I’m sure Dan Heng appreciates your concern, March,” Welt says. “But I think it’s best we don’t interfere with his wishes.”

“But—!”

“We’ll be right by his side,” Himeko attempts to placate her. “The minute he calls for us we will be right there.”

“Thank you.” Dan Heng bows. Whether it is in gratitude or to hide his face is uncertain. He knows they are waiting for assurances— I’ll be safe. I will be back. I’ll return soon. But he does not have them on him.

When they disperse, Dan Heng finds the Trailblazer looking at him with solemn eyes.

Dan Heng turns away.

--

(what comes after what is remembered)

Dan Heng thinks he is ready to face it all again. This time, he comes to Blade.

Blade’s mouth goes from a thin line to a madman’s grin.

“Did you walk into my trap,” he asks, “Or did you just miss me?”

Dan Heng remains silent. His hand hovers by his side, his spear waiting for his call. He doesn’t know where to begin. He imagines Dan Feng urging him.

“Still not a talker, are you?” Blade continues. He’s trying to sound intimidating. In the face of everything, Dan Heng thinks he sounds miserable. “Maybe we ought to talk with our weapons instead.”

The taste of blood fills Dan Heng’s mouth. Only then does he realize he’s biting his tongue. The same one waiting for his permission to speak.

He needs to say it out loud, for his remembering to become real.

Dan Heng thought he was ready. He really did. In returning to the form of his previous self, in coming back to the Xianzhou at all, he admitted defeat to the crushing weight of Dan Feng’s memories.

What was another memory amongst all memories?

But he is not ready. In front of Blade, Dan Heng cannot find the words.

If there are any left to say.

No I understand you now . No the past still haunts us like ghosts. No don’t we pay our debts every day, living our miserable existences unable to forget and unable to remember? No aren’t we both the products of consequences that we now have no control over? 

Not even if things were different, I would have been able to give you what you deserve. 

Instead, he watches Blade closely as he shifts form. Into an appearance more familiar to the other—long hair, elegant clothes, translucent teal horns on his crown.

Like this, Dan Heng sometimes wonders who Blade really sees in this moment.

But it doesn’t matter, not anymore.

Remembering will do ██ no good. Dan Heng knows this. Dan Feng knows this. But now, there is no turning back. There is only facing the fact that Dan Heng does not have the ability to give ██ what he needs.

He may as well give him what he wants, as a way of atoning for his sins.

He summons his weapon and narrows his eyes to aim. Blade laughs maniacally. His expression only ever comes alive when they fall into their rhythm like this.

Alive. Still here. The same way Dan Feng once wanted. The same sickening way Dan Heng still does.

Dan Heng aims his weapon, taking a deep breath as he feels his power fill him.

The name tender in his mind.

██, I’m sorry. 

--

(what comes after what is forgotten)

There is no satisfying ending to this story.

Blade’s sword lays untouched a distance away. Dan Heng’s spear has cut through flesh, as it always does, right into the other man’s heart. His sputtering and coughing had given way to a quiet sleep. Death eludes him. At least, there is rest.

Dan Heng feels like he is crumbling. No matter. At least, until ██ wakes up, there is this.

A head cradled on his lap. A duet of quiet, unlabored breathing. Dan Heng returns to his usual form. The bracer rematerializes on his arm. It is cold, but slowly getting warmer by the second. If he were to pull the other man’s sleeve up, he will find the matching pair. He does not need to do so to be sure.

Is there any love crueler than this?

To forget and to recall, to hunger and never be satisfied.

Dan Heng knows that eventually, he will have to leave. Return to the Express and trailblaze. Dan Heng is, after all, one of the Nameless. But for the rest of eternity while that is happening— Dan Feng will be trapped in a never-ending chase with this man. Until his mind and body fall asunder, until his heart breaks in more ways than it already has.

Until he can be forgiven, if that sort of thing is even possible.

For now, though, there is this. Dan Heng, placing a shaky hand over the tuft of black hair on his lap. Tracing the shape of the familiar jaw under his fingertips. The ones that make something pinch in his heart, features he knows like the back of his hand. The curve of ears, the corner of a mouth.

What was once his and now never again. 

Remembering will do Dan Heng no good.

The familiarity, the curse of memory.

There’s no sweeter feeling than the surrender to what one once loved.

[rokutouxei]

solitary moon, transitory stars

honkai star rail | T | 3018 | ao3 link in bio ⚠ MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH yingxing/dan feng (blade/dan heng)

such is the tale of a short-life species tangled with that who will live for hundreds more years. it would be cruel of him to expect dan feng to hold onto him until it is time to return to his ancient seas. eventually, they will be nothing but a blip in the long, reincarnating life of his beloved vidyadhara’s history.

to dan feng, he might never be more than a blink of an eye.

-------

scalegorge waterspace has been torn apart like paper.

buildings crumbling like they were made of fine sand. blood everywhere. casualties left and right. the stellaron has been contained, but the rest of the chaos remains. 

not that dan feng notices.

not with his world already upside down as it is. blood, not his own, seeping through the white fabric of his clothes. closed eyes like just sleeping. damp hair pressed against a smooth forehead.

the weight in dan feng’s arms is too heavy, too heavy, too much. his bracer too cold.

there’s a voice in his head that isn’t his, begging him to not let go. to insist.

instead, he presses his beloved’s face against his chest. his hands shaking. begging to feel breathing. dan feng screams hoarsely. he does not hear his own voice come out.

-

merchant vessels come and go through the xianzhou on a fairly regular basis.

whether they bring goods or artisans, laborers or scholars, there is always an influx of new faces and new things coming aboard the luofu. 

dan feng meets the craftsman by coincidence. the young vidyadhara has snuck away from the palace to head to the market. there are sayings in the luofu that dragons like hoarding wealth and items; for dan feng, it is beautiful things. 

these jade pendants are some of those things.

he reaches to pick up one shaped like a lotus when his hand meets another. the lotus falls back into the container when he lets go of it on instinct. dan feng turns to find a pair of crimson eyes framed by long, silver hair.

beautiful…

“sorry,” the other man says. such a low voice–he must be older than he looks. dan feng can tell he is not from the luofu. “you can have it.”

“it’s alright,” dan feng answers, picking up the lotus again to put it in the other man’s palm. “a souvenir from the xianzhou. bring it with you.”

“ah, i had only meant to look,” the other replies, sheepishly scratching at his neck. “i can make my own. i’m a craftsman by trade.”

“oh?” interest piqued, dan feng crosses his arms across his chest and gives the other man a good look. raises an eyebrow, a challenge. “pretty confident in your handiwork, aren’t you?”

the newcomer smiles. “i wouldn’t mind showing off.”

-

and shows his work does yingxing do.

he doesn’t know if dan feng had severely underestimated him in the beginning, or if the man really just had that high of a fascination towards his work. not that it is unwarranted. there is little, after all, that yingxing cannot do. what begins as a show-and-tell becomes a companionable friendship between the two men, spending spare time on the luofu whenever they can.

but it’s only so long until dan feng’s real identity is revealed—and suddenly, yingxing is shoulder-to-shoulder with the high elder of the vidyadhara. 

“to have hidden that from me for such a long time…”

“does my status change anything about our friendship?”

a pause. “i like to think not.”

“then it does not matter, no?”

still, it is with dan feng’s help that yingxing finds his footing as a craftsman on the luofu. yingxing insists that he doesn’t have to, but dan feng helps when he can anyway. linking him to resources. introducing him to other artisans. helping him find apprenticeships.

the man once only a mere visitor to the ship quickly rises in rank as a valuable artisan in the luofu. he’ll make anything they ask from him. weapons. toys. machinery. whatever his hands can figure out, he will do.

and recently, these same hands have been fumbling over a gift.

it’s only normal, isn’t it? to want to give something in return to his benefactor—his friend? he looks through the markets for weeks. consults old books and other craftsmen for ideas. asks dan feng winding questions, hoping he’d let slip something he wants. 

eventually, yingxing sets his mind on something. he spends much time on his gift, carving gold. a lengthy, arduous process—but he produces an exquisite piece of jewelry. a singular earring, a statement on its own. 

all works well until dan feng unravels it from its container—and his face shifts conflictingly.

“is something the matter?” yingxing asks, half in a panic. “if it’s not to your tastes—”

“no, it’s beautiful,” dan feng says, raising the earring to his eye level. turning it around to get a better look at it. “it’s just…”

he puts the earring against his ear right next to his lobe and—

oh.

he doesn’t have it pierced.

not the other ear, either. 

yingxing pales.

“that was a horrible oversight, on my part.”

“it’s not something i would mind,” dan feng says, simply. “i would like to wear your gift.” he reaches forward, knuckles grazing lightly against the curve of yingxing’s jaw as his fingertips gently touch over a dangling earring. “we’d match.”

yingxing flushes. “we would.”

“very well, what will you need?”

they do it right there, right ouside dan feng’s quarters. without much fanfare. yingxing takes a needle still mildly hot from how it was boiled, and pierces a hole through dan feng’s lobe. the other man flinches, but only slightly. they clasp a temporary earring through it, and dan feng keeps the present in his drawer.

but dan feng is impatient—he barely waits for the wound to heal before he comes up to yingxing a few weeks later with the carved-gold earring already in place.

pain is nothing to bear the gift he’s been given.

yingxing gives him a scolding about the piercing, but he is smiling anyway. 

-

for a long time, they do not put it into words.

like they feared what it meant when they acknowledged what is inevitably happening. they spent months delaying what is already undeniable. shoulders are just shoulders, hands are just hands, gazes only gazes. 

nothing more, nothing less.

but it hurts. of course it does. they pour alcohol for one another. they spar. they sit under the starlight, hesitating at the surface, never revealing what’s really imploring to speak. 

until dan feng has had enough.

for a vidyadhara, dan feng is still young. he has not grown into the mantle of high elder quite yet. he may have been trained to be one since he was born, but deep inside, the sharp edges of youth still persist in him: arrogant, stubborn, selfish.

he isn’t going to let something he wants walk away from him when he has the power to make it stay.

dan feng takes the best of coral gold he can find, the finest leather. then he begins to craft. in secret, just as yingxing had done. he puts down his usual books for tools. he has a competitive streak—there is no way yingxing was going to outdo him, gift or not! he is not high elder for nothing.

besides, this is special, and it has to count.

after all, there is only one chance to assure that yingxing wants what he wants, too.

when it is completed, he invites yingxing to spar. this has become typical for them—yingxing is a master at smithing all sorts of weapons, and what better way to test them out than through a little friendly fight? dan feng fights with all his might until he’s pinned yingxing to the floor, his spear—the one yingxing had made for him, carved his name on—dangerously close to yingxing’s throat.

with that typical laid-back smile, yingxing raises his arms in surrender.

“this won’t do, yingxing,” dan feng hums, tracing the sharp edge of his weapon over yingxing’s jaw like he wants to do with his fingers. “you’re going to lose in battle like this. come—i have the one thing that might save you the next time you’re in a scuffle.”

as coolly as dan feng tries to play it off, the grin he’s wearing on his face gives him away. it’s well-earned. the bracers are flawless. he fixes it around yingxing’s arm, a pink flush going from his cheeks to his ears. once it is secured, yingxing straightens his arm, looking at the intricate make of it.

when he turns, dan feng has placed the bracer over his own, opposite arm, holding it up.

“put it on me?”

it clicks immediately in yingxing’s mind.

there’s a melancholic smile on his face as he ties it around dan feng’s arm. the vidyadhara, for a moment, wants to know what is going on in this human’s mind. out of fear, he does not ask. just waits patiently until the bracer is secure around his arm.

warm. like telepathic.

“a rather fitting gift, no?” dan feng says, trying to sound smug to hide any insecurity.

there’s a pause as yingxing considers their matching armor. in the heat of his gaze, dan feng has the urge to curl his arm back against his chest. but before he can do so, yingxing has placed his hand over his, the bracers making a clink sound when they touch.

(the moment freezes for them, a snapshot in their minds forever.)

yingxing looks up endearingly at the flushed dan feng. 

he reaches out a hand to tuck a loose lock of hair behind peculiar ears.

then, that all-knowing smile. “you couldn’t have done better.”

-

despite it all, time passes by unsympathetically, as it always does.

the high cloud quintet—high elder ceremonies—birthdays—new years—they pass by relentlessly, without care, without so much as a pause.

with intertwined hands, they hold on. 

even as stars die and moons continue their orbit.

age’s curled claws begin to dig into yingxing before dan feng can realize what is happening. he wakes to it panicking, unable to do anything.

such is the fate of short-lived species; time’s cruelty takes them away before they ever get the chance to really reach out beyond them. 

but perhaps it is this scarcity of time that allows them to meet life with the force of a thousand stellarons. they live so recklessly; they extend their wings farther than they ought to; they jump from far too high.

they love so wholly.

without reservation, like it is their last chance to do so.

lately, dan feng has been having troubles staying asleep. usually, yingxing will wake up when he realizes his companion has risen from slumber—but tonight, he hasn’t yet. dan feng gets to be alone with his thoughts a little longer.

not that there are other things to occupy his mind besides the man sleeping next to him. his gaze to the merciless night sky wanders back to yingxing. his hair the color of stars. a defenseless expression on his face. like this, if dan feng doesn’t look too closely, it is as if he is many decades younger. 

he tucks a stray lock of silver strands behind yingxing’s ears. 

imagines him disintegrating like ashes before his very eyes.

for a fraction of a second—that feels as long as an eternity—dan feng considers what he’s only read in books. the powers of the plagues author. pills that imbue the receiver with eternal youth and immortality. it feels wrong to even think about it.

but still.

in a moment of weakness that the xianzhou would have cursed him for—dan feng prays to yaoshi for a taste of eternity.

-

the last thing they make together is a pair of jade pendants.

dan feng chooses the finest jade he can get his hands on, beautifully brilliant green. yingxing sharpens his tools. this time, they work together. in sync. sketching designs in pencil, redoing, redrawing. measuring the crystal, cutting it into shape. carving its intricate details. 

making sure that when one slots into the other, they are a perfect match.

“is it to your tastes?”

yingxing’s voice has the tone of hesitation over it. the jade pendants lay finished on the table across from them.

“why would it not be?”

“well, my hands are not what they used to be.”

“don’t talk like that, yingxing.”

yingxing doesn’t know what is going on in dan feng’s mind. to him, he’s known dan feng for far more years than he didn’t. most of his life spent in this person’s arms, presence, affection, attention. 

to dan feng, he might never be more than a blink of an eye.

a part of him is alright with that. such is the tale of a short-life species tangled with that who will live for hundreds more years. it would be cruel of him to expect dan feng to hold onto him until it is time to return to his ancient seas. eventually, they will be nothing but a blip in the long, reincarnating life of his beloved vidyadhara’s history. 

that is alright.

to have had dan feng for even a brief amount of time—is all he could have asked for, in his short life.

dan feng shifts in his position, lifting his head off from yingxing’s shoulder. it snaps the latter out of his reverie. dan feng reaches forward to take the jade pendants in his hands, slotting them together in place. like this, one can hardly tell they can be taken apart.

they speak no words. they are not necessary.

yingxing only smiles at him tenderly, knowing that both of them are so aware now of every second of borrowed time. 

-

dan feng cannot say he had not prepared for the inevitable happening.

he knew. yingxing knew. it was only a matter of time.

he knew, but he didn’t want it to end like this.

“dan feng!"

a hand pushing him backward, the bracer glinting around the arm. a crowd of denizens of abundance begin to gather around them. dan feng growls, fangs showing as he stands his ground. 

“i’m not letting you fight alone.”

the fight is ruthless, the enemies relentless and seemingly getting stronger with each wave. or maybe they are getting more and more tired. there is no end in sight, only battle. 

dan feng fails to dodge a blow that sends him straight onto the ground, chin-first. blood blooms in his mouth where he’s bitten his tongue. before he can scramble back to his feet, yingxing is above him, parrying a following blow with his protected arm. the abomination is thrown backward. 

but that leaves yingxing’s back open. another abomination comes up and slashes him from behind, making him tumble forward, a muted cry coming out of his mouth.

dan feng sees red.

time stills, for once. something erupts out of dan feng, something he has no control over. a mindless beast with teeth bared; all the surrounding monsters fall to their feet. when he comes to, his arms are around yingxing, who still has that stubborn smile on his stupid face.

“i’ll take you back,” dan feng says. desperate. in denial. “the healers… they will patch you up. we will—”

“beloved, listen,” yingxing answers, instead. when dan feng refuses to acknowledge the defeat in his voice, he calls him by another name—sweeter, softer, one he speaks only ever reverently. dan feng just sobs at the sound of it. “do not fret.”

“i can’t—” something choking him. dan feng can no longer speak. “yingxing.”

“you have to.” a hand clasped around another, the one with a bracer matching his own. “you will.”

two pairs of eyes prick with tears. they cannot cry. they are in the middle of war.

dan feng spares a moment to pull out the jade pendant where he carries it on him. yingxing laughs at the gesture. a tiny, weak sound. so unlike him.

“you’ll remember me,” dan feng says, placing his pendant in yingxing’s palm. the other man squeezes his fist around it, as hard as he can. “i will wait and you will remember me and you will come back. swear on it.”

“i will. i will.” yingxing tries to lift his hand to cup dan feng’s cheek, but he is too weak. dan feng leans so that yingxing can reach him. “take my pendant, so i can find you.”

dan feng knows where it is. he pulls it out and presses a kiss onto it. yingxing nods. 

slowly, yingxing’s eyes fall shut. dan feng resists the urge to shake him awake. wonders if it’s too late to ask for the blessing of the abundance. holds his beloved’s body weakly until yingxing goes limp. his hand falling next to him, the jade pendant escaping his once-closed fist.

it is only then that dan feng presses yingxing’s face against his chest. his hands shaking. nothing to hold onto, just this. begging to feel breathing. when there is none, the weight in him explodes with the force of a thousand stellarons. 

he screams hoarsely. he does not hear his own voice come out.

