i know it's been a VERY long time since i showed up here. unfortunately i've had multiple medical emergencies in the past year. right now i'm doing better thanks to the wonderful doctors and healthcare workers, who deserve an immense amount of graditude and appreciation ‼️
i also briefly lost my tumblr logins, but luckily i was able to recover them pretty quickly and return to my blog! :)
i'm very sorry for leaving you guys in the dark. coming back and reading all of your lovely comments and seeing the amount of anticipation surrounding this smau project warmed my heart so much i can't explain with words. i'm genuinely so grateful for each and all of you that enjoyed and supported my work! 🩵
now, what's the future of 'Worth The Wait?' ?
reading back the entirety of this series i noticed so many things i regret (/not) adding to the story, things that don't make sense even to me anymore, and overall so many mistakes that i just can't get past. i'd like to ask you guys if you'd be okay with me rebranding the series as a whole? it may take me a little while more to start from scratch, but i promise i'll make it 100 times better if you agree to give me a chance 🫶🏻 instead of having you guys re-read everything AND wait for the next part to come out, i'm thinking of completing the currently existing chapters and posting them all at the same time, so we're back to where we started this whole thing off.
i would like to express my graditude to all of you once again; for your patience, your support and for enjoying my silly little unfinished story. i'm looking forward to your input about my idea!
current taglist for the series (lmk if u wanna be added!!) : @constellationguy @iloveescara
warnings: reader is an elemental being & immortal in neuvillette's, not proofread (except for wanderer's pt, THANK YOU @melodead !!!), graphic depictions of violence & blood, use of "[name]", established relationship in wriothesley's pt. & physical touch (kissing)
notes: I may have went a little crazy on kinichs part
You've always liked being niche. Keeping yourself on the down-low, making moves in silence, things of that nature—and, not to stroke your own ego, but you've always considered yourself to be the best at that sort of thing. You're kind of a big deal.
(You'd have monopolized the whole freelancer market if it weren't for Kinich being such a sick freak, and actually being competent at his job—what gives? Because of him, you can't rely on the bare minimum anymore!)
That's why, after completing a crazy commission (which was, for the record, way above the threshold of whatever your client said it'd be!), you find yourself skipping the idea of treatment and heading straight home.
You need a nap more than some bandages, anyway.
"It's just some treasure hoarders, they said," you mutter under your breath, hexxing your client. "Clear them, and retrieve some goods, they said..."
Why is it that you encountered every single creature known to Celestia, if that were the case? Why did you run into Fatui, rogue Saurians, and abyssal manifestations, then?! Your client needs to get blacklisted from ever making a request ever again!
On the way home, you pass by various street vendors, hand raised to wave instinctively despite not really knowing who exactly it is you're talking to. All of their faces coalesce into one big mesh, and you can't make out anything except the shape of your own hand, raised—but did you always have twenty fingers? And were people always so loud when greeting you? You know you're a hit, but you really don't remember being the subject of screams upon arriving in your hometown, and—
Your head hurts like shit.
Oh, you then think to yourself, staring at the sky, all twenty of your fingers no longer in view. I think I fell.
You've always liked testing your limits. Throwing yourself into situations without much assessment, accepting clients without realizing the weight of their words until you feel it burdening your shoulders—Kinich has always thought you to be careless in that regard.
"WOAH! Is that... Your pal-who's-not-actually-your-pal?!" Ajaw exclaims, dancing around, a little too overjoyed at the sight he's seeing. Kinich ignores him with the swat of his hand, too focused on examining the jeweller's stock, gold and silver dangling from his fingertips, woven in between the crevices of his hand.
Jewelry is a luxury which neither fills his stomach nor satiates his thirst. With that, Kinich has never once paid such adornments any attention, opting to spend most of his time bargaining for necessities such as clothing or shoes.
But, in order to obtain what he wants, Kinich is willing to pay any price.
("Those anklets are so pretty!" you exclaim, tugging Kinich in the direction of the jeweller, pointing at some measly looking chains.
("Those are bracelets," he says.
("They are anklets," you retort.
("These are bracelets," the jeweller chimes in, unable to condone you spreading misinformation any longer. You clench your fist, scrunching your eyes as if to force a tear from its ducts, ignoring the incredulous look of the vendor and the neutral expression which settles onto Kinich's face, completely unmoved by your performance.
("I was going to buy them if they were anklets," you mutter, "but, with the way things are looking..."
("They're actually anklets!" the jeweller interrupts, pointing towards the selection with newfound vigor, a smile contorting at their lips. You beam. Preparing your wallet, you begin counting your change, merrily thumbing through the coins as the jeweller watches the sight in utter delight.
(Before you can cough up all your worth, however, a gloved hand curls around your wrist, firm yet loose, dragging you in the opposite direction. The jeweller damn near falls to their knees. You make no effort to fight your fate.
("You know what," you say, "I didn't even want those anklets anyway!"
(Kinich doesn't respond. But his hand maneuvers from your wrist to your fingers, fabric clasping over the knuckles, bringing you closer towards him with the slight tug of his arm.
("And you know what," you add, "I bet you're just jealous, 'cause they really were anklets!"
("Those were bracelets," he states.
("The jeweller said they were anklets."
("They only said that after you mentioned buying them."
("Okay, and?"
(No response. Seems like it's your perfect victory, then!)
"Good, good, very good!" Ajaw laughs maniacally. "If they die, then you'll have no reason to live, Kinich! And your body will become MINE! Hahahaha!"
Kinich doesn't even bother responding. Placing the strands of gold and silver back onto the vendor's table, he turns around, groceries and hunting gear in his other hand, ready to begin the trek home. But then he's met with the sight of a forming crowd, a cacophony of yells and murmurs, a familiar name dancing throughout the air.
(For what he wants—)
Kinich knows fear.
He has felt its jaws, the hinge of its throat, the flesh of its esophagus. Kinich knows fear. Heart swelling, muscles too tight to handle all the blood, constricting—like the curl of a hand, like the feeling of interlaced fingers with a squeeze—and, he knows the scent of blood, he knows the lidded eyes of a dead body, he knows the limp of a corpse, the feeling of dragging it through dirt.
Kinich knows fear. When it came to his own life or the lives of others, fear is something that Natlan witnessed, that he has worn a mask towards, scrunching his face, closing his eyes, skewing his expressions—warding away tears are easy. Warding away hauntings are not.
(Of the thousand words that leave Ajaw's wretched mouth, only a handful are of substance, and even less are actually correct in totality. Of the thousand words that leave Ajaw's wretched mouth, only a handful are able to strike Kinich—it's in the slight furrow of his brows, the forceful exhale of air through his nose, the curl and uncurl of a hand.
("How embarrassing! To see my lowly servant struggle in the face of someone less powerful than the Almighty Dragonlord K'uhul Ajaw himself! You should be ashamed. Ashamed, I say!"
(These moments of low-tolerance are often dealt with as simply as trapping Ajaw in a wooden crate. But the words remain with him still; oftentimes, for longer than they deserve to be.
(It's not so simple as having a single reason for living—Kinich has many reasons for that, you see. He must live so Ajaw cannot run rampant with his body, he must live because the nature of life is to march forward, he must live because the Turnfire has taught him that the past's fuel serves to fuel the present's flame—and, most of all, he must live because this is a world with you in it.
(There are many reasons to live. There are many things he wants.)
He opens his eyes. Pushing past the barrage of people, weaving through the many frantic hands and the disgruntled yells, he emerges. And his all-too wide eyes meet a figure, splayed on the ground, blood pooling from their head, its direction craned towards the side.
Kinich drops his bags and he runs.
Fear. Chest heaving; hands becoming clammy in his gloves; chartreuse eyes darting to and fro; arm trembling. Fear. Kinich feels its teeth thumb at his heart as he crouches down at your figure, ripping his glove off with the grit of his teeth, bare hand reaching to check your pulse.
Th-thump. It's there. But fear doesn't escape him just yet—not like this. Kinich's movements are frantic, free hand applying pressure to the back of your head, chartreuse eyes browning as a result of all the red, seeping past the cloth, dripping down his pale fingers.
"Call a doctor," he manages to say to a nearby bystander, his voice uncharacteristically hurried, expression betraying the enormity of fear's fangs, biting into his heart, seizing its contractions. He then looks down at you, the blood nauseating, its volume larger than life.
"[Name]," he calls, free hand reaching to wipe at your sweat, to ease the furrow of your brows as he feels the blood stain the length of his arm, forcing him to swap out the cloth.
"[Name]." He says your name just to say it, to feel the sensation on his tongue, to hear it resounding throughout the air, to put more of your existence into this world. "[Name]." He follows after your form as you're moved to a stretcher, rushed to the nearest infirmary, disappearing behind the doors of the operating room.