-

in another universe, he may have been able to save yingxing. he may have had the courage—the arrogance—to challenge the laws of luofu. he would have touched the arbor, called on the plagues author’s power. he would have given anything. everything. his skin. his bones. his heart.

but that does not happen here. not now.

short-life species like yingxing do not go through reincarnation cycles the same way vidyadhara do. there is only one shot at becoming who you are—to leave your mark—and then there is nothing left. 

there is but one chance to hold the world in your hands.

in this universe, his yingxing is gone forever. he remains only in breadcrumbs of memory, scattered in pieces of things they once shared together.  in jade pendants. in bracers. in a spear. in starlight. never to come back again.

but in case…

in another universe, if there were another, where dan feng would have been able to save yingxing…

would have been able to hold onto him a little longer…

regardless of the circumstances, dan feng hopes that he would be there. that he would be waiting.

that their promise would remain unbroken. that yingxing would be able to find his way to him, over and over again.

[rokutouxei]

box dyes and goodbyes

genshin impact | G | 3827 | also on ao3 alhaitham/kaveh, kaveh character study

kaveh has always been complimented for his looks. he doesn’t really understand why.

or maybe he does, a little bit. his mother is gorgeous, after all. and that’s not just him being biased, other people have really talked about her being beautiful. he has always been told he resembles her more. that it shows in him—her soft jawline and the curve of her nose so obvious on his face.

but his father lingers there too. showing up in his eyes, his prominent cheekbones, the shape of his eyebrows. his hair.

sometimes kaveh looks at himself in the mirror and finds his father instead.

which is ridiculous, because his father has long been gone, long been dead, and he will never return no matter what kaveh sees in the mirror. nothing is left. there is nothing in the belongings put in many taped-up boxes stacked in the corner of the attic. there is nothing in the family photographs still hanging in the wall. there is nothing in the empty seat of the living room’s special armchair, once occupied, now likely never again.

nothing, just this. his father’s features on his stupid face.

kaveh curls his fists right at the very roots of his hair and sobs into the sink.

---

the week before kaveh officially enters the akademiya as part of the kshahrewar darshan, walking in his mother’s footsteps, he shows up to the students’ general orientation at the house of daena looking like someone else.

with his once-blond hair dyed into a nearly black shade of brown, it becomes hard to avoid the stares of his peers during the entire meeting. they had seen him before, after all. to have forgone the natural luster of his locks for something so… different is a surprise, to say the least. he just did not understand why it would cause quite a fuss.

“it’s just hair, guys.”

or so he says, when he was the one so bothered with it to begin with. he used up ten boxes of brown hair dye from a local shop, the contents poured into an old mixing bowl he’d found in the kitchen. he did it by himself, sitting in front of the bathroom sink, at two o’clock in the morning one night when his own guilt would not let him go to sleep.

his father is not here anymore. the feeling should go away.

(it does not.)

so kaveh tries to teach himself forgetfulness with each stroke of the brush through his immaculately blond hair. as the yellow gives in to the dark brown, kaveh thinks, goodbye. maybe this time, at least he can fool the young boy reflected in the mirror that he is his mother’s son and no one else’s. that there is no one to grieve.

so when even the roots of his hair have disappeared under the dye, kaveh thinks,

leave me alone.

not knowing if he really means it.

--

the day kaveh dyes his hair, his mother sees him leaving the bathroom while she is cooking something quietly in the kitchen. she turns her gaze to his sodden shirt and his muddy gloves, like she hasn’t noticed the change in his hair at all.

“you’ll get sick like that, kaveh,” is all she says, before turning back to the stew. “change your shirt.”

if she has anything in mind about losing the most prominent feature of her late husband left behind in her son’s appearance, she keeps it to herself.

somehow, kaveh is thankful.

to say that the death of her husband affected her thoroughly would be an understatement. all the light in her eyes disappeared when news of his death arrived at their door. kaveh still carries that last genuine smile she had given him mere minutes before the akademiya messenger had arrived.

“he’ll be back soon, kaveh,” she tells him, an attempt to soothe him. “he’ll bring you all sorts of sweets, the kind they make at the desert, just like he’d promised.”

that is the last time he gets to be little kaveh. because after that, his mother spirals into a depression so deep it is as if she will never come out of it. she haunts the rooms of their house like she is already a ghost. kaveh worries for her endlessly. he is too young to understand. but he knows he has to do something.

and so little kaveh becomes just kaveh.

cooking them dinner when his mother does not find the strength to get up off the living room chair that was once someone else’s. finishing cleaning the rest of the house when she only musters enough energy to tidy one room. checking the stock in the pantry to see what he will have to buy at the market the next time he goes out.

in fact, it is him who puts his father’s belongings in neat boxes to be stacked in a hidden corner.  

his mother cannot do it.

but he can. so he does.

kaveh was still so young then. imagine how used to this he is now.

--

kaveh loves being at the akademiya. it keeps his mind busy. he’s walking in his mother’s footsteps. he’s beginning to become someone that might be worthy of something despite everything he has gone through.

but when his classmates back out on him after a ruin cave-in incident early on in his academic career, kaveh’s resolution begins to crumble. he wants to help them. it is simply his instinct. he wants to help them achieve results. he wants to be able to have them walk side-by-side with him as they finish the project together. but there is nothing he can do about their change of heart.

i’m not any better than you, he wants to tell them. why are you walking away? aren’t we just all pathetic students trying to get a grasp on the world around us? why are you quitting now?

but they would never understand.

kaveh finishes the project alone.

miserable, but at least it is finished.

this is the same way he feels when his mother receives a job offer that would send her all the way to fontaine. his hands trembling behind his back as she paces the living room excitedly, reading out the letter that was sent to her by a budding architectural company looking to reinvent visions of fontaine. why will he ever show her his weakness? why will he ever make himself any more of a burden than he already has been, causing his father’s death?

“i’m excited for you, mom,” is what he manages to say without his voice breaking. his mother rushes to take him into a hug.

“a new chapter for us, kaveh,” she insists. cups his cheek in his hands, tucks away the strands of brown hair behind his ears. “we can start over again.”

he does not believe this until he is at the harbor, until his mother’s waving hand shrinks as the ship slowly disappears in the horizon. a new chapter to write, now that he is older. he can start over again.

and he will. alone.

--

kaveh doesn’t know it at the time, but he has a checklist in his mind of things he has to have. this is to keep his attention away from what has to be dealt with inside of him. one of those things include a distraction.

enter: alhaitham.

two years his junior and in a completely different darshan, kaveh’s intrigue over the so-called “genius of haravatat” is just the perfect mind-numbing task to keep him on his toes. it gets even better when the two of them click academically. someone who can keep up with him. with his mother off to fontaine now, the unending cavern of academic work is the best environment for kaveh to flourish.

well, as much as one can in the state he is in.

he does well academically. so stellar, in fact, that whispers of a title “light of kshahrewar” begins to echo through the walls of the akademiya. the beginnings of what he will be known for much later. it doesn’t help that despite all of that, kaveh is friendly, sociable, and good company. he becomes popular, a favorite amongst his peers and his teachers. and paired with such a genius like alhaitham just across the street in haravatat—it is as if there is little that kaveh cannot achieve at this point in his life.

but between his newfound friend and his brown hair, there is only so much running away someone can do.

--

vulnerability is not kaveh’s favorite characteristic.

he wants to be self-sufficient. he wants to be independent. with his mother away, with his father gone, it’s what he has to do. he is alone or nothing.

but alhaitham is tricky company.

people are curious about their friendship. of course they are. where kaveh is pleasant and welcoming, alhaitham is the exact opposite—surly and rather discouraging to be around. how does someone like kaveh tolerate someone like alhaitham? polar opposites, working closely together—a nearly impossible task for other researchers.

but no one knows either of them.

they do not know alhaitham and his scribbled notes scattered all over the place, those that kaveh has to learn how to put together.

no, they have no idea.

they do not know how alhaitham’s voice softens ever so imperceptibly even when he’s delivering a particularly hard blow about kaveh’s work ethic, his enchantment with danger, his tendency to overwork.

they do not know that kaveh only ever feels transparent in front of alhaitham. kaveh had grown up in a home in which words were not necessary. alhaitham understands his gesturings, his vague murmurs.

it comes to the point where only alhaitham truly knows what it means for kaveh to keep dyeing his hair brown.

no one in their peers know the mirror images of their childhood tainted with loss.

in turn, they do not know the language the two of them speak, the one they learn from each other the more they work together, the more they spend time with each other. alhaitham’s sharp tongue translating into concern. kaveh’s spite doing the same.

so when anyone asks him about them, kaveh hides his face from view, and answers with a truth with parts omitted from it.

“he’s tolerable.”

--

however, it doesn’t take long for kaveh to realize that their difference runs far deeper than personality, and that his and alhaitham’s ideals clash to such a degree that it might take more than patience to settle things between each other.

it might be impossible to make this work out.

but kaveh tries, anyway.

it’s all he’s ever done, anyway. try to run away from the crush of reality.

where kaveh insists that failures are a matter of obstacles that can prevent individuals from succeeding in their goals, alhaitham stands up for his belief that some people are simply not cut out for the labor that comes in achieving what they want. that “ordinary people” and “geniuses” can be separated and must be separated, that they do not need to force each other to coexist.

“it would be inefficient,” alhaitham will go on to say. “it will be pointless.”

it enrages kaveh.

perhaps partly because kaveh has been on that other side, too. his troubles putting him at a disadvantaged position. he knows what it is like to feel left behind. to struggle despite it all, by himself, having lost his father to death and his mother to grief.

but perhaps his anger remains partly because he knows alhaitham is right, too. as sharp as his words are, they are correct. the delivery may be blunt, but it does not take away the accuracy of the statement.

it is a true shame that at this point in time, kaveh is not yet ready to hear what his best friend is telling him. the past weighs heavily on him, unsettled in his heart.

“you’re insufferable!”  is all kaveh manages to tell alhaitham before he walks out on the argument.

not knowing that there will be another. not knowing that something is breaking between them. not knowing that the next time, it might alter the course of his life forever.

--

kaveh takes their fallout horribly.

it is one thing to be alone to begin with, but it is another to have company be taken away after having had a taste of it.

everything that follows is a trail of crumbled pieces.

kaveh graduates from the akademiya and swiftly buries himself in his work. all he allows is bouts of crying in between projects, no more than a few minutes long. how can he not, when every time he picks up his pencil to begin to sketch, he remembers his mother’s shaking hands in the months following his father’s death. her inability to draw. the effect it had left on her. the so-little he could do for her back then.  

oh, would his father have been proud of him for the only-so-much he has managed to give?

no. no talk about father.

the architect burns out from the mismatch between his clients’ desires and his work ideals. he takes a break, thinking it will calm him down. but when he returns from his vacation to find a letter from his mother, he only breaks apart again.

he hasn’t opened the letter yet and he knows it will already render him pathetic.

i have found a man i can entrust my life to, she has written, in her steady cursive. i know i have not returned to sumeru in a while. but i have heard of you, darling, all the way here. i am proud of you for who you have become.

kaveh has to pause here.

i hope you will learn how to forgive yourself of your past shortcomings, the same way i have. your father would want us to live life to our satisfaction. i hope you find happiness in front of you, like i have here.

he folds the letter back into the envelope and hides it in a drawer on his shelf.

if he was already alone then, what has he become now?

kaveh does not cry.

instead, he goes to the bathroom to splash water on his face. when he looks up, he finds a reflection of himself staring back in the mirror as if right through him. he sees the dark circles under his eyes. the dullness of his gaze.

his roots, beginning to show, blond against the dark brown.

he wants to wear it blond. he wants to show up to his mother’s wedding looking like his father. he wants to wear the memory of him proud on his body. because he hasn’t forgotten. maybe his mother has. but he hasn’t.

but kaveh inevitably dyes his hair brown again before going to attend the wedding.

--

the words of his mother echo in his mind the whole way home from fontaine.

he does not know what do with it until the palace of alcazarzaray is built, falls to the ground, and then is rebuilt again. his magnum opus—for now. the one that will make him even more renowned throughout sumeru for his talents. “the light of kshahrewar”, now set in stone.

but will he ever be enough?

forgive yourself, kaveh.

no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he succeeds, the boy never really goes away. the littler version of him with golden hair that forever sits inside his chest. the one that cries himself to sleep. asks for his father. blames himself for sending him off.

forgive yourself, kaveh.

sitting at the second floor of lambad’s tavern, which he has called home for the past two weeks after having sold his own house, kaveh asks both greater lord rukkhadevata and lesser lord kusanali—damn, even celestia—for someone that will understand his plight.

here, alhaitham spots him first.

leaning forward on the table with his forehead on his hand, kaveh’s brown hair a curtain covering his features. he would have been crying had he any tears left. but there are none anymore. so when alhaitham pulls the seat across from him before sitting down, kaveh looks up at the familiar face and snorts.

forgive yourself, kaveh.

“you, huh?”

--

the number of years apart has not dulled alhaitham’s ability to see through kaveh and tell him what he needs to hear. a mirror held up against the architect’s worst fears and insecurities, bared open by the one person who knows him the most.

but now, kaveh is ready to listen to alhaitham’s cutting truth.

finally.

where kaveh has yet to learn to forgive himself, he has forgiven alhaitham.

there is too much to process in one night, sitting in lambad’s tavern letting kaveh’s soul spill out of his mouth. there is simply too much. it will take many, many nights of the same quiet listening ear and rambling heart for things to truly quiet down for kaveh. that much alhaitham knows. a part of him weighs the pros and cons, like he usually does.

but before the computation even finishes, he knows already what his decision will be.

he doesn’t hate kaveh. the opposite, rather. it’s not that he has trouble understanding kaveh’s point of view—time has led him to learn, as well, that it was never a matter of who is right or wrong. their contradictory views will always lead them to clash. but it is in these moments of tension that growth will come out for the both of them.

kaveh knows. alhaitham knows.

they have always known each other far deeper than anyone else ever will.

so when on the walk back to his own place alhaitham lets out: “how has realizing your ideals gone for you?”

it’s because he knows kaveh needs to hear it.

--

it’s excruciating for kaveh to have to move in to alhaitham’s house. it’s even more painful when he realized this was the exact site that had been given to them by the akademiya, originally to serve as their headquarters while writing their impressive thesis.

but there is space in the bedroom for one more bed and the house is enough to fit one more person. and kaveh has little options left.

when he first settles in, kaveh and alhaitham make sure to keep their items kept distinctly separate from one another. nothing is for sharing. kaveh is fine with that—it’s just like a dormitory. in the bathroom, his tiny crate with boxes of hair dye inevitably sits next to alhaitham’s hygiene supplies.

alhaitham takes notice.

“are you planning to dye it forever?” he asks one time, passing by kaveh in the bathroom. kaveh is washing his face; alhaitham reaches for his toothbrush. the question comes out of nowhere.

“that’s none of your business,” kaveh bites back. “and you know why i dye it.”

it’s nearly invisible, but alhaitham shrugs. “simply thought you ought to grow out of it.”

for a moment, kaveh wants to argue. alhaitham just has that attitude that makes it easy to want to argue with him. but struck by how casually alhaitham had seen through him once again, kaveh instead gives himself a moment of reflection. Looks at himself in the mirror, seeing the blond peeking through once again. kaveh wipes his face with his towel and turns to alhaitham, who is waiting to use the sink.

“do you think it will be better for me?” kaveh asks, his voice weak. then, in a snap of a moment, “you know what, never mind.”

he sees what he needs in alhaitham’s steady gaze.

so when he returns home and his roommate-slash-landlord is not home yet, kaveh goes into the bathroom and puts the crate of hair dye underneath the sink.

then, after years and years, does not touch them again.

--

alhaitham knows how intently kaveh holds onto his noble ideals as a guiding force in his life. when he dares speak a word on it, it is never to judge kaveh for his own decisions and actions—it is merely a statement born of his own observation. they are older now. wiser, he likes to think. men who have long shed the arrogance of youth.

where they clash, there is only the intent of protection.

which is why he thinks so little of the moving in, the house, the rent, and even kaveh’s public secret. where kaveh frets and worries, alhaitham fears nothing. what does he have to prove to kaveh now? and, much less importantly, what does he have to prove to everyone else who will dare point a finger or even give a critical look in their direction?

alhaitham has a set of rules he likes to follow. a direction, a position to take. and at this moment, he knows he simply must speak by his actions.

if there is anything he’s learned from kaveh, it will be this.

so when the interdarshan championship rolls in one year and kaveh is (inevitably, perhaps) elected to be the representative for kshahrewar, alhaitham steps up. he has an inkling about the diadem. he just needs to pursue it. not because he feels an obligation to do so, not because he wants to step into concerns that aren’t his—but because he wants to.

he calls it curiosity. he knows it is something else.

and when the dust has finally settled, when the paperwork is finished, when the research documents have been filed away by lesser lord kusanali, alhaitham comes home.

lofty ideals may provide no defense at all against nihilism, but perhaps little decisions can.

there is food waiting at the dinner table. still warm in its packaging from lambad. across the hall, he finds the door the bedroom with the door ajar. alhaitham is drawn toward the door, where he finds kaveh sitting on his bed, staring at his hands.

alhaitham leans against the doorway, waiting to see if kaveh will speak.

“if you’re here to berate me about not making a rational choice about sachin’s properties, please save me the pleasure.”

“i’ve said my share. there is no use repeating it.”

kaveh looks up to face alhaitham. his eyes are glassy, just as alhaitham had expected them to be. “then what the hell are you doing here?”

the scribe enters the room, and the architect does not stop him. does not even make a sound when alhaitham sits next to him on the bed. throughout all this, alhaitham juggles in his mind the right words to tell kaveh. he wants it to reach him, not just bounce around the walls.

in a moment of weakness for the both of them, alhaitham reaches up to twirl a lock of kaveh’s hair with his fingers. kaveh does not flinch. alhaitham lets the curl drop back against kaveh’s shoulder before speaking:

“this suits you better.”

forgive yourself, kaveh.

alhaitham does not see it. but he knows, kaveh is smiling.

[rokutouxei]

the sheer emptiness of the skies

genshin impact | G | 3862 | also on ao3 scaramouche/wanderer birthday fic!

nameless puppet

when he awakes from his slumber, he is sure of two things and two things alone–one, that he is a puppet; and two, that whatever he was made for no longer matters, for he has already been cast aside. 

it is not until he is found–or in this case, is it “met”?–by other people that he gains any semblance of an identity. not even bestowed with a name for himself. like a sheet of paper left blank, with no brush to write on it with.

he tries his hardest to hold onto everything he can touch; grasps them for dear life. but there is nothing in this world that seems to stay for him who is ever-drifting. things only pass after a while. and for such short whiles, too.

not long enough to give a proper goodbye.

yet he tries.

he meets the world with kindness and joy. speaks in a polite, hushed voice as he asks for assistance from strangers, particularly during dangerous weather. welcomes every kind gesture, tries to return it the best he can, like he keeps his debts in a ledger. he stops to smell the flowers. pauses to savor the food he is served–especially because he doesn’t even need it. every tiny thing is a little miracle he holds with open hands.

he meets the world with anger and sadness. grieves whenever he finds a wild animal surrendering to nature’s forces out in the wild. watches young children play amongst themselves in villages he very politely intrudes into to pass the night, wonders, if he were human would he have been given the chance to be free like that as well? 

he wanders the world with curiousity, constantly asking, what does it mean to be human? what does it mean to be a puppet? what does it mean to be alive? 

and for all that, he still is empty. every experience like tea poured through a broken cup.

was he simply eternally doomed to wander freely, with no destination in sight? seeking the pleasures of what it means to be a human, longing for what he can never become?

staring at the sky hollowly, like a bird without wings.

-

kabukimono

they call him “the wandering eccentric”, a puppet with no master. on him, he only has the golden feather of the raiden shogun to give him any identity. even so, it means so little. he does not go by any name. if he has any desires and goals, he keeps them secret. he keeps to himself. and any questions about his past are answered in the same, unchanging way–

“i was forsaken, i am a failure, and thus i have been abandoned.”

so when the ragtag group in tatarasuna takes him in, he is nothing short of… astonished.

as a puppet, he knows no skills. there was no need to teach him anything before he was left at the shakkei pavilion. nothing, just a child in a young man’s body. 

but their patience with him is endless. they teach him everything that he would need to be independent–to be able to stand on his own feet. to cook, to dress. to tend to greenery, to wield a blade. to fold clothes, to tend to wounds. they give him clothing and food, even if he insists it is unnecessary. they give him shelter. they give him a name: kabukimono. they pay him attention.

affection, concern.

family.

but there are still nights when he cannot sleep, haunted by his mind. once, he comes out of the small cabin nestled amongst the tatarasuna cliffs to stare at the unchanging moon–and he finds himself with company. niwa, resting atop the cabin’s roof, as if to get a better view of the sky. the eccentric climbs up the roof to join him, and they sit side by side, lost in their thoughts.

the mikage furnace sits half-built in front of them, all glowing might as it is. the fontaine engineer had promised wonders with it, glinting crystal marrow in his hands. a grand project for the swordsmiths of inazuma. 

something with purpose, something with meaning.

much unlike him.

and with this train of thought, kabukimono breaks their shared silence, curling himself into a ball. “i do not understand it,” he says, to no one in particular; niwa is but an accidental listener.

yet the man lets himself intrude. “ask me, maybe i can help you.”

“why do you do all of this for me?” kabukimono mumbles. “i am no one. a puppet. what do i do with all your kindness, if i have nowhere to go, no purpose to fulfill?”

“you hold it,” niwa says simply. like the answer is that simple to begin with. “Sometimes it is enough reason for existence to grant other people kindness. and so kindness we gave you.”

“but i am no human,” kabukimono insists. “you need not be concerned over me. i don’t even have a heart.”

for a moment, niwa does not reply. he looks down from the moon and onto his bare hands, the hands he uses to wield his weapons, to smith his blades, to guide the creation of the furnace. and then he turns to kabukimono like he has all the answers in the world.

“being created, puppet joints, your missing ‘heart’…” niwa muses, “none of those really change my mind: you’re a human as far as i’m concerned.”

in that, niwa says: i see your pain, i see your joy, your sorrow, your efforts, your hopes and dreams. 

the rest remains unsaid, but kabukimono learns a lot about what it means to be human that day. for the rest of the night, he reflects upon the “kindness” he has been granted. they shine golden like glimmering stars in his mind. he still has much to comprehend, young as he is, but under tatarasuna’s night sky, he is here, and it is a start.

so many months later, once he has returned yet again a failure at the face of the shogun, turned down at the door, he holds niwa’s words to heart. 

when the furnace has killed too many, and their dreams must be shut down, he holds niwa’s words to heart.

when he is told that niwa has left, abandoned them all, he holds the man’s words still to heart.

there must be a reason, right? niwa is only human. all fragile hearts and bones in the face of despair. maybe if kabukimono tries hard enough he will be the same. just like niwa had always believed. like he had always wanted to be.

it is only when the impressionable not-quite-human rushes out of mikage with the disembodied heart of a gift, a present from the man he has looked up to all this time, that kabukimono turns his back on them all and thinks to himself…

cruel, cruel – you’re no human, you never have been.

-

kunikuzushi

the betrayal of the bladesmith is the betrayal of all bladesmiths.

forsaking cursed lands to hide under the skirt of their beloved shogun, who turns her guiltless eyes away from the cruelty occurring in her own territory. oh, cruelty he knows all too well. it’s as if nothing wrong is going on. all they care about is their art, their swords. what about those that cannot bear their own arms? what about those who carry baskets of fruit instead of blades? what about those who do not want to fight to survive? who only want to live peaceful lives?

isn’t it just right that all the traitors receive no less than their rightful punishment?

he will gladly wield the blade of justice.

no inazuman bladesmith shall escape his revenge.

and so he goes through the inazuman lands smiting the unworthy as he goes. he has all the time in the world to do so–he can and will dedicate his entire self to this mission. his target is simple: to bring the raiden gokaden down to where they ought to be–on their knees, in hell. he crosses the country swift and merciless. dons his armor, wields his blade, calls himself the destroyer of nations.

this nation is corrupt and broken and cold-hearted. it may as well just burn down to the ground.

the retainers of the five clans know no better. there is only whispering of a plot, a forgery, a frame-up. all sorts of reasons are given for the happenings; a series of murders or presumed accidental deaths with only cold trails in sight. 

kunikuzushi works relentlessly, day and night. 

not even the rumors can keep up with him. they cannot catch him, not by strategy or even by mouth. the only thing the people know for sure is that the fall of the raiden gokaden is imminent like this–and it is a loss inazuma will bear for centuries.

it may as well.

later, many people write the tale of it in history books, scrambling for facts as they are. (by this time, kunikuzushi has long left the nation, not even a faint shadow of him visible in the shogun’s accursed lands. he has done this part in this act of his life, and celestia forbid he’d have to return to inazuma with fresh reasons to destroy it.) for years, many researchers, scholars, and historians gather to piece together the stories of what he has left behind.

but they all know no better.

there is no place in history books for the sorrow of a heartless imitation of a human. never shall it be written that on those nights when an inconsolable puppet ravaged the islands of inazuma with blood on his blade, he was trying to find a semblance of a reason to forgive it.

only to find nothing.

no one besides him will ever know, that during those turbulent years, deep in his heart, he dreamt of a child younger than noon, the one that imagined futures beyond the crumbling tatarasuna.

and no one besides him will ever know that when kunikuzushi cried in his sleep, he promised: little boy, i will burn this entire nation down for you.

 -

balladeer

time falls to a standstill the moment the mechanical god falls to its knees.

he blames himself. and then he blames the traveler. and then he blames the god of wisdom. and then he blames dottore. and then, like a sick cycle, he blames himself again.

he never learns.

“humans…” he seethes, curling his fists into tight balls, enough that his fingernails dig against his skin, forming tiny crescents. “filthy humans…”

why had he ever wanted to be human when humans are like this?

they’re selfish and self-centered, egotistical liars whose only concern is themselves. the boy who promised him family and then left him anyway. the doctor who only saw him as a tool for his experimentation. the man he thought he could trust, who picked him up when he was no one, and then left, leaving him, once again, to be no one. 

he had thought becoming a god would free him from the shackles of all the agony that has passed, but why has it only gotten worse? 

why is he now god and still the same? a simple shattered thing?

it is only when the god of wisdom rises from the ground that the balladeer is shaken out of his self-deprecating reverie–to feel the sudden pain in his chest.

the gnosis.

“no…wait!”

this can’t be real, can it? for a moment, he considers turning sides all at once if that is what it means to keep the gnosis to himself. perhaps the god of wisdom would find the kindness in her heart to let him have this, at least. perhaps the traveler would understand what it means, to find once more a most important lost part of you, only for it to be taken away after they’d almost had it. 

“please!”

it’s all too familiar pain. the hollowness–or rather, the dread of it, as buer reaches her hand out to the core of the machine. the casing fractures open, the glow of the gnosis electro-purple as the green of her dendro energy encloses around it. he can almost feel its grip. the balladeer wonders if this, too, would have been what it was like, when his mother took away his sole purpose from him.

no wonder he had cried.

“anything but the gnosis!”

begging, shamefully, like a child. how can you blame him when he’s spent hundreds of years longing? enduring all that pain and suffering and waiting, only for him to remain helpless as he is unburdened of his heart. no! he begs. please, let me carry the weight of having it. he had never felt as much joy and as much sorrow as the moment the miko had handed the gnosis over to him. on one hand–at long last, the one thing he’s always wanted. on the other–why did it not fill him with complete satisfaction, why is he still lonely, why does it still feel so empty?

“that’s mine! i won’t give it to you!”

everything the balladeer has held has slipped from between his fingers like sand or water. he remains hungry for something to stay. and fuck, it doesn’t even have to be someone, it’s alright if it’s only this–just the gnosis–and he can bear to be alone for the rest of his eternity. the fatui can cut ties with him and he won’t care. he can wander the world on his own never finding shelter and he won’t care. he would let himself get manipulated, puppeted by someone else, never having control, and he won’t care.

just let him have what’s his. humans and gods alike be damned. he doesn’t care. he is whole now–and he wants to remain like this. the gnosis was always meant to be his.

so why…?

what does it mean to have a heart, he asks no one in particular, watching helplessly as he tugs against his cords. the god of wisdom reaches out to rid him of the one thing that he thinks makes him who he is. the one thing he believes in. what does it mean to have no heart at all, but experience all this misery anyway? to suffer purposelessly, only hatred and bitterness in his empty machinery.

“i’ll never go back to–!”

he reaches out his hands until the cords snap, freeing him from his godhood.

-

the host to a gnosis

in the space between loss and grief, the shadow of someone else begins to make a puppet. 

inazuma is quiet now, after the chaos that was the fall of a nation that was not quite one of their own. the disaster left them as a passing storm would. inazuma, desperate to hear the words of their god, knocks on her door.

words she has borrowed from an imagined version of her lost sister come out of her mouth; then she shuts the doors to tenshukaku once again, and inazuma falls silent.

in the solitude of her castle–no, not hers, this was “ hers ”–ei sets aside her sword for other tools. carves a face out of clay, nearly a mirror of her own. only it isn’t. a weak replica of someone else, someone a puppet can never replace.

but ei can try, and so she will. 

“i was never meant to be the electro archon.” she says, as she holds the pieces together in her arms. limp and insentient, the puppet does not respond to her gentle touch; the brush of her hand against its cheek, her fingers in its long violet hair. oh, how much it would resemble her, once ei has dressed the puppet up. donned on its elaborate kimono, placed the fan in its hair.

and then she can put the gnosis in the gap in its chest, the place where it has always ought to be.

so she does.

gathers all the energy she has in her spirit, convinces the sleeping puppet it is living. and there, lying quietly on the rolled-out futon, the puppet receives the gnosis without a word, tucking it safe in its chest.

it is quiet. and ei’s breath hangs in the air in anticipation. 

only for the puppet to begin to shed tears.

(for a moment, ei considers it a success, if ironically. that this is exactly what makoto would have done, had she seen her like this: picking up broken pieces trying to assemble into what her sister should have been. makoto would not have found her pathetic; rather, she would have found her pitiful, and cried as she held ei in her arms.)

(but makoto is no longer here, so there is no one else to cry for her.)

(except this puppet.)

(crying, hollowly, in its sleep, no more alive than her sister is.)

after a forever of a moment, ei places her forehead against the puppet’s. places a hand over its chest, where the gnosis is. she takes it away, together with the pain it has brought the pitiful doll. 

and then she picks up her sword (the only thing she’s only ever been sure of, other than her sister), lifts the puppet from its prone position, and chops off most of its hair in one strike. the deep blue-purple strands fall into a heap on the tatami mats. 

“goodbye,” ei says, the puppet now someone else. no longer makoto.

later, she tucks him into the spiraling halls of the shakkei pavilion. “i set you free,” ei says solemnly to her creation. she places her hand over the unconscious puppet’s eyes, assuring they are closed. “i set you free, for eternity.”

-

he who is

the irminsul works in ways that go beyond human and even divine understanding and intervention. so when he disappears from the memory of everyone who has ever known him, and yet remains so strikingly at fault for everything that has been done, he takes it as nothing less than the appropriate punishment from the all-knowing tree.

in the quiet downtime of his recovery from the god creation plan, he sits next to the god of wisdom seeking not advice but simple company. not that she ever leaves him alone for too long–in fact, perhaps she might be more invested in his interests than she ought to be. 

he’d scold her for it but for some reason unknown to him he refrains from doing so.

he is given the freedom to wander around the city –just the city, for now , she said–and he makes the most of this every day, as his body (and spirit) slowly recuperates from all that has happened. he did live an entire lifetime in a moment on that day, and there is much to be processed that can’t be dealt with all at once.

and like always, he has all the time in the world. 

while the rest of sumeru moves on from the chaos, he wanders down the city as if looking for something, except the something is deep inside himself. and in the span of many months of gentle speech from nahida, watching the shows at the grand bazaar, eyeing the products for sale down treasures street, enjoying a cup of bitter tea at one of the many cafes…

he begins to grieve and forgive.

himself, for having been so fallible and naive. the younger version of himself who lived and seethed deeply in its anger and spite, seeing no good in this world, seeing no good in himself. the much younger version of himself who knew no better of the world and trusted it with open arms, who has brought him much joy but also much sorrow. the much, much younger version of himself who was not enough.

he forgives himself.

he grieves.

for what he could’ve been but no longer can be. 

for the little boy who knew no better and had little chance of survival anyway, considering everything that had happened in the world around him. he had little control over the circumstances, and there is no reason to blame him for things he did not purposefully do. 

for niwa, who believed in him and the rest of tatarasuna so much that he sacrificed himself for the cause. whose image was twisted and destroyed only for manipulations’ sake; a battle casualty that should not have been in the playing field to begin with.

for his mother, who had only wanted to protect inazuma, who had lost everything she held in her hands the same way he did. they are the same; mirrors of each other, staring at each other through the glass, the reflection of a tear sliding down their similar cheeks. 

(had they met face to face, had she remembered him, had he fallen down to his knees and asked, why, why, why did you do this to me? –would she have been able to give him an answer that would have sufficed?)

now, she will never remember him, and perhaps it is better this way. he will hold her mourning in his heart–he will bear the burden of remembering the reason for which he was born.

this is what it means to have a heart, he tells himself, sitting atop the tree crowning the sanctuary of surasthana, feeling everything pouring out of his chest. empty as he considers it is, something in it still seems to be beating, calling.

from here on out, he does not have an inkling of what there is to do next–other than hunt the doctor, who has to be held accountable for his many sins. (kunikuzushi’s fangs live on like this, and he does not mind–it is part of who he is.) the most he has done is asked for himself a name–which the traveler had gracefully granted, their eyes meeting in that moment of utmost vulnerability.

as if the traveler knew he was saying thank you, without even having said a word. 

there is so much he has lost and yet–so much more he stands to reach. 

once, when he had only lately retrieved his memories, lesser lord kusanali asked him, when you’d finally achieved the ambition you thought you’d been pursuing all along, were you content at last, or emptier still? at that time, he had taken her words with much bitterness, responding to it with spite, with poison, with teeth. 

but now, he has learned to let that part of him free. to exist in his strong heart, in his spirit, to come out when they need to, to be welcomed in his arms with full acceptance and accountability.

we only yearn for the skies because we cannot fly, nahida told him. what do you think of that?

at first, he had nothing to say about it. but as steadiness returns to him and he is allowed to wander the wide, wide world, he gains the answers he is looking for. and so, holding the sheer emptiness of the skies in his hands, he looks heavenward and answers nahida in his head–

no fear, now. i have grown wings.

[kaymarie-bell]

Dedicating my first BSD drawing to Cee ( @nkhrchuwuya | @rokutouxei ) because they deserve it, as a treat 💖

Please do not repost ‼️🌻

[rokutouxei]

happy new year guys~

just a quick life update (after uh.. *checks watch* ten thousand years)

i'm currently full-time employed now (!!) in a job that involves a lot of creative writing, which means I have less time and energy to write fanfic, which is the only excuse I have for the radio silence lately

HOWEVER! I am working on at least two full-fledged fics right now (for bungou stray dogs) which could each go anywhere from 5k-15k depending on how stubborn they'll be, so expect that in the near future!

I'm trying to be dedicated to chipping away at least one of my WIPS per month this year (total 12 fics), and they'll be in a variety of fandoms!

what i'm up to, though, is this: i've started the blog @nkhrchuwuya to house little drabbles i'll be writing every day to keep practicing writing (and keep my muscles working) so if you want to read me simping for a comfort character and exploring love and romance, i'll likely be there!

i'm not sure when exactly i hit 300+, but I want to thank all of you guys for your continuing support all this time! 💖 you guys are the best

love, cee.