"Kinich," someone calls. "Kinich, don't you want to wash off all the blood?"
He looks down for a moment, surveying the crimson expanse of his fingers, the way the stains trickle down his arm.
"Later," he mutters, uncaring as hushed murmurs begin to swam around him, the screeching cries of Ajaw from his nearby box prison.
And so he remained.
You wake up in a sterile room. Your head hurts like shit, and you feel an ache all throughout your limbs. A doctor hovers over your face, waving their fingers at you, lips parting as voices seem to coalesce into one big noise. You squint. The doctor shakes their head, before disappearing from your view, seemingly converging with other physicians.
Then, another figure emerges. Green. It's Kinich. He looks at you with an expression you haven't seen him wear in a while—his brows are furrowed to the point of wrinkling the bridge of his nose, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. He stares at you, gaze tracing all over your figure, spending most of their time on the top of your head, where the pain reverbrates the most.
Your lips part to speak, but the only thing that manages to escape is a hoarse cough. Kinich's eyes grow wide, and, though his words are incomprehensible still, you can tell that the pace of his tone is quick, rushed, stumbling over itself. You've never seen him so frantic before. You wish you had a Kamera on you so you could capture this moment and use it as blackmail in case he takes a mission you like in the future.
He disappears from your view, returning with a glass of water. Gently, his hand guides you to sit up against a fluffed pillow, tilting the glass to your lips, allowing you to drink.
Swallowing, you then say, "You look rough."
Kinich places the glass down, his head tilted as he crosses his arms, clearly not in the mood for your extravagant humor.
"You—" he starts, tone clipped, silence with his own interruption as he looks away, expression conflicted. "I was worried."
You manage a grin. "Just worried?"
He looks at you with neither incredulity nor exasperation, just acceptance, as if he had anticipated your response long before he had even uttered any words.
"I was terrified," he states simply. But, ever the rational thinker, he pivots into a line of questioning, desperate to seek answers. "What caused your injury?"
"While I was out on this highly confidential mission, I noticed a young kid who needed my help. But, as I was about to reach them, a ginormous creature appeaered, and I shoved them out of the way so I could save them, but ended up—"
"[Name]," Kinich says, the tone adorning the words much softer than when fear had overtaken his thoughts. "[Name], I'm not joking."
You look away.
"I, uh, ran into some trouble."
He raises a brow. "Trouble?"
"My client told me that it'd only be treasure hoarders, so I just went in with that thought," you explain, shrinking under Kinich's piercing gaze, the enormity of his presence as you feel yourself losing aura with every word escaping your lips. "And, well, there were more than just treasure hoarders."
He approaches your bedside, entering your eyes with the crouch of his figure, the upward crane of his head as he chases after your line of vision, settling himself by raising a hand to crane your gaze towards him, palm against your jaw.
"Then, what was there?"
"A couple scallywags?"
"[Name]."
"Fatui, and rogue Saurians, and—"
Kinich stands up, expression returning to utter neutrality—but it's disingeuine. Lips drawn into a thin line, Kinich's voice comes out as clipped as he says, so simply, yet so icily, "What was their name?"
You suppose it's time to kiss that client's life goodbye.
Upon learning their name, Kinich sets off with the shift of his figure, the curl of his fists, gloved fingers digging into his palm as he tells you, "Sleep early tonight. Don't worry about that commission."
"Are you going to reap my earnings?!" you exclaim, pointing at him accusingly despite his back being turned towards you. All-knowing, however, Kinich looks over his shoulder, the hints of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Yeah," he states. "You could say that."
"Kinich! You, you—cheater!"
"Don't stay up too late," he says again, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud!, his gaze fixated ahead as fear reinvents itself into fury. Kinich, ever levelheaded, often finds himself forcing rationality down the throat of impulsitivity. It's better to be methodical than to mess up; but there are exceptions to every rule.
Everything comes at a price.
And for your client, there will be a lot to collect.
("Are you seriously going to make your own jewelry?! UGH, why don't you go throw yourself into a camp of hilichurls so I can take over your body faster! This is so lame! So inexcusable!" Ajaw yells, flipping back and forth, head a ferocious shade of red.
(Kinich, ever the unfazed host, continues molding the chains of silver and gold, clasping them together by the latches, the shape revealing a circle large enough to fit an ankle; or a wrist. Whatever it is you decide, it will be just that.)
It is undeniable that Neuvillette takes much pride in his work, and, by extension, the endeavors of Fontaine's people.
To be able to witness humanity, with all of their joy and sorrow, all of their dreams and achievements—Neuvillette believes these to be the most fulfilling aspects of his duty, the growth, the cascading water, the unshakeable spirit. Neuvillette, ever content with his position, thus finds work more as a fruitful pursuit than an arduous task. That is what allows him to carry forth as Chief Justice, and, most recently, a ruler.
But it would be dishonest to say that his mind doesn't find itself adrift, tunneling through the rivers of time, returning to the ocean, where it all began. Before there was a court of law, before there was a duty, before there was a decision to protect this land, there was you. And there was him. And there was, ever so peacefully, two.
Two was nice. Neuvillette looks back on that time fondly; back when the two of you, at the time, new creatures on this earth, explored its depths together. Though he could never afford to travel as far as you (for crossing the desert was damn near a death sentence for someone like him), he caught up with you whenever he could, boundless.
And when he did, you would turn to him, smiling that smile of yours. It was the kind of smile that made Neuvillette liken you to a wondrous thing, possibly beyond him, beyond this atmosphere, beyond this world as he knew it. He did not know much at the time, for he had no memories, nor meaning—but he knew one thing, and it was the simple fact that you were ethereal.
And you, ever the effervescent, ethereal spirit, could not be contained by a single land. Upon his advancement to Fontaine's Chief Justice, he saw you off at the land's border, where the water met the sand, and he stared.
You smiled at him with that smile of yours, and, as quickly as you came into his life, astonishing it with all that radiant fervor, you left. Though your visits to Fontaine were sparse, you always found your way back to the ocean, from whichever stream or channel you were in.
And Neuvillette, ever the loyal, anticipatory spirit, waited. He waited for reunion, to see that smile enrapture your face, its enormity enough to part clouds, to make even the radiance of a still lake pale in comparison. You would notify him of your visit by a simple letter, often enscribed with nothing more than a, "See you soon!" and a stamp for good luck.
But that was enough for him. The Melusines, long familiar with your presence, would deliver your letters the moment they arrived, expediting them to his office, ensuring he'd see them as quickly as possible. Neuvillette appreciated this fact; he also learned that, whenever your letters did show up, the Melusines would prepare for sunny days ahead.
This time, however, it's different.
Fontaine has been experiencing torrential downpour for the past week.
"Is Monsieur Neuvillette alright...?" Trow asks, her eyes turned downwards, her expression distressed.
"Mx. [Name]'s letter arrived last week," Sedene explains, "but they haven't showed up."
Neuvillette, ever the loyal, anticipatory spirit, waited. He waited for a week after your letter arrived, making space in his office, staring at the clock, your favorite pastries lining his desk. But they remained uneaten. And he remained as he was: waiting.
Although your letters are sparse, you've never been the type to disappear without reasonable explanation, or a notice in advance. Oftentimes, if you were unable to make it to Fontaine, you'd send a follow-up letter, detailing a new return date, or a new destination which caught your eye. More than that, however, was the fact that Neuvillette could not find you, with all the water which governs this world. Your presence, your emotions, your ethereal spirit—it was nowhere to be found.
And so began the rain.
But then, there are voices, and a striking ruckus, and a barrage of footsteps, from Melusines and humans alike—and the door to his office is knocked on frantically, and Neuvillette rises to meet the handle, to peel the hinge apart, facing Trow, whose breaths are ragged as she huffs and puffs for a moment before straightening up.
"Monsieur Neuvillette, we found Mx. [Name]!"
"Found?" Neuvillette echoes, unable to contain the way his thistle eyes grow wide, the way his gloved hand tightens around the door's handle, the way the rain outside seems to still, the stir contorting into fear. "Please, Miss Trow, what do you mean by that?"
"They were at the border, on Sumeru's side, and one of the boats had caught a glimpse of a figure, collapsed on the desert, and so we investigated, and it was Mx. [Name]!"
The desert.
Neuvillette considers that wretched place to be the equivalent of an assassination. But you, the ever wandering spirit, cannot be contained by the barrage of the elements, the limitations of where he's unable to bear. And so, he's seen you off there, time and time again, with no regard nor doubt for your wellbeing as you have always returned. As you always continue to return. As you, are, after all, not bound by anyone or anything—you exist unanchored, unabashed, unshackled.