[rokutouxei]

a solitary walk

genshin impact | G | 2478 | [ ao3 ]  side hu tao/xiao | hu tao birthday fic!

every year, hu tao lives her life the way she believes it ought to be lived—loud and outright. even if reincarnation was real, and that one day we might die and then return to the earth once again, we will only ever be living this very life once. only once in these special circumstances, with these people, in this environment. it’s not because she fears death—no, it’s exactly because she knows death will come to her in the end that she lives like this.

lives treating the stone lions like they were actual cats.

lives climbing up the treacherous cliffs of huaguang stone forest to write poetry.

lives spooking others, walking late at night along wuwang hill.

hu tao knows death like the back of her hand, which is why life means so much to her. why she lives so much of it.

there is only one year a day when the anxiety is stronger than usual. when hu tao feels like living through these ideals is simply not enough. when she begins to doubt her place among the living, when no funeral pyre of inner demons can clear her head. on this day, on her birthday, it’s the long journey taking her from liyue harbor to the solitary mountains of liyue that truly takes out the storm in her heart, heavy and pounding.

when she can be between the pages of herself, among the voices of people she hopes love her.

  -

   “going out today, director hu?”

zhongli is, as he usually is at this hour, promptly sitting in the study of the wangsheng funeral parlor, likely just having finished some morning lecture to the undertakers. hu tao hums, whizzing around him as she peers at what book he’s holding. a history on rex lapis.

“no business today, maybe we need to rework our advertising strategy,” she says, straightening her back. “with you here, i get free time to take a walk and think of better marketing tricks.”

“please don’t use me as an excuse to skip work.”

“aiya, what do you think of me? that’s not what i’m doing,” she pouts. then, she points at the book in his hands. “what were you reading?”

“the undertakers were interested in something i said about the themes of death in liyue’s history, and i was merely reviewing my history,” zhongli answers, strangely more somber than usual. “it is mortal to fear death, but it is to go beyond what it means to be mortal to try to comprehend death as greater than something to be afraid of. as with rex lapis, who surely has witnessed a great many losses in his long lifespan.”

“what do you think the divine feel about death, zhongli?” hu tao asks, hands behind her back, looking up at the mysterious man who always seem to know more than he let on. “do you think it still means anything to them, when they live across so much time and space?”

“i think, director hu,” zhongli says, “that every death can still leave its mark. the archons were mortal once, after all. to not fear death does not mean to not honor its rightful weight.”

“hmmm,” hu tao nods, deep in thought. “you may be right.” then, a clock down the hall begins to toll, and she is shaken out of her reverie. “aiya, what time is it! i have to go, thank you for entertaining my question. i’ll see you tomorrow!”

hu tao is just about out of the door when he speaks again.

“director hu?”

she blinks. “yes, mister zhongli?”

he gives a smile that feels like it bears too much memory. “happy birthday.”

hu tao only beams at him, and then hops out of the door.

   -

   hu tao still remembers the disdainful stares of some of the older, more conservative people of liyue once the kids caught up to her little “hilichurl song.” something about little children chanting about death and murder in such a joyful manner did not sit right with several of the elders. this reflected poorly on hu tao, but—

did it matter?

the kids were—are—having fun, the song is catchy and she wouldn’t be conceited to say that everyone in liyue knows it at this point…

she remembers the little boy who had run up to her, who had returned fresh from a funeral rite up in wangsheng, holding her still-ashen hand saying, “you’re the big sis with the hilichurl song! teach me! teach it to me big sis!”

she remembers being that young.

she doesn’t quite feel like being this old.

the least she can do is immortalize its transcience; she’d write all the poems on death for the living if she had to.

   -

   she encounters xingqiu, who has obviously just come from his daily perusal of wanwen bookhouse, two books under his arm and another clasped between his fingers. she comes up right up before him and goes—

“xingqiu!”

he doesn’t even flinch, long used to hu tao’s little antics. he finishes reading the paragraph he is on before putting the book down, smiling at her.

“well, what is my liege doing this fine day?”

“oh, i’m off to take an adventurous little walk! what are you up to today, young master?”

the honorifics turned pet names were special little sparkles in their conversation. it had become so normal between them they no longer think about it, but the others who overhear are a little more curious.

“to put a little spice into the lives of a young exorcist and an aspiring cook, would you like to join me?”

were it any other day, hu tao would have said yes. there was nothing quite like getting off work early and messing around with chongyun and xiangling, mixing up the ingredients, activating excess yang energy. but today was not that kind of day, so she shakes her head and gives a little smile at her friend instead.

“not today, unfortunately. but soon, for sure!”

xingqiu nods. but before he leaves, he pulls out a bookmark of pressed silk flowers from behind his back, and hands it to her.

“taken fresh from the wilderness.”

“you mean yujing terrace?”

“where i got it is of no matter—” xingqiu says, stifling a laugh, “but instead what message it brings. may you find good company on this special day of yours, my liege.”

hu tao smiles, the kind that reaches her eyes, the one that so few people see, and then pushes xingqiu lightly down the road toward wanmin.

“go cause trouble!”

    -

  the first half of the journey is a lot less tricky. at a certain hour every day, without fail, there are wagons that begin their trip from liyue to mondstadt. hu tao usually hitches a ride on one of these all the way to wangshu inn, where she stops for lunch.

wangshu inn has become such a common culprit to their little meetings that no one gets surprised to see her anymore, smiling and waving at everyone all the way upstairs to the top floor. (sometimes she even passes by the kitchen for some almond tofu, but, ah, yanxiao doesn’t really want her using the kitchen, if for the sake of the food she makes.)

today, when she gets there, she finds aether and paimon sitting at the tables at the very bottom, waiting for their meals to be served.

“hu taaaaooooo!” paimon calls and waves, to which she waves in response, hopping up the stairs to get to them.

“if it isn’t the mighty traveler and paimon! my offer for a discount coupon for accidents is still available, if you’ve changed your mind!”

aether ignores the joke entirely—wisely—and asks, “not staying at the parlor today?”

“aiya, does that seem like such a strange occurence? is it wrong for the director of a funeral parlor to catch a break?”

“...from offering discount coupons for parlors?” paimon turns to aether. “and why so far out here of all places?”

the traveler knows. “we haven’t seen him today.”

“do not fret! the ever omniscient hu tao knows exactly where he will be,” she teases. “can i join you for lunch?”

"wait!" paimon whines. "who's he?"

hu tao orders nothing festive, just some plain snapdragon salad and some fish, but verr goldet hand-delivers a little assorted tray of desserts anyway—red bean soup, mango pudding, custard—all on a celebratory looking plate. she whispers to hu tao: “from the young gentleman.”

and aether’s eyes go wide as plates in realization, but before he can say anything, hu tao hushes him with a finger, not wanting paimon to make a big deal out of it. the traveler only chuckles, paimon neck-deep into a bowl of noodles, and mouths happy birthday while facing the director.

once lunch is over, they talk a little until their stomachs settle with the food, but then they are on each other’s ways. aether and paimon, headed up to mingyun to clear out a camp of hilichurls that have been causing trouble, as commissioned by the guild. hu tao, to qingyun peak, where the clouds can brush over her cheeks.

“are you gonna walk all the way there?”

“oh, it’ll take me just a few hours. i’ll get on any patrolling millelith carts if there are any. i’ll be fine. thank you, traveler!”

“take care, hu tao!” aether calls out. “and send my regards!”

   -

   “i knew i would find you here,” hu tao says, as she lands ever so gracefully on one of huaguang stone forest’s highest peaks. xiao sits there, cross-legged, with his eyes closed. the exhaustion from the journey sinks into her bones as soon as she sees him, as if knowing she will find rest in him—perhaps the same way the sun has sunk dark blue into the horizon.

“i’m here because i knew you’d be here,” he retorts. not even turning to face her. hu tao sinks wordlessly next to him, her hand on his lap.

she loves the way they fit together like this, two puzzle pieces magnetized to each other.

“thank you for the desserts.”

he places his hand over hers and squeezes.

xiao has never been the type for comforting words. the best he can offer is his understanding silence, the kind that makes hu tao know he can comprehend what is going on in her little, mortal mind--even when she herself is not sure where exactly her thoughts are taking her.

“i wanted to bring you almond tofu, but it would have melted on the way here.”

“you don’t need to worry about me.”

you know i’ll worry about you anyway.

worry about yourself.

i already do, why else do you think i’m here but for rescue?

here in huaguang, the breeze silences everything in her mind that speaks, so that all that remains is this: just her, just xiao, just liyue’s star-dotted night sky.

just good company.

no dead, no ghosts, no demons. just them.

they stay there until time seems like it stops existing.

the thing about xiao and hu tao’s relationship is that somehow they always find each other perfectly as one needs the other. it has always been like that from the beginning. from the very first time hu tao had gotten herself lost around mt. aocang, cornered by a family of geovishaps hell-bent on getting her for disturbing their nap; to when hu tao had found xiao slumped against a tree, bloodied with his mask on his face and near unable to breathe, her presence and stupid humor like exorcising the demons clinging onto him;

they find each other always, as if sensing death on the other, and they come to the rescue.

without even needing to call out each other’s names.

hu tao, leaning against him like deadweight, turns her hand around so they can interlock their fingers together. xiao does so wordlessly, and hu tao memorizes the warmth of him against her skin.

keeps it in the back of her mind for when he isn’t around.

they speak without speaking, passing each other the same old questions like they always do.

what if i die today?

you’re not dying today, hu tao.

what if i die tomorrow?

you’re not dying tomorrow, xiao.

who will take care of you when i am gone?

who will remember huaguang like these, starry nights with our hands clasped together?

who will i come to when i’m in need of aid, when i need someone who sees death as i do?

don’t go, it’s too early to do so.

hu tao only voices out one of many, many thoughts passed between their intertwined hands, when she says, “when death finally comes for me, thousands and thousands of years before yours, adeptus xiao…”

xiao hums.

“remember me?”

he scoffs just the littlest bit and hu tao knows he means always. “rest,” he says, as xiao turns and presses a kiss on the side of her face, tucking a pair of qingxin flowers with braided stalks behind her ear. one he’d made before she’d arrived, prepared to find her in this state.

“for sweet dreams,” he promises.

    -

  while in his arms hu tao dreams of her grandfather.

she is watching her young, 13 year old self host her grandfather’s funeral, incredibly young and small and out of place in the grandeur. her yéyé liked grandeur, and it was hu tao’s mission that day to make sure that everything about his grand goodbye went the way it was planned.

it was hard.

she was calm, and composed, and so unlike the hu tao the rest of liyue knew that day. she was solemn during the entire ceremony, not a twinge of a smile or a frown on her face, just calm and detached like it wasn’t her grandfather she was preparing to set off. like his hat wasn’t sitting on her desk at home drenched in her tears.

the present, older hu tao looks on to spot the little signs of breaking left unnoticed by everyone else, like the little ticks at the corner of her mouth, her hypercontrolled breathing, the way she squeezes the staff she’s inherited specifically for this day, under her grandfather’s request.

and while the younger hu tao does not catch him, the older hu tao spots her grandfather among the trees, standing there with his hat still on, in his usual garb, the kind that reminds her of chanting poetry in the afternoon and—

—he smiles.

at younger hu tao, then, eventually, at her, older, smarter, more mature hu tao, as if saying:

thank you.

you’ve done so well.

before he disappears into a fog of light.

hu tao does not feel the need to follow.

   -

   hu tao wakes up in her room in wangsheng funeral parlor smiling, feeling the clouds still on her face, qingxin still in her hair.

[rokutouxei]

parts of him

genshin impact | T | [ao3] kaeya alberich | introspection fic

Kaeya’s entire existence has always been bits and pieces of things he thought he ought to be. Khaenri’ahn in a world where his nation has been obliterated. A prince where the throne has long been lost. A son with a mission to bear, when even his father had gotten lost into memory.

   It is in the hallways of Dawn Winery that he learned how to be whole. How to patch himself up from pieces of things that offered themselves to him. The way sweet fresh juice served with ice hit different in the middle of sunny summer afternoons. Memorizing the maze that is the vineyards outside of their house. Making opponents out of little cryo slimes who had nothing against sword and claymore. Clambering up the houses, racing up the trees. DIluc always wins in hide-and-seek, but Kaeya always wins at tag.

    These were parts of him now, were they not? Is a patchwork of many little things not a big thing when held up?

    Is that not part of him, Crepus dying in Diluc’s arms, his blood staining the dirt road? Is that not part of him, their argument out in the rain, his vision exploding in the air in front of them, a cruel assertion by the gods of his own arrogance?

 Is that not part of him, the little bits of his heart he trails down the road to Mondstadt on the day he moved out from Dawn Winery for good?

 Is that not part of him, losing and losing everything given to him no matter how hard he holds on to them?

   Traitor to Khaenri’ah, traitor to Mondstadt, broken goods like a piecemeal human not knowing where to go. He wish he had Diluc’s courage, to wander out into the world and find himself and come back. But Kaeya does not know who he is, does not know where he is going. Kaeya might go out there and he might just not return anymore.

And that scares him.

   Which is why he regularly finds himself in Angel’s Share, downing one glass after another until he’s too drunk to stand, much less to get back home and—

   One time when he was sober enough, he saw Diluc. And Diluc sighed at him like he was his older brother again and—

  In his head he returns to Dawn Winery, to the things in his head he’s labeled “Kaeya” like the scratch on the second floor’s wall from when he’d tumbled with a glass of alcohol in his hand when he was way too young for it, like the crystalflies glittering in the night sky when he can’t go to bed and he stays up late on the mansion rooftop, like the persistent sound of the waterfall and the river they’ve spent so many afternoons spelunking in—

He’s drunk, and floating, and in a million shattered taped-up pieces of who he thinks he ought to be, but—

    For the briefest of moments, Kaeya feels whole again.

[rokutouxei]

hiding hunger

ikemen vampire | E | 6198 le comte de saint-germain / OC 

Seiya has always kept her feelings for Comte under wraps, but what happens when something lets it slip? Will it finally awaken what has been hiding in Comte's heart for the longest time?

-

When Seiya realizes that her most treasured bound leather notebook is in Arthur’s hands, her instinct is to lunge at him. What she doesn’t expect is that he would drop it.

Her heart falls to the ground as quickly as her notebook does; the loose sheets of paper littered extensively with little notes about and drawings of no one else but him, of course, Le Comte de Saint-Germain, fly out into the air.

To fall like paper snow onto the waiting garden, where said Comte is taking his afternoon tea.

“Arthur!” is the most of a reprimand she manages to shriek out before she’s running off to the stairs to pick up what’s left of her dignity scattered on the garden grounds.

-

By the time she gets there, Sebastian has picked up a considerable amount of her loose drawings, both to her relief and embarrassment. She scrambles to gather what else is there, her face heating up with every page she lifts. Comte, reading in the study. Comte, addressing the residents at a dinner party. Comte, in the more formal clothes he wears for events. Comte, Comte, Comte.

All her wandering thoughts about him, strewn across the grass like confetti.

Arthur arrives soon after, to reach out an arm to help. She frowns at him deeply, the corners of her eyes shiny with tears.

“Now, now, no need to be so up—”

“This is your fault,” Seiya whispers lowly, trying her best so that Comte does not hear her. The tone in her voice makes Arthur stand back up, hand scratching the back of his neck.

She doesn’t know what to do. Her little crush on le Comte wasn’t exactly a secret—but it sort of was. To Comte, at least. Her closest friends had an inkling, but Vincent and Isaac weren’t exactly the type that pried. She’s sure Sebastian knows just because he’s Sebastian. And the more observant ones like Arthur and Theo definitely would have known too.

And Maybe Comte, too, but—there’s nothing like confirming a rumor, confessing a crime, with a gallery’s worth of art stumbling out of a window, right?

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to say it: keeping it a secret was just the least she could do to quiet her heart.

Leonardo is one of her closest companions. He has also been with Saint-Germain longer than anyone else in the mansion. So when Leonardo told her not to keep her hopes up about Comte, she said, “okay.”

And at this point, she’s mastered the art of keeping her feelings bottled tightly in her heart. She pours it out only in the scribbles of her pen.

And now it was here, laid bare in front of Saint-Germain’s eyes.

She holds back the sniffle as she gets up from her knees. Sebastian approaches her while she’s dusting her skirt, a sheaf of her drawings in hand. Her heart rises to her throat once she notices that the Comte is, in fact, watching her.

She has only the briefest of moments to speak before her voice goes away altogether. With a nod to Sebastian in thanks, she says, “Sorry for interrupting your tea time, Comte,” bowing lowly in regret before turning away again, heading off to the mansion sadly, Arthur following close behind.

-

Comte watches her without a word as she makes her escape back to the mansion. He had wanted to help, rising from his chair to pick up some of the illustrations, but he was sent back down by Sebastian. The butler said he should leave the menial task to him. That was rather true, by etiquette, but in consideration of the contents of the drawings, Comte knew better.

He knows Seiya is an artist. She spends a lot of her free time drawing quietly in nooks and crannies she finds comfortable to work in. Sometimes she joins Vincent out when he paints. Sometimes she accompanies Napoleon and Isaac when they go to teach the kids, so she can sketch and draw out in the city with company. She had even shown him some of her illustrations in the past—but only with a little nagging from Leonardo.

…Ah, yes, Leonardo.

Seiya and Leonardo have a peculiar relationship, one that Comte has always thought was akin to lovers. When she first arrived at the mansion, Comte had asked his old friend if he could leave Seiya in his care. There were complaints—as he expected—but Leonardo took up the favor in time. It has been months since then, and she and Leonardo are rather intimately close to one another; it’s easy to find them snuggled against each other in random sofas in the mansion sleeping. There are also mornings when they both emerge out of Leonardo’s room in the morning for breakfast.

It was hard not to imagine that they were lovers.

But were they?

Comte had never given it much thought because while the hunger resides in him, a wolf sleeping in the cave, he isn’t the type to go after something, someone, that his friend already holds. He has no interest in coveting something that isn’t available to him, to begin with. In hindsight, he recalls that Leonardo hadn’t spoken to him about anything regarding his relationship with Seiya either, so perhaps—

“More tea, sir?”

He takes a deep breath. Thinks of Seiya with her lavender hair and her light blue eyes, glassy when she looked at him earlier, sheets of paper with his face on it in her hands.

The heart is a troublesome thing, he thinks, as he hands his teacup quietly to Sebastian.

-

Saint-Germain had intended to just let it unravel.

For the mystery to go on its own pace. For him to wait until Seiya is ready to tell her feelings for him to his face.

Unfortunately for the poor Comte, his heart is a stubborn one.

It happens before he even notices—how his eyes begin to wander. Up and down the mansion when he is unoccupied, hoping for a glimpse of her in the hallway. When he sees her and she is busy, he watches. Eyes grazing the curves of her body, the long lines of her legs, and the roundness of her breasts arching against the seams of her corset.

Seiya is a quiet girl, and for that, she does most of her talking through the rest of her body; the way she tugs at her sleeves when she is nervous, the little tug of the corner of her mouth when she is pleased, the crinkle of her nose when she is embarrassed, the way her eyebrows shoot up when she is surprised. Comte had noticed these in the past, and perhaps have teased her a little about it as well, but—until now, he hadn’t really thought much about it.

It’s different now.

Now, when he gets the opportunity to talk to her, he notices all the little things: the flush on her cheeks, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she curls forward toward him when he speaks. It even gets to the point where he gets embarrassed with how lost he is in the conversation, marveling at all the little details he is only now noticing. How much had he been missing all this time, and how long had he been blind?

This goes on for days, then weeks. Comte is astonished at himself for every little thing he notices. He and Seiya do not bring up what had happened with the drawings. Perhaps they do not need to. Eventually they return to their friendly conversations as if nothing had happened at all, as if it was just another mishap tucked away into the past.

He never sees the notebook again—as if she is much more careful with where it is now, away from his sight.

But there are other things Comte notices.

About himself. The way something in his heart stills whenever he sees her cuddled against Leonardo in the library while reading a book. The way a smile rises golden in his face whenever she comes up to him, to tell him about a new painting or a new musical piece or a new chapter of Sherlock Holmes. The way his heart pounds when it’s late at night and he remembers her, a fleeting thought that casts glitters all over his mind, thoughts he will try to brush away but still find there, hiding in its corners, an eternity from now.

The way he becomes more watchful of how Leonardo takes care of her—has she eaten? Where did she fall asleep, where are you carrying her to?—like he is trying to take on the role, see if he can fit a spot next to her in between the two of them, even if he isn’t so sure she is his for the taking.

Le Comte de Saint-Germain is a greedy man.

Leonardo knows this. And Leonardo notices.

Comte does not.

And just like that, the sleeping wolf begins to wake.

-

Leonardo doesn’t often go out on trips. In his long history of staying with Saint-Germain, Leonardo’s trips were often of the “I don’t know if I’ll come back” nature—the kind with the hanging goodbyes only those who have the rest of eternities to live can truly become accustomed to.

He goes to the city, sure, beloved as he is to the other citizens downtown, but to go out on long trips outside of Paris isn’t something that occurred a lot, except if he was running away. So when Leonardo announces that he would be out for “a couple of weeks to the countryside”, Comte knows that there is something up.

And true enough, there is something up, because when asked why he was leaving, Leonardo’s answer is the most deadpan “I’m getting tired of seeing you make that face.”

Comte understands without elaboration.

In a few days, Leonardo is gone.

The weeks leading up to Leonardo’s departure meant that Seiya hung around him like a baby koala a lot. Once he’d left, she is left drifting about, wandering the halls as if looking for anchor—spending time with Isaac, watching Vincent paint.

But it’s the nights that are ruthless.

Sleeping in her room with a too-big bed in a too-quiet mansion that smells too clean without the constant assault of tobacco—Seiya somehow cannot sleep properly without Leonardo around. Her sleep becomes so erratic she has become a sort of Leonardo herself, being found by the residents sleeping in the middle of the day in the most unexpected of places—on a stool in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop; in the gazebo at the garden, Vic and King at her side; on the sofa in the library, curled up uncomfortably.

Comte finds himself walking down the hallways of the mansion looking for her at odd hours of the day, a blanket in tow, to make sure she is comfortable, to make sure she is warm. He knows that to her he is not Leonardo, but he can try to be a suitable substitute.

In truth, she sleeps because when she is awake, the sound of Leonardo’s parting words with her echoes in her brain like an alarm. “There’s only so much time I can buy for you, cara mia,” he had said, ruffling her hair before he left. Seiya understands but at the same time she doesn’t. The deep-gold silhouette of Saint-Germain watching over them at the staircase burns itself at the back of her eyelids.

Leonardo is so cruel, telling her to not keep her hopes up but then opening the door. Shining the light. Leading her down the hall.

He’s just the same as his old friend.

A week into Leonardo’s trip, the dark circles under Seiya’s eyes have grown to a worrisome shade, the kind that Comte just can’t let pass. So on one afternoon, in-between sharing tea with her, even when he knows it would spell the death of him, he offers: “You could sleep with me, if you like.”

She nearly chokes on the jasmine tea she’s just taken a sip of. “Pardon?”

“You haven’t had good sleep the past week, have you not? If you want company, I can be a warm body.”

Seiya…hesitates. She could say yes, of course, as it ultimately means more time spent with him—and it wasn’t like she was admitting to anything by agreeing to it. Just friendly, platonic naps, the kind she also took with Leonardo. But at the same time she feared her will would break, at the touch of his arms around her, the thrum of his pulse underneath his clothes—he might just ruin her and make her surrender.

But when she looks up to make sure Comte is really offering her this, the honey gold of his eyes only gets her to say “Yes… please?”

It starts… slow. It’s a dynamic they’ve never tried before, as someone Comte has always felt one step higher than her, a distance she could never find the courage to cross. Being with Leonardo is easy, because he treats her like a younger sibling, the comfort, familiarity, and tease of an older brother to a sister he wants to protect. But with Comte? The race of her heart in her chest would only serve to get her caught.

But then it gets easy.

She first starts with accompanying Comte in his room as he’s working. As she readjusts her sleeping schedule, she sneaks in naps in his bed or on armchairs and sofas, the scribble of his pen on paper lulling her to rest. Later on, she begins to work around him as well—sometimes she reads, sometimes she draws; he spots the notebook she’d been hiding from him as she resumes making sketches of him. They have tea together in the afternoon. When he has something to do at town, she accompanies him. When she wants alone time but would still like him around, he stays in his room and she lays at the lounge chair in the balcony, the one overlooking the Paris horizon.

Leonardo has been gone for three weeks.

And at this point, it feels… just fine. Seiya misses him, for sure, but having Comte as company is an experience she appreciates having had. The incident at the garden is now long behind them. It’s as if they’ve found a suitable rhythm for the two of them, one they can live by.

But it isn’t enough.

Not yet.

And Leonardo is coming home soon, because there is only so long the Renaissance man can buy for Comte, and Saint-Germain knows this. The longer Comte spends with Seiya the more he learns how much her company means to him. Sure, he has driven the thought at the back of his mind for the longest time, and maybe he’s not taken care of the feeling properly. But it’s still there, growing roots in his mind, enclosing his heart, drawing nourishment out of it.

Making him thirsty.

Making him want.

The wolf quietly sitting in the bushes, waiting for the perfect moment to chase and pounce.

He can deny his heart but not the lunge of his pulse, not the pain of fangs growing sharper the more the scent of her lingers in his room, her shampoo on the bedsheets, her perfume in the air. His heart is patient but his hands are not.

And time and fate wait for no one.

-

Comte takes two bottles of rouge per day; one in the morning, and one in the evening. His thirst has placated through the years; it only flows calmly inside of him.

But not as of late. Sebastian’s brought him his fourth bottle late in the afternoon. The butler looks at him curiously, and offers to take the sleeping Seiya—out in the veranda—back to her room to sleep.

“No,” is Comte’s quick answer, a little too quick that Sebastian wavers, and with a deep breath Comte composes himself and adds, “it’s alright.”

(It isn’t quite so.)

He downs the bottle of rouge slowly, feeling the blood going down his throat. Making sure it’s there, as if telling his instincts: this is your share. Stop longing for something else. But his fangs still hang painfully in his mouth, searching for flesh.

Maybe if he covers her scent with a sheet, he’ll relax.

He stands up, picks up one of the folded blankets on the bed, and heads out to the veranda for Seiya. The southern-facing veranda lets the sun leave an angled golden glow on the balcony; Comte traces it with his gaze from the city, back to the lounge where the one he loves sits.

She’s lying on the sofa with her leg raised up, perhaps after having been used as a table for her sketching; the open notebook on her lap reveals a sketch of the city. The other sketchbook next to her is folded closed, but a couple of pages peek out from in between, revealing little sketches of Saint-Germain—the same kind he’d seen that afternoon in the garden.

Not that Comte is paying attention to the sketches when she’s right there, with the milky line of her long legs underneath her stockings; the plush flesh of her thighs where her skirt has ridden up; the curves of the top of her breasts under her blouse; the small, pink o of her mouth slightly open as she sleeps; the brush of her bangs light on her forehead; the flush on her cheeks a healthy, vibrant glow.

He’s about to drape the blanket he’s brought with him when her even breathing is interrupted by a sighed syllable. He holds the blanket in his arms as he waits for her to finish the word.

“…main…”

Hm?

“Ss…ger…”

Her breath hitches and she curls a little tighter, the notebook on her lap falling quietly on the floor. Her foot curls against her other ankle; her thighs rub against each other.

“Comte… Saint-Germain…”

And then she moans.

That’s it.

Something howls and sings inside of him and he listens to it. The blanket drops to the ground as Comte falls to his knees next to her like a devotee. He encloses her mouth with his; restraint snapping like a frail string. She makes a half-asleep moan at the feeling of it and it goes straight down his cock, lighting him on fire. When she reaches out for him on instinct, he envelops her with her arms right back.

She opens her eyes slowly, as if she’s still asleep. “Am I… dreaming?”

Comte brushes the stray hairs off her face and says, “Even better.”

It doesn’t register immediately. Seiya reaches out to press the palm of her hand against Comte’s cheek as if making sure he’s real. Comte slides a hand on her calf, feeling the warmth of her flesh through the stockings.

And then it hits.

Seiya jolts backward on instinct, knees bending in front of her as she lets go of Comte like he’s hot. “I’m—Comte, I—”

“Seiya,” he says, the syllables of her name rolling out of his mouth like something sacred, “Tell me. Tell me and I’ll show you.”

“Le Comte…”

His voice sounds strained. “Tell me, let me, and I’ll show you what you do to me.”

Seiya takes a moment.

Lets it linger; the gleaming glow of the afternoon sun over the both of them; the hunger in his eyes; the fear that was thrumming underneath her skin;

The need.

She brushes his bangs off his forehead so she sees him clearly, and then says, “I love you.”

And it’s like something snaps.

Saint-Germain kisses her like she’s the sun and he’s been underground for months. One of his hands cradles her head, tangling in between the lavender strands of her hair. The other holds her cheek, to prove that she’s there, as if convincing himself that he’s not just at wits’ end clinging into hallucinations.

He gives her a moment to breathe; holds her heart in his hands when he brushes off with his thumb the pooled saliva at the corner of her mouth and says: “I can’t believe you’ve gone on for so long without knowing how much I’ve wanted you.” And when she moves her lips as if to retaliate or to deny, Comte gets up and pushes her further onto the sofa, “Talk later” coming out harsh from his mouth.

His hands are quick as he undoes her garments, but the ease is nowhere near coolheaded. Something burns underneath his skin and only touching her can cool it. He starts with the ribbons and hooks of her skirt and then inward; tugs off her blouse in between leaving bruising kisses on her mouth—he still can’t get enough of her—and loosens the lacings of her undergarments with precision.

But by this time he’s run out of his patience, so he sinks his fingers into her stockings and rips them apart.

The gasp is half of surprise and half of pleasure. Comte does not stop until the stockings are nothing but tattered cloth pooling on the floor. Seiya does not feel fully bare until this moment. The thrum of blood in her ears makes her dizzy; she thinks of the scar she’s always had to hide on her leg, and in a panic, she suddenly whispers, “Wait—out here? We should go—”

Comte does not need to shush her; the words go back down her throat when his hands touch her bare calf. Time stills; his fingers, earlier all brute force and tearing apart, are gentle as they trace up her leg; he runs his fingers down the discolored flesh like a reverent worshipper. He raises her leg up toward him and presses a trail of kisses downward.

She sighs at the sensation and it makes Comte look up at her.

The full force of his gaze into hers leaves her unsteady—will she ever get used to him being this way?

For a moment, the instinct is to hide. The instinct of prey in the face of a predator, Seiya tries to jerk her leg back toward her but Comte does not budge. She decides to attempt to close them instead, to push him away, but his hands are on her knees, holding her thighs apart.

When Seiya catches Comte graze his tongue underneath his fang, like nursing it, she knows she is a goner. 

Comte positions her knees over his shoulders and then proceeds to have a taste of her. The heat and scent of her sex against his face nearly drives him to the point of insanity. But this is a meal he would like to relish. He presses small kisses down her slit before urging the folds open with his fingers, Seiya panting above him; his nose nudges her clit and her hands fly to his hair.

“Comte…” she cries out, her voice hoarse, tears escaping the corners of her eyes. When Comte looks up at her, a shudder runs down her spine.

“‘Abel,’” he says, gently, pressing a kiss on her inner thigh. “That’s my name. Call me that.”

Seiya nods; slides her fingers from the flaxen mop of his hair to his cheek, and croons out: “Abel.”

God, he thinks, just how much can this woman drive me insane?

Much to Seiya’s delight (and embarrassment), Comte has a sharp learning curve that points him in the right direction in no time. His tongue teases her sensitive bundle of nerves, circling and teasing until all she can do is sob out his name. Her fingers leave crescent-moon marks against his scalp but it only urges him on; lathers two fingers with the slick coming out of her before slipping them inside her wet heat.

The world is spinning. Has it been an eternity or only a moment?  Comte is not giving her what she wants, just dangling her over the edge, giving her the sweet taste of it but not enough to satisfy. Tongue making delicate work of her pussy, fingers of one hand curling inside of her, another squeezing her breast like seeking comfort—she lifts her fist to her mouth and bites into it as Comte toys with her a little bit longer, long fingers finding something electric, grazing it, molding it, and then—

She falls. The orgasm is unlike anything else—not when it means everything at the same time: that maybe Comte does return her feelings, that Comte wants to do this with her, that Comte is thinking of her—she shivers and her heels dig against his back as she spasms against him; and he lets her, continues to eat her out for the entirety of it, wringing her dry and overstimulated.

“Abel!” she cries out, hands flying to his face to get him to look up at her and to pause lest she loses all that’s left of her sanity. His face is slick with her juices and it sends a new wave of warmth through her but she’s had enough. “Take me, please. Have me.”

“If you so wish,” Comte says, running the back of his hand against his lips before kissing her again; he doesn’t let go even as he readjusts their position into a comfortable one. Her legs curl around his waist as if on instinct. Comte quickly undresses, his coat and vest landing on the floor and his bottoms kicked somewhere else; his shirt unbuttoned all the way. When her wandering touch strays onto the sharp curls of trailing yellow hair upward his stomach, he guides her hand toward his cock, relishing in her face’s darkening shade of red. She can barely wrap her hands around his girth; for a moment she worries about it being too big. “Guide me,” he says—an order and not a request—and it makes her breath stop in her throat.

But her need is stronger than her shyness, and so she guides his hardness against her dripping cunt, sighing as she rocks it between her folds before slotting it into her. Comte lifts her hips up once he’s in, supporting her as he slides inch by inch to fill her. He brushes her hair to the back of the sofa, out of the way; her hands cling onto her biceps as she begins to feel the weight of him inside of her.

She spots Comte looking at something beyond her but she doesn’t get to ask before he roughly jolts forward, causing her to cry out.

Seiya has always thought that Comte had a monster hiding inside of him; below his coolly composed demeanor, there was a hungry beast in him that he had long learned to tame. Now, here, fucking on the sofa at his room’s veranda, in the full view of whoever dared look up, the sun sinking into twilight, Seiya comes face to face with the wolf that Comte had shackled inside of him for so long.

His thrusts are frantic and rushed; there is only rhythm and speed, no patience or art. Seiya’s had her share; now, Comte is using her for his pleasure, sweat dripping down his brow, his grip harsh on her hips—there will be bruises tomorrow. He presses her face against the valley in between her breasts and moans. Her name falls from his mouth, “Seiya, Seiya,” in between syllables of “Fuck” and “So good,” the brusqueness of the words so unbecoming of Comte it makes her even more sensitive to them.

She curls forward, toward him, trying to meet his thrusts even when her legs have long turned into mush. When Comte realizes what she is trying to do, a new sort of enthusiasm fills him; it’s as if he has woken up from a trance. “Seiya,” he calls out, “mouth,” is all he can say, and she obeys; he slips two fingers into her waiting mouth and she suckles on them as if it were his cock. He hisses at the feeling and pulls them out as soon as he is satisfied; replacing his fingers with his tongue as he returns to making out with her; his now-slick fingers finding a spot in between the both of them to rub her still-sensitive clit, urging her now: come, Seiya, come for me.

Seiya is obedient. It doesn’t take long.

Comte cannot say he hasn’t dreamt of claiming Seiya for his own in the past. But none of his wildest dreams would have been close to what this is like: the feeling of her pulsing and squeezing around him, because of him, he brought this pleasure for her, the sound of her voice as she gasps for air, the broken syllables of his name and sputterings of thanks and disbelief as the white-hot pleasure brands her, her fingers curled around his arms for dear life. It takes all of his self-control to not just surrender at that moment, to pull her by her waist and just fuck into her until he is spent.

And then the door to the veranda clicks open.

By this time, the sun has already long disappeared under the horizon; while the shroud of darkness has comforted her in hiding her rendezvous with the man of the house, the brightness of the inside of Comte’s room with the lights turned up sends her reeling when it illuminates Leonardo’s form. Seiya’s eyes are wide as dinnerplates as she scrambles for something to cover herself—her hair—but Leonardo looks unbothered, only throwing a knowing kind of expression at his friend, half a smile on his face.

And then Comte speaks.