"I see," he mutters, his voice steady. But there's a certain tinge to his words, the quietness of his volume, the cascade of rain as it slams against the Court's walls, weighed by fear. "Miss Trow, if it isn't too much trouble, are you aware of their condition? Is it critical? I will have the physicians summoned immediately, alongsid—"
"Neuvillette!"
His head whips in the direction of the sound, his eyes wide as he's greeted with the sight of the traveler and her floating companion. On her back, is a familiar figure—effervescent, ethereal, sublime. You.
He steps forward with as much composure as a creature so ardently in love can be expected to muster. And he reaches a hand out, almost instinctively, before retracting, never once forfeiting decorum, clearing his throat as he says, terribly restrained, "Miss Lumine, Miss Paimon. Forgive me for my impudence, and for showing you such an unsightly reunion. Thank you for coming all the way here, and for bringing Mx. [Name]. Although I cannot explain everything at the moment, please believe me when I say you have my utmost gratitude."
"It's no problem!" Paimon exclaims, waving her hands frantically. "But, uh, Paimon doesn't think that's the issue right now. We found [Name] while we were at the harbor, and their condition is unlike anything Paimon has ever seen before! Right, Traveler?"
Lumine nods. Neuvillette is quick to beckon her towards the couch, her movements under a watchful eye as she rests you onto the cushion, your breaths labored as your body is marred with scars that look as though they're formed from fragments of wind. The rain seems to grow even heavier at the sight.
"Do you know what could've caused this, Neuvillette?" Paimon asks, tilting her head slightly, eyes growing wide as Neuvillette kneels forward, hand outstretched to thumb at the side of your face, a breath seeming to escape him when you wince at the touch.
As elemental beings, Neuvillette understands you in ways that those far-removed from the bygone era of dragons couldn't.
"It seems as though they were wounded by pure elemental energy," Neuvillette explains, his movements lithe as he surveys the extent of your injuries, noticing the most significant gash of wind by your abdomen, seeping through the slice of your clothes, dripping with what looks to be faint breezes, coming out as gusts.
"Miss Trow, Miss Paimon, Miss Lumine," Neuvillette addresses each of the witnesses in his office with utmost sincerity, as calmly as he can afford, "if you'll allow us a moment of privacy, that would be much appreciated. I apologize for my lack of explanation, however, I believe that I must make haste. Though, please rest assured, I will answer any questions you have after the worst of this storm comes to pass."
"Of course, Monsieur Neuvillette!" Trow exclaims, rushing out of his office, dragging Lumine and Paimon alongside her. Appreciative, Neuvillette dips his head towards the closing door, returning to his spot by your side, the side of your face digging into the cushions, your expression contorted.
Neuvillette removes the gloves from his hands, fingers tracing over each of your wounds, the life of water bursting forth as its purity sweeps over the gusts of wind, sealing your wounds with the kiss of the sea.
And, for your furrowed brow, he reaches his thumb, bare, over the ridge of the bone, smoothing it over, watching as your countenance shifts, your fingers uncurling, your breaths steadying.
Neuvillette is not bound by this world's idea of fate. Still, there is a place for him in the stars of this sky, its reflection bearing his face, and, alongside it, the spirit of the wind. Boundless; unabashed; reckless. You.
Neuvillette is not bound by this world's idea of fate.
But, he wouldn't mind if subscribing to such an idea entailed that, by association, he would also be bound to you, a creature of similar origins to himself. An elemental. An anomaly in the eyes of this present ruler's idea of life.
"[Name]," Neuvillette says, voice barely above a whisper, hand raising to cover your eyes as you blink awake, shielding you from the brightness of his office lights, hovering just far enough above your face so you can turn and see him, the beholder, and yourself, the beheld.
You smile, albeit weakly, that smile of yours. And your lips part, and the sun manages to slip through the thunderous downpour, the weep of the sky, as, for the first time in what feels like a millennium, he hears the sound of his first name, returned to him. For all the rivers, the streams, the channels in this world—they must reunite with the sea.
"I made it here," you remark, staring at him still, your eyes wide, smile morphing into that of a toothy grin, daring. "I didn't think I'd manage."
"You must refrain from saying things like that," Neuvillette mutters, hand thumbing at the side of your face, tracing over the bone of your cheek, the flesh of your skin. Reunion.
"Still a scaredy cat?" you ask. "I'd have thought that your new appointment as Fontaine's ruler would've allowed you to overcome a few fears. The desert, for example."
Neuvillette smiles. "You speak lightly of what would be considered substantial grounds for an assassination attempt."
"Oh, no," you say, completely monotone. "The horror! Please, put me on trial then. You're good at that, right?"
He leans forward, hand dipping to cover your eyes completely, shielding your gaze from his own as he mutters, "You know very well I am unable to do that myself. I would have to appoint someone else to oversee the trial, and—"
"Oh my Hydro Dragon," you interrupt, hand raised to peel his own palm from your face, staring at him with an incredulous look. "I was joking! Joking!"
Neuvillette blinks, ignoring how you've just used his title so loosely. "And I was not?"
You stare at him, dumbfounded.
"Woah, woah, woah. There can only be one funny person in this Court. And that's me."
"Such a title is all yours."
"Good. Know your place, young man! And also, where are my macarons?!"
"They are here."
"Nice!"
Reunion.
"What's up, Hat Guy!"
"Don't call me that," Wanderer snaps, swatting your hand away. You laugh. He grimaces. That ridiculous name—you ought to stop saying it with your damned lips.
"Want to see my new invention?" you exclaim, ignoring his remark, wiggling your fingers in a peculiar way, weight shifting from one foot to another as you practically parade around his desk, making a mess of his studies and disrupting the stillness of the library. He wrinkles his nose, brows furrowing as he watches you make a fool out of yourself. You need to leave.
"No."
"As if I care about your answer! Onwards, Hat Guy!"
You grab him by the wrist, tugging him from his seat, oblivious to the frayed threads of his soul, entangled with yours, its knot manifesting red, tied from your pinky to his. You drag him along, his existence reinvented anew, the strings which his creator once contorted now belonging to you. Red; pinkies; hands.
A clenched fist is the same size as a heart.
To think you puppet each of his artificial limbs, to think the squeeze of your fist acts as a contraction for his heartless chest—to think that, despite it all, you are unaware of this very truth: the fact that you shake up his entire world with the curl of your fingers, not once realizing that it was in your grasp to begin with.
How very foolish.
"Prepare to be blown away!" you exclaim. "It's called the Ultra-Mega-Zap-Boominator! With this, I'll be able to stake claim as one of the most influential graduates in the Akademiya, ever!"
"What a pretentious name," he spits, making no effort to break from your grasp.
(Wanderer, ever the prisoner to this world's sickening idea of fate, has long threatened to burst from its seams, to free himself from the chains, to forfeit all notions of a destiny that has never sought his own salvation. He loathes containment; he'd rather erase himself a couple times over than to bear the disgusting brand of divinity again; but—
(But he looks at you—oh, he looks at you—and, he thinks that, most laughably, this is enough.
(And, if he had to be assigned meaning, if fate truly gazed upon this world with its all-encompassing cruelty, giving reason to all unfortunate creatures it saw, Wanderer thinks it might be this. It might be you. It might be this ludicrous school and this hand, curled around his. Your skin radiates heat, permeating into his artificial fibers, bestowing upon him the touch of humanity, the wretched idea that there is more for him in this world.
(Red; pinkies; hands. A clenched fist, chaining his own.
(The size of a heart.)
"Pretentious?" you echo, glancing over your shoulder, brows furrowed as you wear the face of offense. "I'll have you know that this title does only a part of it justice. This is my magnum opus, Hat Guy!"
Wanderer scoffs.
"Don't call me that."
How very you.
You take him to a suspicious, rundown place, far removed from the Akademiya. And, amidst the rubble, is a machine, creaking and jingling, its noises particularly disturbing as it runs on what looks to be some oil and a dream. Wanderer grimaces at the sight; you flash him a toothy grin, your hand parting from his to rest on your waist.
"So? Amazed?"
"This thing looks terrible."
"It's called the Ultra-Mega-Zap-Boominator."
"I'm leaving." Wanderer turns around, no longer bound by a fist nor a heart. He can't believe you strung him all the way out here just to show him a piece of garbage. You surely do have a lot of free time on your hands, considering that you're designing a whole lot of bullshit with the budget that the Kshahrewar Darshan gave you.
You should be ashamed of yourself. The whole school should be ashamed of itself, considering it let you in. As a matter of fact, the entirety of Sumeru should be ashamed that, with all its emphasis on wisdom, it let someone like you get a hold of a substantial sum of Mora. How embarrassing.
"Wait, you haven't even seen it in action! Check it out!"
Wanderer doesn't dare to look back. He's going to see a whole lot of nothing, he bets. And he doesn't have time to entertain your stupid machine—really, after his brief stint a while back, he's had quite enough of machines—but, he supposes it's farcical for him to believe that he has a choice.
Fate has its way with things like that: giving prisoners the delusion that they are in control, that these choices are theirs, that life, really, is just full of coincidences that add up over time. Across a hundred years, across millennia. He looks back.
The mouth of the Ultra-Mega-Zap-Boominator hinges open like a door, its jaws made of metal as it looms over your figure, the screeching sound of grinding steel pelting at his ears as you tilt your head, laughing maniacally.
"Aren't I a genius?!"
"Move, you imbecile!" Wind channeling his movements, Wanderer rushes forward, hand outstretched, flying into the collage of metal and bullshit as it slams shut behind him, your figure encased in his arms, warmth emanating from your skin into his. He can feel your breaths against his neck, he can feel the frantic dart of your head as you look around, submerged in darkness, unaware of anything except for the fact that he's here.
Your hand wanders, reaching his hair, patting the top of his head as you seem to feel the need to confirm whether it's really him or not. Wanderer swats your fingers away, but it's too late. You turn towards him, unsure of where you're looking, except for the fact that you're facing his general vicinity.
"Are you just Guy now? Where's your hat?"
Wanderer should've let that stupid fucking machine devour you whole.
"You sure have a lot to say for someone whose invention sucks," he spits. But your figure is still pressed against his; and his arms are still curled around your existence, as if afraid it'll escape him; and, while he does not breathe, Wanderer feels the irrevocable crawl up his throat, forcing him to swallow it down, its magnitude colossal. Like the weight of a star, a collection of gases which alone weigh nothing, but together, are worth the world.
You.
"You would've been a goner if it weren't for me," he states, "and you still have the audacity to call me that ridiculous name. Have you no shame?"
You don't respond. Wanderer half-entertains the thought of him finally winning an argument against you—it's impossible to a battle of idiocy when faced with an idiot, after all—but then, he feels something seep across his fingers, its heat even more palpable, blooming from the clothes on your back. He breathes in. Iron.
You're bleeding.
"Why didn't you say anything!?" he asks, his tone acerbic, his expression contorting violently in accordance to the redness which blossoms through his hands, staining the clear strings, knotted red, tied by pinkies. He gathers your body into his arms, the wind howling violently around your figures, light seeping in through the crevices of steel as he spears through the panels of your pathetic machine with a shear.
"Say what?" you mutter, voice muffled by the storming gusts. "Am I—oh, shit, I'm bleeding! Hat Guy, make sure nobody plagiarizes my studies, and nobody takes ahold of the Ultra-Mega—"
"Shut your mouth," Wanderer snaps, hands tightening around your form, hair dancing violently in the wind as he flies the two of you back to the Akademiya. "You're not going to die, and nobody in their right mind would want your studies."
"What about my Ultra-Mega-Zap—"
"That thing should rot."
"How dare you say that about the Ultra—"
He glares at you, cornflower eyes narrowed, brows furrowed as his lips draw into a thin line. He's in no mood to entertain your stupid jokes right now—your blood trails down the length of his arm, its warmth so utterly obscene, it makes him feel as though he wants to retch.
And your grin—your idiotic, presumptuous grin—it doesn't meet your eyes. Half-lidded and dazed, he can feel your head loll back in his arms, your limbs going limp, your lips slightly parted.
"Don't you dare close your eyes," he spits. "Stay awake."
"Don't tell me what to do," you manage to reply, in between breaths, grasping onto your mortality with the flicker of your eyes, finding his.
Humans are terribly fragile. They perish in flames, they're so easily reduced to ashes, they're so easily wounded by metal, they bleed red. Wanderer has always loathed the bits of his humanity—it haunted him, like clothes against skin, like the inevitable return of sight after a blink, like the thought that, no matter where he goes or what he does, he shall always be reminded of fate.
He is too human to become an Archon and too artificial to become human. His heartless chest was carved just large enough to fit a Gnosis, its size too small to fit a fist.
And yet, crimson surges throughout his puppeteer strings. Red; pinkies; fists.
You will be fine. Wanderer will make sure of that.
He doesn't leave your side. Even when the doctors try to usher him away, and when you're wheeled to a separate facility, he follows. His rope leads to you, after all. And when you wake, he's there, arms crossed, head craned slightly downwards as he rests his eyes, back leaning stiffly as he sits.
The inevitable return of sight after a blink.
Wanderer hears you shift, the bed creaking, and his cornflower eyes widen, bearing into your soul, allowing you to return the gesture and peer into his own.
"You need to resign," is all he says.
"What?! How dare you talk to a patient like that! Why, I oughta—"
"Now that you're awake, I'm leaving," Wanderer interrupts. Without much regard for anything else, he turns around, the door slamming behind him as he saunters away, not even bothering to spare you any last glance.
"You...!"
He can hear your yells from the waiting room. How embarrassing.
"Oh, Hat Guy!" the receptionist exclaims. "Glad to see you're finally taking a break!"
(From the moment you were admitted into the hospital, not once has Wanderer left your side. He does not need sleep nor food for sustenance, after all—all of his time was spent sitting at your bedside, examining your pulse, checking once, twice, thrice, for whether or not it was still there.
(And it was.
(And that was enough.)
Wriothesley only has one major line of advice: Don't break the law.
It's a simple thing, really. Saves the people at Palais Mermonia the trouble of being in the same vicinity as a criminal, saves him some additional paperwork to look over, saves the offender the trouble of, well, committing the offense. There are lots of perks to remaining a law-abiding citizen.
Though, not everybody heeds his advice. If they did, there would be nobody working at the Fortress, after all.
"What will you do now, Your Grace!?" the offender says sardonically, unable to contain the laughter which slips past their lips, knife raised to your throat as they lock you within the crease of their elbow.
Wriothesley grimaces. It's difficult to remain neutral when his icy gaze capture the way your mouth hangs slightly agape, your eyes blown wide as your hands curl around the length of the offender's arm, the rise of your chest quickened, pupils darting to and fro as you struggle to contain your trembling limbs.
He doesn't don his gloves. Not yet. Your figure attached to the offender almost makes Wriothesley want to forfeit all notions of negotiation—but violence exists as a countermeasure, a last resort when talks go south. He forces his gaze away from your own, feeling his heart crawl up his throat, the curl and forcible uncurl of his fists as he regards the perpetrator with as much neutrality as a man so devotedly in love and so devotedly adorned by fear can be expected to have.
"What is it that you want?" Wriothesley asks, tilting his head, his steps measured as he approaches the perpetrator.
At this, the offender moves backwards, blade pressing closer to your skin, spitting as they reply, "Get away!"
Wriothesley spares a quick glance at the metal, not wanting to draw attention to the subject of his worry. No blood. He looks back at the offender's eyes, thinking, with the most subtle of sighs, Good.
"A reduced sentence, then?" Wriothesley questions.
"As if! I want you to release my friend! They're—" While speaking, the knife draws into your skin, blood beginning to seep onto the blade, your expression contorting as you bite your lip, trying to conceal the pain while your knuckles pale around the offender's arm. Wriothesley grits his teeth at the sight, unable to contain the vehemency which flourishes all throughout his veins, fists curling with no restraint, nails digging into his palm.
All of his cards are revealed: the violent furrow of his brows, the downward curl of his lips, the wrinkle of the bridge of his nose as he scowls.
There is no negotiating now.
Wriothesley lurches forward, gloves manifesting instantaneously, fisted hand meeting the perpetrator's face and launching them back, their grip around you loosening. With his free arm, Wriothesley catches you, pulling you closer towards himself, attention turning towards your neck as he thumbs at the skin around the site, brows furrowed as he examines the depth of the wound.
You look at him, and his expression reinvents anew. Whole. He manages a smile, the gesture more for yourself than it is for him.
"Are you alright?" he asks, feigning ignorance to the roars of the criminal as they are apprehended by the Gardes.
"Yeah," you manage to say, in between the slight wince of your gaze as he brushes over the spot, his frown evident as your hands tremble involuntarily. Wriothesley clasps one of them with his own, interlacing his fingers, raising your knuckles up to his lips. A kiss. He smiles a little when you try to swat him away, embarrassed that he's being affectionate in public.
"Let's head over to Sigewinne," he remarks, not once letting you go. "And get you patched up, hm?"
You laugh. "What other option is there?"