“I was wondering when you would come in.”

Seiya’s neck snaps with how fast she turns to face him.

“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt, and it finally seemed like a good time.”

“Haha, how polite of you,” Comte says, genuine amusement in his tone. He returns his gaze back to Seiya, who is looking up at him with such a panicked expression; her legs tense around him. “It’s alright, ma bien-aimée. He will not stay unless you want him to.”

Which meant: he will stay if you want him to.

She turns, one more time, to look at Leonardo. Leonardo, the one that has been with her for every tumultuous rise and fall of her emotions toward Comte. How similar and different he was to his friend. Their gentle, golden eyes like twin fires. But then, the fall of his brown hair against the sides of his face. The kind of half-smirk he always seems to wear. The familiar tobacco smell he brought with him wherever he go; the one she’d longed for the entire time he was absent. Just looking at him, she remembers the feeling of his body underneath hers, memorized after months of cuddled-up sleep.

Seiya isn’t sure.

She doesn’t know what she feels about Leonardo yet.

But she knows one thing.

“Want you to stay,” she says, softly, hand still curled around Comte’s arm. “Please, Leonardo. Stay?”

And the man smiles like he’s won the world. “Just for you, cara mia.”

Comte slides out of her comforting warmth so he can lift her into his arms; the motion makes her sigh lowly, causing the two men to tense for the briefest of moments. Leonardo holds the door open as the two lovers make their way to the room’s large bed. When they get there she is understandably nervous; Comte takes his time kissing every tense muscle. Seiya watches Leonardo move across the room; from shutting the door to pulling one of the plush armchairs so that it faces the bed.

“Don’t mind me,” he says when he spots her staring, but how can Seiya not, when he’s pulled down his trousers just enough to reveal his cock, still at half-mast but very obviously will be as impressive as Comte’s once it’s fully hard.

Seiya’s got the first syllable of Leonardo’s name on her mouth when Comte steals it away with a kiss, light at first but then deep, his tongue prodding her lips open as she relaxes, her hands making their way around him again.

In a moment of tenderness, Comte presses a kiss on her forehead, on her nose, and then on her lips before saying: “Let’s show Leonardo how beautiful you are.”

Comte guides her slowly into position; turning her so that she’s on her hands and knees, facing Leonardo. Her cheeks turn even redder once she catches Leonardo stroking himself quietly, a smirk on his face as he watches Comte maneuver her around for his pleasure. Comte presses a kiss on the dip of her lower back before he guides his still-hard cock to her, coating himself with her essence before slipping into the warmth of her pussy.

Something about being watched by Leonardo sends her brain haywire. Comte is fucking her against the pillow, but his one hand has tangled itself into her hair, pulling her backward and up, allowing her to come eye-to-eye with Leonardo’s careful gaze. She can’t deny the heat that sinks through every inch of her skin, through every bit his eyes land at, tracing the mounds at her chest, the fucked out look she’s wearing on her face—“Leonardo,” she croons, once the pre-cum begins to build around the head of his cock.

Comte’s arm suddenly comes underneath her, pulling her up from the underside of her breasts, forcing her against him. “Remember who is in you,” he growls, before sending her back down. She hears Leonardo’s soft “tsk tsk” before she lands on her elbows; it’s about all she can do to brace herself and stay upright as Comte properly pistons into her, filling the room with the sound of flesh meeting flesh. She can’t look up at Leonardo knowing it would be her ruin, but she can hear the sound of him jerking himself off; at the same time, the sound of Comte’s moans and groans go straight to her core, making her squeeze and contract and pulling Comte deeper into senseless ecstasy.

“I love you,” Comte suddenly says, out of nowhere, causing her to buckle forward onto her cheek. His tone is filled with love and possession and hunger. “I love you, Seiya.” He slides a free hand to the space between her legs, quickly finding the sensitive bud.

“Abel, I—” she cries out as Comte begins to play with her clit and her nipple; he pushes her back up, making sure he’s got her, pressing his face at the junction of her neck and shoulder to fill him with her scent, sweet and intoxicating. “I—I love you, I’ve loved you—” she nearly falls forward with the sudden jolt of pleasure when his cock brushes somewhere electric. “I’m gonna… cum—”

“Cum,” Comte urges, angling himself so he hits that spot that made her spasm over and over again. “Show me how beautiful you are. Show Leonardo.”

And then it was over.

She leans her entire weight against Comte’s arms when the most powerful orgasm she’s had today hits her, knocking the wind out of her. Like an avalanche that only gets stronger and stronger the longer it rolls through her. Comte fucks her throughout the entirety of it, dragging it out for as long as he can until it’s too much even for him, her scent, her warmth, the wetness, her voice—he presses his fangs against her jugular only to sate him but not to break skin, as he pours his cum, white and warm, deep inside of her.

They fall over each other sticky with sweat. Comte rolls off of her, careful to give her space to breathe. When she comes to, she turns toward him and presses a kiss—chaste but filled with love—onto Comte’s lips.

“Was wondering how long it would take the both of you.”

The two new-lovers turn toward Leonardo as if they had just remembered his existence. He’s still sprawled on the armchair, although this time, with his hands out on his sides, leaving his still-hard cock free-standing in front of him. Seiya tries her best not to stare.

“You arrived just in time, actually,” Comte says, as he helps Seiya sit up.

Leonardo shakes his head. “Your patience for the oddest things never made sense to me.”

Seiya considers, for a moment, what this is. Comte who held her heart in his hands for the longest time—Comte who didn’t know how to express it until it was all that consumed him. And across them, Leonardo, sitting there having watched them press their loves onto their bodies, smiling as Comte holds her in his arms. Leonardo who has always been there for her, from every up and down of her feelings with Comte—who, she realizes, probably left knowing this would happen.

Two of the people she loves the most in this mansion. Her heart sings for them.

In what way, they don’t know yet. But for now, the fucking, the loving, the adoration sends confidence fluttering in her heart.

Turning toward Leonardo, she licks her lips.

“Need some help?”

----

written last year (!) for the lovely @beni-draw-ikemen-please for their OC and their beloved, Comte! please check them out, they make amazing art!

[rokutouxei]

family-friendly

genshin impact | T | 1967 childe/lumine | established relationship [ao3]

Childe and Lumine remember their first kiss very, very differently.

-

“We’ll go in the summer,” Childe had promised, and she had honestly believed that with all her heart. Remembered her adventures in the Golden Heart Archipelago with Klee and Jean and imagined all golden shores and blue skies and wide, open oceans. She was ready for that.

She was not ready for the bulky winter wear. She was not ready for the temperature that was like large hydro and cryo slimes all over her body, freezing her until there’s not much left to be frozen again.

(This is where she starts to doubt Childe’s rose-colored glasses.)

It is… quite the experience, to visit his home in Snezhnaya. There was no way she was declining the offer now that she was bound for the nation, and not with Childe giving her free pass into the country despite all the atrocities she’s done to Fatui agents across Teyvat. The least she could do was visit their little home, right? Say hello to his parents, his brothers and sisters, maybe stay for dinner, and then go to her hotel…right?

Wrong.

At this point, she is well aware of how Childe can be. Sweet and romantic when something in him softens, when that part of him that is always craving battle dissipates once his vulnerability sinks in. It’s a side of him anyone rarely sees, one she’s so proud of having the privilege to see on occasion. What slipped her mind is that the wall Childe sets up for the rest of the people in his life—other diplomats, other Fatui, other adventurers, the people he comes to just to have a fistfight with—is a wall he didn’t need to keep up with his family.

They arrive sometime past noon, after a long boat ride and a short trek up a mountain slope. The sky is an enthralling shade of blue. Quite like his eyes. It was snowing lightly—“it feels like it’s always snowing in Snezhnaya,” Childe had told her once—but it wasn’t the dreary kind of snow, rather the one that was a little exciting to watch. Childe knocked at the door and opened it with a yell, which she assumed was a greeting.

She mentally prepared herself for it, but she hadn’t expected Teucer, Anton, and Tonia to greet her with “sister!!” just as she walked through the premises.

Just how much had he told them in his letters?

(How much of her that they knew was the Lumine of Childe’s imagination, one that she would have to keep up with?)

She never peeked at the letters whenever he was busy writing them, never bothered because she felt like it would be an invasion of privacy, but now that she was here under the familiar sea-blue gaze of his entire family… she wondered if even just one look would have been alright.

Getting the approval of the younger siblings was an easy task; all she had to do was give them a few of the souvenirs she and Childe had brought over from their travels and promise to sit down and tell them of her adventures for them to give her the thumbs-up. The less impressionable ones, however, were Childe’s older sisters and brothers, who were polite and homely but a lot curter, as if trying to gauge if she were a good match with their younger brother. If the way his eldest sister had gifted Lumine her own set of Snezhnayan clothing even before dinner is any sign, perhaps she had at least passed their preliminary test.

But family time is very important in Snezhnayan culture, and dinner—well, dinner was an entirely different affair altogether.

-

“You’ve known each other for a long time, Ajax has been writing letters about you since.”

Liyue and Osial and Rex Lapis seem so far away now. “It took us a while to get along,” Lumine admits, side-eyeing Childe, “but once we found our footing with each other, it was enjoyable company.”

Childe’s eldest brother laughs. “Ajax. Enjoyable company.”

“You must be one hell of a woman to persist like that,” his other brother jokes.

“Well, that just means he made a good impression on her right away,” a sister muses.

“He got me out of a tough spot,” Lumine answers, remembering Yujing Terrace and the Rite of Descension. “I owed him one for that.”

“Isn’t that sweet!” his mother coos. “Ajax has changed, to be so sweet from the start.”

“Sweet? It was more of Sexual tension and”—Lumine yells, trying to cover him up: “Hey?! There are kids!”—"aggression from the start.”

“Oh, honey, don’t mind him,” Childe’s mother says, chuckling softly. “His siblings are used to him being straightforward like that.”

“I’m not…” Lumine murmurs, slinking back into her seat, causing the entire table to roll with laughter.

Dinner lasts for what seems like hours, and Lumine sits there shyly poking at her food as questions get pelted at her and Chllde about their relationship. The question of marriage is inescapable too, and she and Childe share a glance at each other for the briefest of moments before answering “it’ll come when it’ll come.”

But while it is easy to shrug off the adults’ more serious questions like that, it is the children’s concerns that are harder to ignore. So when Teucer asks—“How did your first kiss go?”

—Childe instantly pipes up and goes: “Oh, let me tell this one, babe. We were at Liyue Harbor together—"

It only takes Childe a few sentences before Lumine screeches, “No no no no please stop!!”, covering his mouth with her hands.

The whole family just laughs.

-

It is only until after dinner, when Lumine is sure that most of her face had already melted off of her skull, when she gets to pull Childe aside while in their (shared!) bedroom and ask: “No, seriously, Ajax. How do you remember our first kiss?”

“Was my storytelling over at dinner not enough, my принцесса? Would you rather I give you a reenactment?”

She blushes fiercely at being called a princess, but she tries her best to ignore it. “What? No, all I’m asking is—”

Childe does not pay attention and holds her in position, pushing her backward until she’s sat on the bed and he’s standing in front of her, towering (and admittedly a little… delicious, now that he’s dressed down and fresh from the shower.) “We’d come from a fight—the best thing to do with you. Or second best thing,” Childe muses, but then shakes his head back into focus. He holds Lumine’s chin with his index finger and thumb and forces her to look up. “I beat you that time.”

She narrows her eyes, staring back at him defiantly. “Only because I was handicapped.”

“Sure, my love. Luck on my part.” Childe grins. “I was trying to get you to stop sulking.”

“‘Warriors must learn to take part in losses,’” Lumine quotes him, and he nods.

He comes closer to her, carefully switching so that his palm is cupping her cheek instead, wiping an imaginary tear or bruise on her cheek. “You were so strong, but I’d tired you out more than usual. You were slumped in your seat, so I went to try and get you to rest, and you closed your eyes and leaned your head on my hand—” Childe smiles, a genuine one, small and sweet it gets Lumine’s heart racing. “I couldn’t help it, you know? I didn’t know what to tell you—how to tell you, so when you opened your eyes, I decided—fuck, I’m going to kiss her right here.”

Childe leans forward and presses a kiss on her lips.

“And I thought, ‘she’s going to hate me after this,’ but you didn’t, and instead you put your hands on your shoulders and then my hair, and you kissed me back,” he sighs. “You should really be cute more often, my sweet. You were so needy. Like this, let me show you—”

And just as Childe is about to press his lips on hers again, she places the palm of her hand against his mouth and pushes him roughly away.

“That is not what happened.”

Lumine is sure and inconvincible.

“What?”

There’s a moment of silence between the both of them that seems to extend for miles.

Childe blinks, his mind finally settling back into place. “That is what happened. What do you mean? Did you forget how our first kiss went?”

“Did you forget how our first kiss went? That was not how it went.”

Irritation clouds Childe’s visage for a brief moment. “Okay, how did it go then?”

Lumine clears her throat. Childe gets off his knees and back to his feet, settling into position. Lumine takes his hand in hers to put it into place—

And squeezes her cheeks with it twice. Childe goes lax. Lumine holds it in place, just open enough so she can talk.

“You were teasing me. We did come from a fight, and I did lose. And you thought I was being a sore loser about it, but the only true part was that I was sore. And tired.” She squeezes her cheeks with his hand another time. “‘Aww, defeat getting in your head?”’ she says, mimicking his intonation. ‘Warriors must learn to take part in losses, you know?’”

Childe tries to pull away. “I did not—”

“You did,” she insists, holding him in place. “You wouldn’t even let me catch my breath. Do you remember what I did?” He shakes his head. “I bit you,” she answered for him, gently digging her teeth into the flesh between his thumb and index finger. “You yelped and pulled your hand back. Do you remember now?”

He blinks, the memory of it slowly coming back. “Oh no.”

Lumine snickers. “Yes, oh no, Ajax.” She takes him by the wrist and pulls him closer to her, back to his knees. “‘Feisty little girlie,’” she says, in his voice, mockingly. “I growled at you. You chuckled, you bastard. And then you pulled me by the chin and kissed me.”

She presses a kiss over his lips, shaking a little from holding back laughter.

And, with her mouth still on his, she continues—“And I bit you—”

She digs her teeth on his lower lip before pulling away.

“And that excited you because of course it did, and then we—”

“Made out on the mountainside overlooking Liyue Harbor. Holy shit,” Childe finishes, face pale. When he collapses onto the bed next to her, Lumine doesn’t even try to stop the full-blown laugh coming out of her.

“I can’t believe you made it into some sweet romantic memory!” she teases him. “That’s your taste, huh?”

“I swear, that is how I remember that moment!”

“Well you remember it wrong,” Lumine notes, grinning. “Since when have we been gentle kisses, Ajax? You said it yourself—it’s all sexual tension and aggression.”

“I can be romantic sometimes.”

“Sometimes. Not that time.”

When Childe sinks further down the mattress, she presses a kiss on her forehead and looks down at him with soft eyes. “But if that’s how you want to remember it, we can always make that how it goes.”

And when he smirks, for the briefest of moments she thinks she sees his eyes light up in a way she’s always wanted to see. “Really?”

“Really, you dummy,” is all she gets to say before Childe takes her lips with his, a slow, decadent kiss of gratitude. All sweet things, but Lumine knows better to believe that’s going to last any more than a minute, his hot breath already against her neck.

And she thinks, chuckling: maybe it’s better like this. At least they’ll have a version of their first kiss that’s the tiniest bit more family-friendly.

[rokutouxei]

catching your attention

genshin impact | G | 2930 albedo / aether 

Aether loves Albedo’s company, but not when he’s ignoring him and has all of his attention focused on sketching… well, him. He’s stubborn and in love enough to find a way to catch Albedo’s attention back.

It starts like this: he and Aether are in the heights of Dragonspine, after a trek on the lookout for a specific, elementally-infused kind of starsilver. A blizzard had trapped them into a small cave, and it was an easy decision to make that it would be better if they wait it out instead of daring to walk back to the alchemist’s camp at the foot of the mountain.

Albedo starts a fire with some wood he’d found and some sort of pyro potion in his bag. Paimon’s line of sight goes back out to the white-gray of the hailstorm.

“Looks like we’ll be out here all night,” she muses. “Paimon hopes we can get out soon because I’m getting hungry.”

Aether pulls out a sandwich from his bag as if by second nature. “Mora meat?”

“Mora meat!” Paimon exclaims, before snatching the food from his hands. With that, she retreats to the other side of the fire, happily munching on her snack.

Aether has memorized all the necessary tricks to get Paimon off his back, and like this… with Albedo so close… well, it would be a shame not to use them.

Said alchemist is sat down on one side of the fire, and Aether crouches down by him, a serious expression on his face. “We won’t have time to finish your experiment by tonight,” he says, rather guiltily. “Sorry.”

While his elemental sight may have made their trip much easier, they still ended up making a turn in two in the wrong direction, taking up extra time. Albedo only shakes his head. “It’s alright. The materials aren’t time-sensitive. They can wait until tomorrow. On the other hand, I will have to apologize, as this trip will delay your return to Mondstadt and take you away from your Guild duties.”

Aether waves his hands in the air dismissively. “It’s alright, Katheryne isn’t too strict about those,” Aether says. “Not much to sketch in here, though, huh?”

“To the uninterested eye, yes. But the patterns of the rock formations are quite fascinating if they’re to be studied, or perhaps even mapping the interior of the cave.” Albedo pauses. “However… there’s something more involved I’d like to put to paper, if I may.”

Aether cocks his head to the side. “What is that?”

“May I sketch you?”

The traveler blinks, as if not quite believing what he’d heard. “…Me?” he asks, pointing to himself. He faintly recognizes the sharp thrumming of his heart from underneath his shirt. When Albedo nods, he shrugs a little awkwardly, despite being all fire and light on the inside. “If you’ll have me, then alright. Not much intrigue in this face.”

Albedo begins to pull out his sketchbook and some pencils from his bag. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes it’s more of memory-keeping than it is about research and alchemic purposes. It’s not every day I get caught in a blizzard with you.”