Wriothesley grins. "Heading straight to the theater while bleeding out?"
Genshin guys react to you being your kids favourite parent
Featuring: most Genshin men.
Authors note: This is a short post for me.
Assuming you’re married with a young kid
Scoffs
They were arguing. In frustration the kid would yell saying that you are their favourite parent. He would chuckle before responding, “So? I love your mother more too, now what?” He doesn’t really care who the kid prefers. That choice has nothing to do with him. If the kid starts crying he’d comfort the kid but not take back what he said.
Alhaitham, Kinich, Diluc, Xinqiu, Albedo
Gasps
He is shocked when he overhears your kid say that you were his favourite parent instead of him. How could he not be their favourite when he is the fun parent? Will start naming memories he made with the kid, then ask, “Are you sure your mom is your favourite parent?” When the kid doesn’t budge he will try to bribe them in the future. He’ll offer them candy after you already said no, increase their bedtime by a few minutes, and keep secrets with them. He wants to be the favourite parent really bad.
He jokingly asked one day expecting for the answer to be himself. When your kid says you’re his favourite he pauses for a moment, then laughs. He can see why your kid feels that way. Still, he wasn’t expecting it. He’ll agree then mention that you are amazing. He will playfully tell the kid that he had you first. Might get in a mini argument with your kid over which one of them is your favourite.
He doesn’t know how to feel about it. It doesn’t really matter to him yet he cares just slightly. Not enough to the point where he’d do something about it, but enough for him to randomly think about it once every few years.
Chongyun, Razor, Xiao, Neuvillette, Durin
Saddened
He’s not too surprised but he’s honestly a little hurt by it. He won’t treat the kid differently but might privately sulk. He thought he was being a good dad, and yet your kid answered way too quickly about you being their favourite parent when asked by a stranger. What gets him is that the kid didn’t even think about it, they immediately said you.
It doesn’t matter to him who’s the favourite parent. It would boost his confidence a little if the kid said he was the favourite, but it doesn’t change anything if he’s not. At most, he will sigh and make a comment about how the kid is “obsessed with his mother.”
Hello I have a request for mydei phainon and wanderer if that's fine with you. Non-established relationship. Character discovers a notebook where reader keeps track of things the character likes, when their bday is, etc, but they notice that instead of their name, reader was written down "my love". They also discover plans to surprise them and/or gift them something. How would they react? What would they think? I am nonbinary by the way so please keep it GN, thank you
“For My Love: The Unwritten Confession”
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Wanderer x Reader, Non-Established Relationship, Found Notebook, Accidental Confession, Soft Romantic Tension, Gift/Surprise Planning, Subtle Fluff, Observational Affection, Mutual-But-Unspoken Feelings, Protective Undertones, Mild Banter, Low-Angst.
Warnings: Brief Mention Of Past Violence, Brief Mention Of Loss, Light Emotional Vulnerability, Slight Embarrassment, Flustered Moments, Wanderer’s Part Includes Mild Teasing.
The training yard had long emptied, the echo of sparring steel replaced by the rustle of evening wind through the high walls of Okhema’s Palace inner keep. Mydei was never one for idle rest; after drills, he remained to polish his gauntlets, oil his blade, and ensure every strap, every plate, was battle-ready.
You had left your satchel on the bench nearest the archery stands — uncharacteristic of you, since you guarded your belongings as tightly as you guarded your plans. Mydei didn’t notice it until the torchlight caught the glint of a golden clasp, and his hand, without conscious thought, reached for it.
The clasp came free with a quiet snap. Inside: notes, sketches, little scraps of parchment in your handwriting. At first, he assumed it was strategy work — you’d often kept tallies of weather patterns, patrol routes, and logistical quirks of the city’s defenses.
But this wasn’t that.
He saw the page header first: “My Love — Notes to Remember”.
Mydei stilled. His eyes scanned the script, his warrior’s composure hiding the sudden shift in his chest.
Prefers pomegranate juice with goat’s milk and cheese — smile always a little less guarded when drinking it.
Anniversary of the Siege — avoid bringing up loss unless he mentions it first.
Hair braids: prefers left side to hang free, right side pulled tighter.
Armor maintenance: uses brass oil blend, not standard iron oil — says it ‘smells like home’.
The pages went on — not tactical intelligence, but him. The subtle, unspoken details most would overlook.
And then, between careful sketches of his gauntlets and the crimson markings on his arms, a folded parchment:
A plan for the upcoming Chrysos Heirs feast. You’d listed every step, from securing rare Kremnoan spiced bread to arranging an evening where the two of you might “watch the city lights from the west wall, uninterrupted.”
For a man who had walked away from thrones, from banners, from the weight of a crown — for someone who lived ready to die before dawn — this felt heavier than any prophecy.
The name Mydei never appeared. Only My Love. Over and over.
He closed the notebook slowly, his hands steady even as something in him wavered. Mydei was not prone to indulgence in dreams — they were luxuries that could fracture resolve. But this? This was not a dream. This was proof that someone had seen him, truly seen him, without the armor of titles or the shadow of legend.
When you returned, breathless from fetching your quiver from the armory, his gaze met yours — piercing, assessing, yet softened in ways you couldn’t place.
“You keep… detailed records,” he said, holding the satchel out to you.
Your heart stuttered when you realized what he’d seen. “I—It’s not—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted gently, voice low but firm. “Do not apologize.”
You searched his face for mockery or judgment, but found neither. Only a warrior who had spent lifetimes at the edge of death, now holding something infinitely more fragile than his own life.
“My love,” he said, tasting the words as though they were foreign yet familiar. “A dangerous thing to call someone like me.”
Your reply caught in your throat, but he shook his head — not to silence you, but to give himself a moment.
“If the tide takes me tomorrow,” he said finally, “I will go knowing that someone thought of me as more than the Last Prince. That is… worth more than you know.”
And though he handed back the satchel, you could feel the weight of the promise in his gaze — a silent vow that he would meet that planned evening on the wall, even if the world was ending.
It was late in Okhema’s chambers (inside the bathhouse), the warm scent of oil lamps mixing with parchment and dust. You’d left your satchel under the reading table, promising to return after fetching tea for the two of you.
Phainon stayed, leafing through old campaign maps. But when his boot nudged the satchel, the soft clink of trinkets inside drew his curiosity.
He hesitated — a man of respect, not prone to prying — but a folded notebook had slid halfway out, and the words on the cover caught his eye.
For My Love.
He almost smiled, assuming it was some poetic title for a story you were drafting. But when he flipped it open, it wasn’t fiction.
Blue flowers over white — noticed you always linger near them.
Prefers tea over wine — unless it’s feast day, then both.
Hums softly when fixing weapons; pitch sharpens when focused.
Date: early winter or summer? — birthday? Needs confirmation before asking directly.
The list went on — tiny observations of him, all written in a tone of quiet affection.
Then came the sketches: his coat, the embroidery on his sleeve, even the sun-emblazoned armguard he wore. And in the margins, notes about commissioning a gift: “Custom-engraved scabbard — to carry light into battle.”
Phainon’s heart ached in a way it hadn’t in years. It was the kind of ache that came not from loss, but from recognition. To see himself reflected here — not the Vanguard, not the Deliverer, but simply Khaslana or Phainon as you saw him — made him feel almost weightless.
He turned the page and saw plans for the upcoming festival: arranging a moment to guide him to the river’s edge at sunset, to present the gift. “If I can make him smile without hiding anything… worth all the trouble.”
When you returned, balancing two steaming mugs, he had already closed the book, placing it atop the satchel.
“You’ve been… busy,” he said with that half-smile of his, equal parts teasing and sincere.
Your eyes darted to the notebook, panic rising. “That’s not— I mean, it’s—”
“Thoughtful,” he finished for you. “And more than I deserve.”
“You deserve—” you began, but he raised a hand, not to stop you, but to steady himself.
“I’ve been called a hero in so many tongues,” he said softly, “but this… this is the first time I’ve been called ‘my love’ without expectation, without prophecy attached.”
The way he said it made your chest tighten — not in embarrassment, but in understanding.
“I hope,” he continued, voice warm, “you still plan to give me this gift. I’d like to be surprised.”
And then, as he took one of the mugs, he added, “Though, for the record, you already have.”
You’d left your bag unattended for all of five minutes while fetching replacement ink from the market stall. It was your mistake — Wanderer didn’t do unattended things.
He sat cross-legged by the window when he noticed it, the corner of a small, worn notebook peeking out. Normally, he’d scoff and leave it — but boredom and suspicion were a dangerous mix.
The first page stopped him.
For My Love.