For some reason, that makes Aether’s face flush. Albedo can be so smooth at times—like he doesn’t even try. “Well, then go for it. It’s an honor to be drawn by you, Chief Alchemist.”

“Please, there are no titles here, just you and me.” Albedo turns toward Aether, who is fidgeting just the littlest bit from nervousness. “Would you mind—facing a little bit—” Before Aether can react, Albedo is reaching out and tilting Aether’s face towards him, fingers on his chin. Aether is sure Albedo can see the up-and-down bob of his throat as he pulls away. It’s alright; he’d caught the redness in Albedo’s ears too, anyway. “There we go. Perfect.”

With that, Aether coughs out remnants of his surprise and nervousness by clearing his throat, and Albedo returns to his seat, hiding behind his sketchbook and pen and faux concentration.

Paimon shakes her head, looking up from her now-empty wrapper of Mora meat. “Silly boys,” she says, with a sigh.

 -

It is pretty obvious to everyone who works with Albedo for even the shortest amount of time that it doesn’t take long for him to get lost in his work; all focus and long attention span and seriousness, he can go at his alchemic experiments for hours without interruption, not even for a drink or a bite or a toilet break. Once he gets into his zone, there’s no stopping him, unless one yanks him forcefully out of his little mind-field, not that many people have ever tried.

It becomes pretty obvious to Aether, ever since that blizzard night on Dragonspine, that the same can be said about Albedo and his sketching.

Albedo likes to draw. What was once specifically for research grew into more of a hobby. Now, when there is nothing urgent to do, he finds himself heading to places where there might be something nice to sketch—scenery, a living thing, an object. He can lose track of time there. He gets engrossed in his work as he catches the details he adores the most. Then after that, he packs his materials and heads off to the next best place.

The alchemist generally likes to draw things that catch his interest, so when he admits that he finds himself wanting to sketch Aether far more often than he thought he would, Aether feels a surge of embarrassment—and still-secret joy—fill him. He thought to himself: this would be the perfect time to get to know Albedo more, maybe get closer to him. No ulterior motives, of course, just wanting to be familiar with a friend, of course…

But Aether quickly finds out that his imaginations of what a sketching session would be are far from reality.

At the start, Albedo sometimes participates in idle chatter, a little ramble on what he’s planning to draw and how he approaches his sketch, but within a few minutes, he goes quiet, and all disappears. It’s just him, his sketch, the visual of his subject, and nothing else. It would probably take something drastic like a trio of geovishaps to truly take him out of this trance-like state, because it’s pretty solid.

(Heck, Aether’s tried. He’s blurted out an I love you! while Albedo was sketching him and the latter hadn’t even noticed. Aether still doesn’t know what to feel about that.)

At this point in their… friendship, Aether wouldn’t dare admit that when he offers a trip out to Starfell Lake or Dragonspine or Stormterror’s Lair, he just wants to hang out with Albedo, not… be forced to sit still and observe his—well, objectively, very rationally, handsome face, his teal eyes, the platinum blonde hair, so soft in its braid, his boyish face, the…

Well, the important thing is, sometimes he just wants to be a ‘more than a friend’, not… a model.

So he tries.

Slowly moves until he’s out of position to see if that will snap Albedo out of it and force him back to place. It doesn’t work. Moves sharply, like he’d gotten a flash of pain and fell out of place. There’s a blink of concern in Albedo’s face for a moment before it disappears, and it doesn’t work. Aether tries singing. Aether tries talking to himself. Aether tries calling out Albedo’s name, louder and louder each time. Hell, there was one time Aether tried to call the attention of a ruin guard. He loves indulging Albedo, loves to see the other man’s works more than the average person, but sometimes he wants his active, conscious presence, not an artist’s focused absence from the world.

Aether knows the drawings could be the smallest admissions of love, the proof that Albedo wants to treasure these memories he has of Aether, but—

He wants Albedo here. In the now.

And Aether is stubborn and will find a way to make that happen.

-

“What’s the easiest way to catch Albedo’s attention?” Aether asks Paimon once, while they’re off in Liyue, and out of the hearing ears of anyone who could out him ahead of his own confession.

Paimon blinks at him curiously. “You seem to catch his attention pretty easily.”

“No, not like that,” Aether clarifies, “like, interrupting him when he’s drawing or in the middle of an experiment. I don’t know how to talk to him when he gets like that.”

“Have you tried to yell his name?” Aether nods. “Move in front of him? Shout? Surprise him?” Aether nods at everything. “Huh, he’s pretty stubborn when he concentrates.”

“I know. If you have any idea, would you tell me?”

“Of course! Paimon would love to play matchmaker!”

Aether spits out the bite of sunsettia in his mouth. “No!”

-

“Honorary Knight,” Sucrose greets him, as he enters the Knights of Favonius’ alchemy room. Timaeus confirmed that Albedo was at the Dragonspine camp today, so Aether decides it is safe to visit Sucrose and that she would be alone. “How can I be of assistance?”

“It’s a… bit of a personal matter,” Aether mumbles quietly, sitting on top of one of the empty desks. Sucrose nods and listens patiently, twiddling with her thumbs as he describes the issue at hand.

She makes a face of confusion, then concern, before shifting back to an awkward smile. Her cheeks are pink, as well—god, Aether knows, but what a reminder that this is really such an embarrassing situation he has gotten himself in.

Sucrose says, “I’m afraid even I don’t know how to get his attention when he gets into that state. Mister Albedo is pretty intense about his research, and so we try to make sure to get all questions answered before he begins any experiments. He can go on for hours, after all, and we wouldn’t be able to contact him.”

“I see…” Aether sighs, slowly losing hope that there’s anyone who knows how to solve his little Albedo problem. “Well, thank you for your time, Sucrose. I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”

“Oh, no, please, any time,” she beams. “If anything, I believe Mister Albedo is very taken by you if his sketches are any indication. I’m sure if there’s anyone who will be able to find a way to get his attention in the middle of his focus, it’s going to be you, Honorary Knight.”

Aether flushes, thanking the gods he’s already got his back turned and on his way to the door. “Thank you, Sucrose!” he calls out, before closing the door behind him.

Geez, who else is he supposed to ask?

-

“My, if the Honorary Knight himself is offering to buy me a drink, how am I supposed to say no?” Kaeya cheers, seated by the bar in Angel’s Share. Charles had been kind enough tonight to offer Aether a glass of an alcoholic drink as well—but only one, he squints, still doubting his age. Not like Aether can show an ID proving he’s a thousand years old. Kaeya insists on a toast. “How can I help you today, Aether?”

“It’s about Albedo.”

“Ohhh,” Kaeya smirks. “Come to me for relationship problems? I’m flattered.”

“It’s not—” Aether groans. There’s no getting out of this when it’s Kaeya. “Just help me out, okay?”

Surprisingly, Kaeya listens very attentively as Aether describes the situation, especially in the way Aether’s ears get redder and redder with every sentence. And it’s not from the alcohol, either. Kaeya swirls his glass of Death After Noon carefully, “hmmm”-ing and “mmhmm”-ing every few seconds.

“I see. So you want to get your boyfriend’s attention sometimes.”

Aether glares. “He is not—” he sighs. “Yet, at least. I hope.”

“That’s the spirit,” Kaeya laughs, taking a swig of his drink. “You know, there is something I’ve noticed about Albedo when it comes to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes, to you,” Kaeya nods. “See, when we’re in the same room, even if he’s not particularly part of the conversation we are having, if anyone so much as whispers your name, he turns toward the sound like a moth to the flame.”

Aether flushes. “I-is that so.”

“Mhm, definitely so. You can ask Jean and Lisa,” Kaeya says, awfully confident. It takes a moment for Aether to register that even Jean and Lisa know, and he’s a little mortified. “Now, this is a shot in the dark, but how about you try doing it the other way around?”

Whispering? How will that even work? Kaeya’s practical advice is always rather useful, but when it comes to things like these it’s easier to believe that he’s just fooling whoever is asking him, so Aether doesn’t really put much faith in its results. Still, he wishes for the best. Whatever that is.

So one day, when they are over Starsnatch cliff as he gathers cecilias and Albedo sketches the view, “Albedo,” he whispers carefully when he gets close enough, “I love you.”

Albedo tears his gaze away from his sketch and looks at him with surprise in his star-bright eyes.

Aether wills his soul to leave Teyvat at once.

-

It takes a while for them to negotiate their relationship into blossom. Albedo has long acknowledged it, but now he has to reckon with his emotions, as he tentatively confesses his return of feelings. But that’s far from the end of it, as apologies are exchanged with compromises made between a traveler who has to go out and far away more often than not and an alchemist who only knows his lab and his sketchbook, and very little on love and relationships and affection.

Still, it is there, and now that they’ve both come to light about it, it grows.

(Paimon, upon hearing of this later, sighs in relief.)

“Do you know how many times I’ve confessed to you in the past?” Aether asks, as he and Albedo walk back to Mondstadt, armfuls of cecilias in their hands. “Twenty-five. All of them while you were sketching. You never noticed.”

“I’m sorry,” Albedo says awkwardly, stumbling a little and kicking a pebble out of his path. “It was never my intention to ignore you, but even if so—”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Aether laughs, nudging him with his shoulder. “At least now you heard it. I can’t believe it’s Kaeya’s advice that would work after all this time. Feels a little silly now.”

“Sir Kaeya is definitely more socially adept and mindful than I am, so I am not as surprised it’s his word that allowed us to get to…” he trails off. “Well, this.”

Aether smiles and to Albedo, it’s like morning.

“I just—I just have one request though, Albedo,” Aether says, as they round the path overlooking Windrise. “I know how important sketching is to you, as an art form and—well, for memory-keeping.”

“You remembered.”

“I did,” Aether nods. “But now, now that we’re—well, this,” he gestures with what of his hand he can move, “I would like it if you could… well, if we could leave the memory-keeping for later, and… turn to memory-making, you know? Live it now, while I’m here, while you’re here.”

Albedo looks like he’s being torn apart for a brief moment, wondering if there’s anything deeper about what Aether had said, but then he relaxes as his eyes turn back to him.

For the here. For the now.

“Anything for you,” he says, voice gentle like cecilias in the wind.

-

They’re sitting in Starfell Lake in the middle of the night after a venture off the beaches of Stormbearer point. They spent half the entire day with each other, talking and enjoying each other’s company; and now, Albedo is quietly sketching him as he usually does. Aether is looking out at the lake, reflecting on the Statue of the Seven, the first he’d ever seen here in Teyvat, when he spots a little flutter of red coming from the other side of the lake.

“Is that—”

“Ah! Mister Honorary Knight! And Big brother Albedo! It’s me, Klee!”

“Klee? What are you doing out here at this hour?!”

“Fish-blasting! Don’t tell Master Jean! Come with me!”

The little girl in red begins to run towards them, and Aether turns to “wake” the other. “Albedo,” he whispers, and the latter slips out of his trance.

Before he can even ask what is it, Klee’s voice rings clearly through the field again. “Mister Honorary Knight! Big brother Albedo!”

There is, again, that flash of pain in Albedo’s face, eyes trained on the sketch. He’d finished Aether’s eyes but hadn’t fully drawn his braid out yet, just the fluff on his head. Before he can speak, Aether holds his sketching hand in his.

“Albedo. Let’s make memories here.”

The alchemist takes a deep breath and smiles at his boyfriend. “Alright.”

With that, Klee still a few meters away, Aether lifts the sketchbook to cover their faces, hiding them from sight as he presses a sweet kiss on Albedo’s lips, quick and soft.

“What are you doing back there?!” Klee asks, peering from above the sketchbook, just as they’ve parted. There’s a scarlet glow on their faces she can’t quite see in the moonlight—thankfully.

Aether grins as he puts down the sketchbook on the grass, turning to lift Klee in his arms. “Our little secret!”

“Noooo!” Klee frowns, but then laughs as Albedo pats her on the head. “Klee wants in too! Tell Klee!”

Albedo smiles at her and then at Aether. “How about we keep our secret, and we keep your secret from Master Jean?”

Stars form in the little girl’s eyes. “Oh, that’s great! There’s lots of fish to go kaboom!”

Aether and Albedo hold hands all the way to Klee’s favorite fishing spot.

[rokutouxei]

like flashes of starlight

genshin impact | G | 4331 | ao3 link in bio xiao / aether

summary: Xiao’s entire existence is rooted in Liyue, all thousands of years of his life, and when he begins to develop a fondness for a traveler whose journey takes him farther than he can ever imagine, he finds himself seeing his much smaller world, its time and space, a little differently.

--

Liyue Harbor will always be in a state of flux—always changing, always inviting the newness of the world into its docks. History will paint it in vibrant colors, its most beautiful traditions alongside the innovations of ever-changing cultures. But to Xiao, Liyue will always be the same.

His Liyue. His to protect. Rex Lapis’ Liyue.

The fittings may change, but the core is the same.

When he’d first met the traveler, a thought crossed his mind that slowly embedded itself deep into his consciousness. Xiao knew with one glance that Aether was not of Teyvat. The way he held himself; the way he wielded his elemental powers; the mere energy of him was not human, or demon, for that matter. Aether felt like something different, like the night sky, broad and all-encompassing to those on the ground.

Had Xiao’s apprehension not superseded his curiosity, he would have asked: what does Liyue look like, to an outsider like you?

As a fellow outsider, do you see it as I do?

-

Rex Lapis’ decree is simple. Protect Liyue. Vanquish demons. Restore order through slaughter. Purge evil through battle. Nothing more, nothing less. The five yakshas' existence, purpose, and meaning all lie within that framework of being the weaponry by which Liyue is guaranteed safety.

As the last remaining of the five, despite being also assisted by the many remaining adepti, Xiao holds his mission close to his heart.

When the threat of Osial befalls Liyue, both the mortal millelith and Qixing, and the mighty, illuminated adepti come to the rescue. It is not easy to put aside their differences, but in the end they come together to fight for their nation, standing on top of the Jade Chamber, overlooking the monstrous water dragon haunting them all from the past. All are willing to fight until their deaths. But there is another one, standing on the battlefield, that does not need to be there—and yet is there—and does not back down despite every opportunity he gets.

Aether.

Aether is not of Liyue. Aether doesn’t even look like he’s from anywhere in Teyvat, for that matter, the true fittings of an actual wanderer, as if he were from an entirely different world of his own. And yet he is here. Bruised and still injured from a previous battle—he had heard the floating girl that they had come from the Golden House, and a battle with a Fatui Harbinger had led to the summoning of Osial—Aether still stands with the rest of them, ignoring any weariness from previous battles.

“What can I do?” he offers, and the adepti share a look at each other as if gauging the situation. They know. It is not exactly easy to hide that Aether is not like other travelers, other adventurers. They lend him their power. Slowly, gauging how much he can handle of their energies. They convene on the ballista, fighting Fatui and avoiding the strikes of the fallen god, water blasting them painfully.

At some point during the battle, Aether and Xiao meet back-to-back as they dodge from an attack. The former glances at the adeptus with an unreadable smile.

Xiao has long been used to being the strongest one on the battlefield, the one most proficient at killing. But with Aether here by his side—blocking and returning a strike, a Fatui agent dropping to the ground—there is a feeling that fills him about having someone near his equal, if not even stronger, fight with him.

Excitement? Thrill?

The tiniest bit of lax, like he would be safe with him?

So when the ballista cracks open with a particularly hard strike, and Aether has no choice but to obey gravity, Xiao does not fight the instinct to leap between debris to catch him before he lands on the ground.

Only a quiet tsk comes out of him once Aether is safely in his arms, to which the other’s gasp of surprise melts into a brief, sheepish grin.

He'd imagined the traveler would ease his murderous workload—not add to it. And right now, Liyue might be lucky to have a willing outsider to help them out in such a time of crisis, but like this… Xiao wonders if the nation will be any safer with a savior as reckless as him.

-

Aether calls it an offering out of jest. Xiao seems exasperated every time, but he does not reject the plate of almond tofu that gets offered to him anyway. Besides, it tastes different when it’s the traveler that makes it.

It is unfair in a way that Xiao hears ahead if Aether might pass by the Wangshu Inn—related to commissions from Verr Goldet or Huai’an, or perhaps from a brief sighting of him from the mountains of Liyue. But he finds it no sort of nuisance, because that only gives him more time to prepare himself to meet the traveler.

The plates of almond tofu, like all offerings to archons and adepti, are made with a wish in mind. Like this, Aether subtly asks for a sliver of time, a moment with some company other than his floating companion. And the Xiao before Osial, before saving Liyue, well, he would have turned him down, would have thanked him for the plate and then disappeared into the night, but—

Here, he does not.

Instead, he guides Aether up to the rooftop of Wangshu Inn. Here, the history of Liyue unfolds behind Xiao’s eyes, a history he knows like the back of his hand. Jueyun Karst to the left. Dihua Marsh to the right. And should the night be quieter, and Xiao allows himself to stand on the lower floor, there are the broken ruins in Guili Plains, where the war he had fought still rings clear.

Wangshu Inn fills his mind deafeningly with memories, but when Aether is there, all goes quiet.

Sometimes, Aether talks to him. Speaks to him of developments in his journey, or about a notable yet stray monster that he had fought with. Other times, it is mundane stories of his adventuring with Paimon. But a lot of times, Xiao’s company seems to be enough, Aether looking out at the view with an indistinct expression on his face.

It is in moments like these that Xiao recognizes something in Aether that he’s only ever seen in a mirror.

A deep welling of sadness. One that has been sharpened and smoothened and shaped by time.

Is this why Aether smiles at him like he understands his loneliness?

“My sister,” he said once, voice nearly just a whisper, “I’ve never been without her this long.” And that was it. No other explanation. He does not expound on what it means. It feels too heavy to say anything more than that. So when Aether leans his head against his shoulder, awake but not quite in his head, Xiao lets him, letting his questions disappear in an exhaled breath.

Eventually, if the Archons allow them, Aether will know of his secrets in time. And Xiao will know of his secrets in time.

Right now, it does not feel like it is his to ask.

But he can stay, he can keep watch, so that he does.