His brow furrowed. It was absurdly sentimental — the sort of thing he’d mock without hesitation. And yet…
Flipping through, his sharp eyes caught the lists:
Prefers dango to most sweets, but will pretend otherwise if someone notices.
Gets restless if not given something to do with his hands.
Pauses mid-sentence when remembering something — usually unpleasant.
He skimmed further, irritation creeping in — not at the accuracy, but at the audacity of writing him down like some specimen.
Then, in the middle, a plan. For him.
A detailed outline of finding a rare violet paper parasol, supposedly matching the shade of a flower he’d once lingered near in silence. Arrangements for giving it to him without anyone else seeing.
No name for him in the notebook. Only My Love.
His lips pressed into a thin line. Sentimentality, yes — but also… care. Too much care.
When you returned, he was still holding it, gaze unreadable.
“You really think you can just… write me down like this?” he asked, tone deceptively casual.
Your stomach dropped. “You read it?”
“Obviously.” He flipped it closed and held it up. “What is this? Some kind of… emotional ledger?”
“It’s just—” you started, but he cut in.
“You call me ‘my love’ in here.”
Silence.
He leaned back, watching you squirm. “Bold. Stupid. But bold.”
You braced for ridicule, but instead, he set the notebook beside him and rested his chin on his hand. “You really went to this much trouble? For me?”
“…Yes,” you admitted quietly.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at his lips. “Hmph. Guess I’ll allow it. For now.”
Then, softer — so soft you almost missed it — he added, “Don’t mess up your little plan. I want to see if it’s as good as you think it’ll be.”
And just like that, he stood, tucking the notebook back into your bag. No thanks, no grand confession — just the faintest trace of color on his cheeks as he stepped past you.
Hiii goodluck with your upcoming exams,Im also writing exams too right now so ik your pain lol ♡
Idk if you saw my request or not but im gonna re-request it here,if you're busy then dont feel pressured to finish it immediately dw :)
Can I request some comfort/fluff of Blade and also maybe Boothill comforting a neurodivergent/autistic reader who's extremely overstimulated? Like, reader feels distressed and overwhelmed because their senses are overloaded,and they suddenly shut everyone out to try to recover but it doesnt work so they seek char out for comfort while trying not to have a really bad break down ♡
I dont really see much representation for neurodivergent folk like me in fanfics,esp in hoyo spaces ,so I really wanted to request this and I also really love your writing.
Again,dont feel pressured to write this,please take care of yourself and your studies ♡
A Moment of Sanctuary
Tags: Phainon x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Blade x Reader, Neurodivergent Reader, Sensory Overload, Comfort, Fluff, Emotional Support, Gentle Touch, Anxiety Relief, Overstimulation.
Warnings: Mild Anxiety/Distress, Sensory Overload, Emotional Vulnerability, Reader in Distress.
A/N: Hope you like this, I tried my best! 🙏💖
The world had become too much. The buzzing of lights overhead, the distant chatter of people, the clinking of plates and murmurs all pressed against your senses until your chest ached. You pressed your hands against your ears, taking in sharp, shallow breaths, trying to carve a pocket of silence amidst the chaos. It wasn’t working. You had tried to retreat into a quiet corner, a little bubble where nobody could reach you, but even the walls didn’t seem thick enough. Every sound, every movement pressed in, overwhelming.
And so you moved. You didn’t quite know why, only that somewhere deep in your instinct, you were seeking him. Phainon. Somehow, he always knew, without words, without needing explanations. His presence felt like a calm tide in the storm of your thoughts, a steady warmth that wouldn’t demand or judge.
You found him in the courtyard, where the late afternoon sun struck the stones in golden patterns. He was polishing his sword, though his gaze lifted immediately the moment he sensed your approach. His cyan-blue eyes softened when he saw the tension etched across your face.
“You,” he said gently, his voice warm and calm, “come here.”
You hesitated, not trusting your voice to form words, but his hand extended toward you, open and patient. Slowly, trembling, you took it, letting his fingers curl over yours like a lifeline. The instant contact grounded you a little, the warmth of his hand a small reprieve from the storm of sensations.
He guided you to a quiet bench under the shade of a lone tree. His movements were slow, careful, as if every motion was chosen to avoid startling you. “Breathe,” he said softly, “just with me. One. Two. Three…” His counting was gentle, not insistent, and soon your breaths began to mirror his, long and deliberate, until the thrum in your chest slowed.
“You don’t have to explain,” he murmured, placing a hand lightly on your shoulder. “I don’t need words right now. Just… be here. Be with me.”
Your eyes stung with unshed tears, overwhelmed and embarrassed by the storm inside you, but Phainon’s gaze held no judgment, only understanding. Slowly, you leaned against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. His coat smelled faintly of smoke and sunlight, grounding and familiar. He shifted slightly to hold you, arm around your shoulders, the other hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.
“You’re carrying too much,” he said, almost as if reading your mind. “And it’s okay to let it go, just for a moment. You’re not weak for feeling it. You’re not failing.”
His words were a balm, each syllable soft but resolute. The warmth in his chest seeped into you, steadying your racing heart. You whispered a shaky, “I—I can’t…” and he shook his head gently.
“You don’t need to. Not now. Not ever, really. Let me carry some of it.”
Minutes passed like a gentle tide. He didn’t push you to speak, didn’t probe for details. Instead, he hummed quietly under his breath, a low, rhythmic sound that somehow wove itself into your own breathing. Slowly, the world’s harsh edges dulled. The bright sun no longer felt like fire against your skin; the distant voices faded into the background. Just for this moment, you existed only in the soft cocoon of Phainon’s presence.
“I’ll stay,” he said finally, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “As long as you need.”
And you believed him.
The noise hit like a whip crack. Sirens wailing, neon lights flickering, boots clattering on metal floors. You tried to shut it out, pressing your face into your hands, rocking slightly, but the world refused to relent. Every sound, every movement, every flashing light screamed at your senses until you felt raw and exposed, like you could shatter at any moment.
You needed someone who could match your chaos with calm. Boothill. Somehow, his presence felt like a shield, even in the middle of a crowded station, his reputation for audacity replaced with a quiet, grounding understanding.
You found him leaning against a wall near the loading docks, his hat tipped low, fingers idly tracing the exposed gears of his mechanical arm. The red scarf around his neck seemed almost violent against the gray metal backdrop, but he moved to you as soon as he noticed your distress.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and rough, but not unkind. “You look like heck.”
You shook your head, words catching in your throat. Too loud. Too many. He didn’t press, only stepped closer and held out a hand. Tentatively, you took it, letting him lead you away from the flashing lights and chaotic crowd.
Boothill guided you to an empty corner of the hangar, the hum of the machinery quieter here, the shadows long and forgiving. You pressed yourself against the wall, overwhelmed, your breaths uneven. He crouched in front of you, mechanical torso humming softly, and met your gaze.
“You don’t have to talk,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “You don’t have to do anything but breathe. Just… breathe with me.”
His hand found yours again, warm despite the cold metal beneath it. Slowly, you followed his rhythm, inhaling and exhaling in time with his steady heartbeat, counting silently to keep yourself tethered.
“You’re not alone,” he murmured, leaning back slightly so you could rest your head on his shoulder. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not while you’re like this.”
It felt almost ridiculous at first, leaning on him, the tall, brash gunslinger turned gentle, grounding presence. But the sensation of his shoulder beneath your head, the steady warmth of his arm, the gentle mechanical hum—all of it wrapped around you like armor against the world.
He hummed quietly, a low, almost melodic tune that threaded through the hangar. You let your trembling hands rest against his chest, tracing the lines of his mechanical body, focusing on its solidity instead of the chaos outside.
“Hey,” he said after a while, voice soft but firm, “it’s okay to feel like this. You’re not broken. Just… overloaded. That’s all. And I’ll be here until it passes.”
You blinked up at him, words failing, but the silent reassurance in his red-streaked eyes and the tilt of his hat was enough. Slowly, imperceptibly, the panic ebbed. The world outside felt distant, manageable. Boothill didn’t rush, didn’t prod; he only stayed, a steady presence in the storm, giving you permission to heal at your own pace.
The room felt alive with too many sensations: the distant clanging of swords, the hum of the forge, the faint metallic scent of oil. Your chest tightened, breaths coming shallow and fast, and you pressed your hands to your temples, rocking slightly in a desperate attempt to escape the noise. It didn’t help. It never did.
And so, as always, you sought him. Blade. The one who seemed to understand the weight of chaos without judgment. You found him leaning against the training hall wall, the broken sword resting across his shoulder, eyes sharp even in the dim light.
“You’re here,” he said simply, not accusatory, not surprised. Just a statement. He straightened and came to you, dark eyes scanning your trembling form. “I can see it. You’re… overloaded.”
Your lips quivered, unable to form words, so he crouched down to your level, his presence enormous but not threatening. “It’s okay. You don’t have to speak. You don’t have to do anything. Just… stay here.”
His hand found yours, fingers entwining with a gentle strength that grounded you. Slowly, you allowed your body to lean against him, letting the solid weight of him anchor your mind. He shifted slightly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Unlike others, his touch wasn’t sweet or light—it was firm, steady, deliberate. It promised you were safe, even if your senses screamed otherwise.
Blade hummed low under his breath, a subtle, rhythmic sound that somehow matched the irregular beat of your heart. You pressed your face into his chest, muffling the world, letting his presence swallow the chaos. He didn’t speak unless necessary, only offered occasional murmurs.
“You’re not failing,” he said at last, voice low but unwavering. “You’re not broken. You’re overwhelmed. That’s… human.”
A shaky laugh escaped you, mingled with a sob. “I… can’t stop it…”
“You don’t have to,” he replied, tightening his hold. “You just need to survive it. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”
Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the low murmur of Blade’s breathing and the faint creak of his sword against the floor. Slowly, imperceptibly, the tightness in your chest loosened. Your breaths evened, your hands unclenching. The world outside was still loud, still bright, but within his presence, it became manageable.
“Stay here,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll be here. I… won’t leave.”
And for the first time in hours, the storm inside you began to ebb. With Blade, with his quiet, patient strength, the noise became bearable.
konnichiwallahi senpais i'm kinda back. well not rlly, i'm just not episodic anymore (for now), so i can comfortably log onto my accounts without staring blankly at my feed n logging out yaaaaay. i promise i'll get to the requests but to avoid making myself too anxious i'm gonna be a bit slow with them 🥹🫶🏻!!! i had to hide from half my accounts because i felt anxiety from things i left behind here and i have a tendency to pressure myself into avoidance from how bad it gets. (also i have a bad overexplaining habit to feel understood so please don't take this as a vent!!)
i'll try also post my own ideas outside of lazy smut, i just feel so awkward with how i try characterise him so i get demotivated easily.
anyways i don't like feeling depressing on this account because you're here for my writing and not my vents, so i won't type too much here. this should be enough for an update. i have to finish my commissions before i get to feel free enough to start writing, however. which should be soon.
Alright. Hear me out on men who absolutely love their personal space— and everyone knows it. Anyone who threatens to invade it either gets a sharp quip or harsh slap thrown their way. However, when matched with an oh–so–affectionate lover who adores their personal space as much as they do, they just can't help but cave. They'll allow you to hold their hand, slot yourself into the gaps their forms provide, press kisses wherever and whenever your precious heart desires. They'll find themselves enjoying the attention— closing their eyes and leaning into your tender touch, occasionally reciprocating with a few caresses of their own. Only in private though. In public, should you pull any of this, they'll simply deadpan at you or roll their eyes, keeping their hands perfectly perched at their sides or crossed over their chests as you practically smother them. They have a reputation to uphold, how dare you attempt to taint that with your insistent presence! Even though they would appear to be aloof or annoyed, everyone can simply tell, by the way they have yet to display cruelty your way; there's a spot in their hearts reserved specifically for you and your touch.
Though he'll never say it to your face, he let's you get away with so much. Not because you're good at convincing him to go along with your shenanigans. But because he just can't say no to you.
If you decide that you're going climb on him— whether that be in the comfort of your own home or in broad daylight. Do it. He won't encourage you, but won't stop you either. Just be careful not slip. He'll catch you if you do, but he'd rather not risk your safety like that
If you decide that you randomly want a quick look at his muscles under his clothes— strip him. Sure, he may think you're weird, but he won't make any attempts to stop you either. If you try this in public though, that's a whole other story. Maybe. Play your cards right and you'll get your way.
On that note, if you choose to run your hands along his bumps and curves— he'd let you! He'd silently watch as you fawn over his sculpted physique — created through years of hard work. Assuming you decide to put your mouth on him, he won't object. There'll be a slight furrow of the brows, but nothing more.
Then, there are the times you bite him. He'll jolt, but then look at you with a look of bewilderment and/or nonchalance. What you get is entirely dependent on his mood that day. He'll ignore the sting, but will intead focus on how cute you look when you're pleasd.
If you must, you're allowed to cling to him all day. Sure, he'll huff and puff as he drags you from place to place, but he'll never tell you off for doing it. In fact, when it's the dead of night and your completely wrapped around him like a second blanket, he actually quite enjoys the extra weight. It reminds him that you're there — alive— and that you want him.
It doesn't matter what you do. He'll say nothing and just observe your odd behaviour. There will be no argument. There will be no fuss. And there will be minimal resistance to your antics. All you'll get is a quiet, loving gaze as you get up to your usual antics.
At the end of the day, sure, he thinks you're the strangest creature to have ever crawled out the crevices of the earth. But he likes you that way and is willing to indulge you in whatever your dearest heart so pleases! <3
Megumi Fushiguro, Sae Itoshi, Shoto Todoroki, Shouta Aizawa, Kiyotaka Ayanokoji, Blade, Dan Heng, Phainon, m!Rover, Levi Ackerman, Giyuu Tomioka, Izuru Kamakura, Kinich Malipo, Aki Hayakawa, Mash Burnedead, Saitama, Genos, Shishiba, Teru Minamoto, Tamsy Caines, Illumi Zoldyck, Loid Forger, Julius von Pallistan, Takashi Morinozuka, Natsuki Seba, (+your faves)
# sfw headcanon fic. gn!reader. just soft moments. the exact moment these guys realise that you mean more to them than they realised. No confessions, just that oh moment <3
✧ WANDERER (POST-NOD KRAI)
Wanderer’s initial reaction to catching feelings won't be soft affection. It will feel like a trap he accidentally walked into.
The wind howling through the crags of Nod-Krai was sharp enough to scrape paint off iron, carrying the bitter tang of old frost and gunpowder. You were huddled near the dying embers of the braziers, trying to nurse a lukewarm cup of tea, when the air pressure shifted. A quiet thud sounded above you as boots landed on the wooden rafters.
Wanderer sat perched on the ledge, one leg dangling over the edge, his broad hat tilted low enough to shadow his face. He didn't look at you. He was staring out into the dark, barren expanse where the Abyss-corrupted night air rolled over the hills. "You're making too much noise," he said, his voice flat, cutting through the gale with zero effort. "And your fire is smoking. A blind Hilichurl could track you from three miles away."
"I didn't ask you to stay," you murmured back.
A harsh, scoffing noise escaped him. "Stay? Don't flatter yourself. The draft is better up here." But he didn't leave. He didn't move an inch. Instead, as a brutal gust of wind whipped around the corner of the ruined outpost, threatening to blow out your tiny fire entirely, the air around you suddenly went still. A faint, glowing swirl of Anemo rippled in a protective sphere around your small corner of the ruins, deflecting the freezing gale over your head like an invisible glass dome.
Below the brim of his hat, his hands were tense where they gripped the stone of his Vision. His knuckles were white. He was looking down at you now—his indigo eyes narrowed, dark, and terribly intense, filled with a complex, burning frustration that had nothing to do with the cold.
Pathetic, he thought, watching the way you leaned closer to the warmth he was maintaining for you. Look at you. Vulnerable. Soft. A single misstep in these borderlands and you'd be ash.
And the worst part—the part that made his chest ache with an old, bitter agony he thought he’d left behind in the Irminsul—was that if you became ash, he knew he would tear this entire region apart looking for the fire that did it. "Drink your tea," he muttered, turning his face away sharply into the biting wind, though the Anemo barrier didn't waver for a single second. "Before I decide to throw it into the snow.”
✧ VARKA.
The moment Varka realises he's in love with you, he goes quiet. Because he’s never quiet. He’s the guy who fills every silence with a boom of laughter, a clink of a glass, or a booming order. When a man who commands that much noise suddenly drops into total, uncharacteristic silence? That means something.
The table between you was strewn with the remnants of late-night work—spilled ink, burnt-out candle stubs, and an empty bottle of dandelion wine that Varka had finished an hour ago.
He was in the middle of a story, broad arms resting on the dark oak, spinning some utterly ridiculous tale about a northern bear that had allegedly tried to steal his boots during the expedition. He was leaning in, loud and animated, his laughter rumbling low in his chest like distant thunder, waiting for you to call him out on his obvious exaggeration. Instead, you just reached across the table.
You didn't say anything grand. You were just exhausted—eyelids heavy, voice soft—as you casually reached out, plucked the stray goose feather clinging to his lapel, and set it aside. Your fingers brushed the worn leather over his collarbone, trailing down for a split second to pull his askew cloak back over his broad shoulder so the draft from the window wouldn't catch him.