-

It isn’t that Xiao does not understand what draws the citizens of Liyue—and other nations as well—to the yearly celebration of Lantern Rite, it’s just that such a loud and joyous eruption of fervor has always had a different connotation to him, the one who protects Liyue from the monsters hiding in their shadows.

While Aether explores the newly-decorated streets of Liyue with the enthusiasm of a young tourist, streamers of red and lanterns bathing the city in a beautiful gold, Xiao looks over the harbor feeling like a foreigner. He hates the Lantern Rite. And not only because of the general adepti dislike of mortal life. Of course, he will never be one to complain about his duty, but the pain… The Lantern Rite is flashy and joyful—exacerbating the usual haze of the residual hatred of defeated gods.

On those days, Xiao finds no rest.

(Not that any kind of rest has ever been truly restful, not in what seems like ten thousand years.)

No room to breathe. Only the briefest of moments between fighting tainted monsters that spawn from the ground, his spirit black and blue and choking from corruption.

His one fear is what would happen to Liyue if one day, he becomes unable to fight?

When the karma that weighs down on him becomes too much for him to bear?

He has to continue to believe in his battle, lest he forgets it.

He sees the lanterns and chants to himself, like forcing himself to believe it:

It is worth it.

A camp of hilichurls reek blackness, slowly creeping into the territory of Wangshu Inn. There are innocent people there. As silently as possible, as to not draw any more attention, he quickly clears them, granting no mercy. Their anger dissipates from their bodies and sinks into his skin.

It is worth it.

Their eyes all black now, growling and hissing, a group of vengeful, corrupted treasure hoarder spirits track a caravan carrying stocks of food and materials on its way to Liyue Harbor. They promise sickness and death to whatever they touch. Before the driver and the millelith even notice him creeping by, the spirits are dealt with. When he breathes in, he feels them calling him unforgivable.

It is worth it.

He’s never been partial to crowded areas, not with his constitution being as it is. He’d rather be as far away from other people as possible, as to not bring any more danger than he already must. All of this human experience of the Lantern Rite—peeking in between stalls, checking wares, tasting the festival food, creating lanterns—are for individuals like the traveler.

There is evil out there to be cleansed, he does not have time for “merriment.”

Which is why he does not understand why Aether does not understand.

Why they insist to “bring the Lantern Rite to him”, serve him food that reminds him of sweet, sweet dreams. What they get out of dragging him all the way to the outskirts of Liyue Harbor, if only to overlook the Mingxiao lantern, a quiet reminder of a battle fought what feels like eons ago. The closer they get to the festivities, the more Xiao feels out of place, the more he wants to run.

But he does not, because Aether is by his side. And on the walk to the harbor, he asks Xiao about the Lantern Rite, as if he hasn’t heard about it before. Forces Xiao to form the words with his own mouth. Filling in the blanks when he no longer knows what to say; when he’s forgotten what it truly is now, to the people he is protecting, what happens on the stage while he is on the sidelines.

That the Lantern Rite is a celebration of the new year, a thanksgiving for the previous year’s joys, and a prayer in anticipation for the coming year’s blessings. That the Lantern Rite is a commemoration of its long past, its commercial hub status getting adorned with its intricate history, traders and storytellers coming together to speak of old wars and adepti and long-fallen gods.

Lanterns as beacons in the night, guiding bygone heroes back to their homeland.

Aether could be fair and say it as well, but he gives Xiao a taste of his own medicine and lets it sink in on its own.

This celebration is for you too, Xiao.

And when the traveler is long gone, he and Paimon in the streets of Liyue no doubt looking in awe and wonder at the culmination of the Lantern Rite festivities, Xiao sits on top of the mountainside on the outskirts watching Liyue light up with brilliance.

And he tells himself:

It’s worth it.

This is worth it.

Perhaps on the next Lantern Rite, Xiao wouldn’t mind taking a walk in the city with him.

-

No one prays to adeptus Xiao.

Not in the same way other adepti have served the citizens of Liyue, at the very least. There are no prayers of good tidings and great harvest; no pilgrimages made up to abodes to seek wisdom.

This has never bothered Xiao in the slightest, not in his hundreds of years of service.

It is better off this way. He doesn’t have what other adepti like Mountain Shaper or Cloud Retainer can offer, no knowledge and insight that he finds worth sharing. Even half-adepti like Ganyu would perhaps have more to give to a longing pilgrim.

The only thing Xiao can give is his executioner’s blow.

That doesn’t stop him from hearing them cry. Wishes for death from the most desperate, like silent bells tolling in the dead of the night. Demands for violence that are whispered into the traitorous air, reaching his ears without fail. They don’t have to speak his name for him to feel their prayers.

They twist, turn, mutate into the most horrible of requests, the hatred and miasma from old fallen gods corrupting even the most innocent of pleas, Xiao’s spear materializing in his hand as if on instinct, to kill, to eradicate, to cleanse, to kill kill kill kill—

This is why Xiao does not like to sleep.

Slumber means dropping his guard, letting the swirl of the voices take over him until he’s at his most vulnerable. Sleep is only more cause for trouble.

The yaksha soon learns, however, that sometimes, it is worth the spare openness; his emotions remaining unsaid and yet seen, somehow, because Aether is Aether. Xiao wonders if, to the traveler, he is transparent. Aether does not even flinch when Xiao misses to restrain the growl that crawls up his throat in response to the clamor of pain. Instead, the golden-haired boy readjusts where he’s resting his head on Xiao’s shoulder, and reaches the small distance to place his hand on his. Rubs two, three gentle lines with his thumb on the back of the adeptus’ hand before he promptly falls back into slumber, a well-deserved afternoon nap after a long morning of commissions.

Xiao’s spear dematerializes without a sound.

And, equally quietly, loud in its silence, Xiao rests his head against Aether’s, and closes his eyes.

-

Anger is not an emotion Xiao would associate with Aether, and yet here they are, at the highest peak of Qingce Village in the late afternoon, after he had asked Xiao if he knew someplace quiet where they would not be interrupted.

“I don’t understand,” he says, sat down with his arms on his knees, his head on his arms, curled up in a ball. Xiao stands next to him with his arms crossed over his chest, listening patiently. “She didn’t want to. …I’d finally found her, and yet…” There lingers the quiet kind of anger, voice calm yet cold. On the inside, Aether is trembling with irritation and swaying with dismay. The backlash of betrayal. “We’ve been separated for more than five hundred years.”

I’ve never been without her this long.

For what seems like an eternity after that, Aether is quiet. Understandably so. This is none of Xiao’s concern, at least not in the sense where he would have the duty to step in, and yet the chaos of it is one he could only ascribe to be some sort of nightmare. Perhaps similar to the ones he gets often. He imagines Aether’s world turned cleanly upside down—those he had considered his greatest allies now potentially his worst enemies; and that he had thought was his enemy is under the hand of the one person he trusts the most in the entire universe.

It is heavy.

In the silence, Xiao recalls when there were still five yakshas around. How the mist of karmic pain that entangled around them for eons of dutiful slaughter had begun to choke them, turn them into twisted versions of themselves. He had seen each of them fall from being unable to tolerate the agony.

He worries the same might happen to Aether. He worries that when that happens, he will only be able to watch, the same way he did back then.

That he would have to be the last resort to slay him.

It is only when the sun is long out of the sky when Aether speaks again, his voice hoarse as if he’d been screaming, sobbing openly—“I want to go home.”

Xiao… places a comforting hand over Aether’s shoulder. He knows that Aether would have been ready to go in a heartbeat. That Teyvat and Khaenri’ah are nothing but a blip in the grand canvas of his journeys. And that, unlike him, all permanent miasma and choking with his feet sunk into the ground, unable to move, forever rooted in Teyvat, in Liyue, in his karma, Aether has and always will be like flashes of starlight, beautiful and faint and gone in a moment.

That he would be gone before Xiao learns how to miss him.

The only question the yaksha has is, when he finally goes, if he would take the rest of Xiao’s heart with him.

-

He would have pulled a classic “foolish mortals” had he known no better about Aether’s own expansive lifetime. Like this, then, perhaps they are the same in their foolishness. At least the citizens of Liyue know better than to acquaint with him, their guardian whose only strength is in pursuing death. They hear the mere word of him and they scutter in the opposite direction. It is better that way. It is safer that way.

But Aether does not, and now it is too late.

Xiao stays up late wondering how much of what has befallen Aether is from him. How much of it is his own karma, spread by their bond—whatever sense he may make out of it—and leading to the other’s pain? Aether complains of nightmares, of being in that domain and calling out for his sister, only to be pushed back, thrown off, like he had never been wanted in the first place.

So Xiao sets up for an apology for what he has done, the least he can do for spreading the black miasma that surrounds him into someone unrelated like Aether, but the latter only throws him a look of confusion that slowly evolves into a now-familiar, cryptic smile.

“Why would I want to sever it?” Aether asks, “I’ve never thought of that, Xiao.”

Xiao is quiet, too dumbfounded to say another word.

So instead, Aether puts his hands over his hips and says, “When I am in Liyue, you make me strong, Xiao, knowing you are out here protecting the land as well. I have no regrets about being close to you.”

Then stay, Xiao nearly says.

“What does Liyue look to you,” Xiao finally asks, though he intones it not quite like a question, like he’s still apprehensive about it. Aether turns back toward him, all gold eyes and hair, stars in the night sky.

“Beautiful,” the traveler answers immediately, as if he had long thought of it that way. “Rich in its history, steeped in tradition. And with guardians that look after it long after the people have forgotten them in time. It’s a stunning nation.”

Then stay.

“I know you keep yourself all wrapped in secrecy for the people, but—think about it, everything they do is in debt to you.”

“A debt that does not need to be repaid,” Xiao says. “I only follow through Rex Lapis’ original decree.”

“And that’s exactly why it’s so praiseworthy.” Aether nods to himself. “It’s a negative cycle where only you bear all the consequences. Had they known about you—should they still honor you the way they did then—they would see you as the hero that you are, Xiao. As the hero I see you as.”

Then stay.

Yanxiao avoids eye contact with Xiao but does not hesitate in giving Aether a judgmental look when he orders a plate of almond tofu for breakfast. What the cook doesn’t know is that it’s a reward for a restless night of nightmares, and an apology for a friendship that has always been wanted.

For the something more that cannot be claimed.

As they share the plate of sweet dreams, Xiao realizes, while looking at Aether enjoying a bite, that one day, like everything else that has happened in the past, he might be able to forgive himself—forgive Aether—for what they have done to each other. No grudge can last a thousand years. And should the thousand years pass—well, Aether would have been long gone, and Xiao knows better than to dig himself an even deeper grave for his sorrows.

Xiao has lived more than a thousand years in the loneliness, where there is only his spear and his darkness, but now, bathed in starlight, he feels lost and ill at ease. Perhaps, in a different life, things would not have ended this way, and there would have been compromises to be made, and there would have been promises to be kept. He considers the possibility of a universe where that occurs, if it would be better, if it would be worse.

The young-seeming adeptus searches his heart, only to find no answers.

 -

The prowess of that one mortal Beidou is not one that has escaped Xiao, and once Aether informs him that she would be allowing him safe passage into the closed country of Inazuma, Xiao is certain the traveler would be alright. It doesn’t entirely ease his worries, however, so once the day of departure arrives, he slips into the nearby Guyun Stone Forest to observe the ship as it prepares to sail away.

His mind is so clouded he doesn’t hear Aether approaching him from behind.

“Xiao?”

The adeptus feels a pang in his chest in the other’s tone of surprise; on the other hand, a breeze of thankfulness fills his heart—perhaps he is less see-through than he’d once thought. He turns to the golden-eyed boy with his usual blank face, hoping his mask does not break.

Paimon speaks before he can. “Are you here to say goodbye, Xiao?”

“Hmph.” If he was, he would need more coaxing to admit it. “I wanted to see to it the ship wouldn’t sink before you’ve even left Liyuen premises.”

Aether smiles like he knows what that sentence really meant. Xiao wonders if Aether really understands, or he just likes to believe it is that way. “Thank you.”

He’d promised once, after all, that he would protect Aether, hear his call, for as long as he is in Liyue. Anywhere beyond there… is entirely out of his jurisdiction.

“You know,” Paimon begins, crossing her small arms over her chest, “Paimon thinks it would be great if Xiao came with us. Then I wouldn’t be worrying so much about you getting in weird stuff, Aether.”

Xiao gets interrupted before he can reply. “That wouldn’t be a nice thing to ask, Paimon,” he explains, patting the fairy’s head gently before turning to Xiao. “Liyue is Xiao’s home, he belongs here. I can’t take that away from him—and him away from Liyue. Don’t you think, Xiao?”

Home, huh?

Two pairs of gold eyes meet, and in the other, Xiao sees a longing that he wonders is what foolish mortals would call love.

“May your journeys allow you to reach your sister soon,” is, instead, what Xiao settles with, and Aether pulls out another one of his cryptic smiles. Like he hears the Thank you. Like he hears the Liyue—and I—will always be here. Like he understands the I hope you, too, reach and return to that place where you belong.

Like he knows this is a goodbye, but of a different sort.

Xiao is too far from where they are to be visible when the two get on the ship. They wave vaguely in his direction, his attention called back by a whisper of his name in a familiar voice, carried by the sea breeze. Xiao watches as the anchor gets hoisted, the sails opened, and the ship begins to make its way into the great sea. Once it is out of his sight, he has no way to find out if Aether will be alright.

At dusk, the stars are beginning to come out, perfect for wayfinding. Its deep blueness is all-encompassing, as if cradling Xiao in familiar darkness.

The adeptus raises his head to the wide sky. The god he has worshipped is dead. Only Archons know where his pleas will end up in. But even if he does not know who will hear his wishes, for Aether—he prays.

-

Time is a silly thing. At first, a day feels like a hundred years, and then, a hundred years pass by in what feels like mere days.

What felt like the entire world once is now but a passing memory.

Liyue Harbor will always be in a state of flux—always changing, always inviting the newness of the world into its harbors. History will paint it in vibrant colors, its most beautiful traditions alongside the innovations of ever-changing cultures. But to Xiao, Liyue will always be the same.

Once, there was a traveler that roamed the landscape of Liyue, changing it and influencing it wherever he went. Shifting its colors; turning it upside down; leaving his stardust on it.

Liyue will always be the same.

The same harbor.

The same rooftop on Wangshu inn.

The same cliffside in Qingce.

The places Xiao went to, trying to understand what Liyue looked like to one who had come from the heavens, looking down.

The traveler he wished on stars to.

Xiao still finds him everywhere, in things beautiful and faint and gone in a moment.

[rokutouxei]

Asdfghjkl you're such a wonderful writer. I love what I'm reading 'The wonder that's keeping the stars apart'. Currently at chapter 7 still but wow. It makes me miss my college (bachelor years of university) so, so much and also feel like I missed out on something meaningful.

Anyway, do you have a list of the works that MC and Theo exchange with each other? I'm actually really curious now to dabble into that all.

hello! ✨

i haven’t checked tumblr in a long, long time, and i’d like to apologize for having missed this ask! thank you so much for reading the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart, and i hope you enjoyed it!

here’s a small list of books:

No Matter the Wreckage, Sarah Kay

Good Omens, Neil Gaiman

Twenty Love Songs and a Song of Despair, Pablo Neruda

On the Road, Jack Kerouac

Dearly, Margaret Atwood

The Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,  Annie Barrows and Mary Ann Shaffer

Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami

The Proxy Eros, Mookie Katigbak

A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara

The Girl Who Drank the Moon, Kelly Barnhill

On Earth We Were Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong

and some authors whose books weren’t mentioned, but they exchanged:

Albert Camus

e.e cummings

Khaled Hosseini

Terry Pratchett

Deborah Heiligman

Sylvia Plath

Audre Lorde

Maya Angelou

Edward Thomas

D.H. Lawrence

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Emily Dickinson

Richard Siken

Phillip Williams

Alexander Solzhenitsyn

J. Neil Garcia

Ursula K. Le Guin

i’m not sure how complete this is though! just off the notes i still do have. i hope this proves useful!

[ikevampbigbang]

the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

Artist: @rubird–playsotome​ Full version here

Artist: @heron-iles​ Full version here

Writer: @rokutouxei​ Status: Complete Rating: Teen Characters: major: Theo van Gogh, Arthur Conan Doyle, Dazai Osamu minor: Isaac Newton, Vincent van Gogh Ship(s): Theo/MC, side Arthur/Dazai Content Warnings: n/a Summary: The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go?

Fic can be found here

[rubird--playsotome]

My piece for the @ikevampbigbang​ collaboration made to accompany the fic written by @rokutouxei​, the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart!! 

This is my depiction of my favorite scene (but who am I to choose, the whole fic is good) that really made me emotional stuck with me so check it out (and find this scene ^^)! 

[heron-iles]

I took part in the @ikevampbigbang​ drawing one of the scenes from The wonder that’s keeping the starts apart, written by @rokutouxei​ !!!!

I choose drawing Theo in his halloween costume because Halloween + circus is one of my favourite combinations when it comes to aesthetics! Hope you enjoy the reading!

[rokutouxei]

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo / mc | T | 68k words

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go?

[ read it on archiveofourown ]

chapters: 

act 1: [ one ] [ two ] [ three ] [ four ] [ five ] [ six ] 

act 2: [ seven ] [ eight ] [ nine ] [ ten ] [ eleven ] [ twelve ] 

act 3: [ thirteen ] [ fourteen ] [ fifteen ] [ sixteen ] [ seventeen ] [ eighteen ] [ nineteen ] [ twenty ] [ twenty-one ] [ twenty-two ] 

accompanying art

by @heron-iles: https://heron-iles.tumblr.com/post/643091457653325824/i-took-part-in-the-ikevampbigbang-drawing-one-of

and by @rubird--playsotome: https://rubird--playsotome.tumblr.com/post/643119487765348352/

thank you so much!! 🥺🥺🥺

-

written for @ikevampbigbang 2020! a massive work that wouldn’t have seen the light of day if not for my friends @assomoir and @pathofcomets. i do have a few more wips related to this in the future, so let me know if you’d be interested in them still!