It was an entirely unconscious gesture. Instinctive, domestic. The action of someone who had simply gotten used to looking after him when he forgot to look after himself. And right in the middle of a syllable—Varka went dead silent. The sudden lack of his voice hit the room harder than a slammed door.
You blinked, looking up from his cloak, expecting to see him grinning or rolling his eyes. He wasn't. The lazy, theatrical warmth had entirely evaporated from his face. He sat completely motionless, his massive frame utterly still, blue eyes fixed on your hand where it still lingered near his collar.
"Varka?" you murmured, frowning a little. "Did I...?"
He didn't answer immediately. For three long seconds, the only sound in the office was the ticking of the grandfather clock and the howl of the wind outside the glass. In that quiet, you could practically see the gears turning behind those sharp eyes. The boisterous old lion was gone, replaced instantly by the seasoned commander—a man who had just recognized a massive, terrifying shift in the terrain and realized he was completely exposed. He wasn't scared; Varka didn't do fear. He was just... stunned by the absolute weight of it.
Ah, the thought struck him with the force of a broadsword. I’m done for.
Slowly, his chest rose as he let out a long, quiet exhale—no laugh, no joke attached to it. "No," Varka said softly, his voice dropping an octave, losing every drop of its usual performative flair. It was surprisingly rough, grounded, and entirely intimate. He reached up, his massive, calloused hand covering yours where it rested on his chest, gently trapping your fingers against the steady, thumping heat of his heart. He leaned back just an inch, his gaze locked onto yours with a terrifyingly clear, undivided focus.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle over the back of your knuckles. A tiny, somewhat helpless curve touched the corner of his mouth—not his Grand Master grin, but something painfully real. "Just... stay right there for a second. Let me catch my breath."
✧ LOHEN
For a fighter used to sharp boundaries—someone enters your space, someone leaves your space—the concept of someone's presence remaining behind after their physical body has left is entirely foreign. It disrupts his internal logic.
The muffled rhythm of rain was tapping against the stained glass, casting long, fractured shadows across the stone floor of the archive. Lohen was leaning against the heavy oak table, arms crossed, trying his absolute best to look like the picture of composed authority. You were leaning over a spread of old maps, your shoulder brushing his sleeve every time you reached to trace a faded trade route.
"So," you said, not looking up, though the faint curve at the corner of your mouth gave you away. "If the shipment is delayed at the pass, your brilliant grand strategy collapses before the week is out."
"It won't be delayed," Lohen countered smoothly, though his eyes flicked down to where your hand rested on the parchment. "I sent the patrol out hours ago. Unlike some people, I don't leave my logistics to luck."
"Right. You leave them to terrifyingly precise planning and zero sleep." You finally looked up, turning toward him. You were standing entirely too close—close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes, close enough that the soft, warm scent of bergamot and rain swept right past his carefully maintained defenses. Lohen’s throat went dry. He opened his mouth to deliver a sharp, witty comeback, but the words completely dissolved on his tongue.
"What?" you asked, tilting your head, amused by his sudden silence.
"Nothing," he said, stepping back just half an inch—a defensive maneuver he’d never admit to. He cleared his throat, forcing his usual smugness back into his voice. "Just waiting for you to finish cluttering my desk so I can actually get some work done."
"Charming as always, Lohen." You laughed, a quiet, rich sound that seemed to hum right through the quiet archive. You rolled up the map, tucking it under your arm, and patted his shoulder as you passed. "I'm leaving. Try not to miss me too much."
"Don't hold your breath," he called after you, watching as you headed for the heavy arched doors.
"Goodnight, Lohen."
"Night."
The heavy oak door clicked shut with a soft, final thud, the latch catching in the frame. The sound echo-canceled the energy in the room, leaving behind a sudden, heavy stillness. Lohen didn't move. He stood by the oak table, intent on grabbing his coat and heading out. But as he stepped forward into the space where you had just been standing, the air felt different. Thicker. Warmer. He caught himself inhaling—a slow, deep breath he hadn't planned on taking—and the faint, unmistakable trace of bergamot washed over him.
Lohen froze mid-step. He stared at the empty space in front of him, his chest tightening unexpectedly. His body leaned in just a fraction—an instinctual, unbidden impulse to catch the tail end of the scent before the cool draft from the window swept it away entirely.
What are you doing?
The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. He straightened up abruptly, a sudden flush of heat crawling up the back of his neck. He was a knight, a tactician—he tracked movements, anticipated strikes, read battlelines in seconds. Yet here he was, standing completely alone in a silent room, leaning into the lingering perfume air like a fool, trying to hold onto someone who had already left. He covered his face with one hand, letting out a breath that was half-sigh, half-disbelieving laugh.
Gods above, he thought, his heart hammering a stupidly fast rhythm against his ribs. I am in so much trouble.
✧ ILLUGA
For Illuga, love isn't just a sweet feeling—it’s an existential crisis. His immediate instinct won't be to jump in; it'll be to keep a protective distance to keep you safe from his "curse.” Wanting to survive for you becomes his greatest hurdle and his greatest growth.
Illuga’s voice carried over the wind with the crisp, ringing clarity of a drawn blade. "Third squad, fall back to the treeline! Hold the perimeter, don't break formation!" Efficient. Absolute.
In the heat of an ambush, he moved like water and struck like iron, stepping smoothly between a bleeding scout and an incoming blow, his shield taking the brunt of the impact with a heavy thud. He didn't flinch, he never flinched. Taking the hit was second nature—a bill he paid willingly every time he brought his people home breathing. It was only after the dust settled, when the silence of the forest crept back in, that the exhaustion set in.
He was crouched by the supply crates, methodically wrapping a strip of linen around his bruised forearm, when you sat down beside him. You didn't ask permission. You just reached out, took the bandage from his hands, and began fixing the messy, hasty job he’d done on himself.
Illuga opened his mouth to tell you he was fine, that there were others who needed the medic’s kit more, but the words died in his throat. You weren't yelling. You weren't even scolding him. But the quiet, sharp tension in your jaw, the gentle precision of your hands as you worked... you were angry because he’d thrown himself into the line of fire again. You were hurt because he treated his own life like an acceptable loss.
"Illuga," you murmured, your voice low, almost a whisper over the rustle of the leaves. "Stop treating your life like a spare part."
His chest tightened—a sharp, sudden ache that had nothing to do with the combat. He looked at you, really looked at you, tracing the exhaustion line under your eyes, the dust on your cheek, the fierce, stubborn concern glowing in your gaze. For years, he’d believed his life belonged to the ghosts he left behind. He was a shield, and shields were meant to break eventually. But as your thumb brushed softly over the back of his hand, anchoring him to the present, the realization hit him like a physical weight: If I break, I shatter them.
"I'm sorry," Illuga said quietly, his voice losing its commander’s edge, softening into something raw, human, and deeply tender. He covered your hand with his own, his large, calloused palm warm against your skin. "I'll... I'll be more careful. I promise."
And for the first time in his life, he actually meant it. Not just to win the fight—but to make sure he came home to you.
✧ FLINS
Flins uses death and his graveyard as punchlines. He’s the guy who teases you about having a plot picked out for you. The moment of realization hits when he tries to make one of those dark jokes about you—and suddenly finds the concept utterly revolting.
The air around the Final Night Cemetery was always biting, carrying the sharp scent of frost and turned earth. Flins walked with his usual measured, soundless grace, the azure light of his lantern casting long, eerie shadows against the gravestones.
You were walking beside him, bundled heavily against the Nod-Krai chill, complaining good-naturedly about the morbid route he’d chosen for your evening stroll.
"Come now," Flins purred, his voice a smooth, cultured hum as he tilted his head to look at you. His pupil-less yellow eyes caught the blue light of the flame. "It is perfectly peaceful. In fact, I was just admiring a spot under the weeping willows over there. It gets wonderful moonlight. I could reserve it for you, if you'd like?"
It was a standard line. A tease meant to draw out that exasperated little sigh he found so endlessly fascinating. You rolled your eyes, laughing breathlessly as a puff of white fog escaped your lips. "Keep it up, Flins, and I'll make sure you're the one who has to dig it."
He opened his mouth to deliver a perfectly timed, elegant retort—but the words died in his throat. The moonlight hit your face, illuminating the pink flush of the cold on your cheeks and the vibrant, undeniable warmth of your life against the frozen backdrop of his cemetery. Suddenly, the thought of you under the earth, cold and still beneath the willows, flashed through his mind. For a creature who had lived for centuries, who treated death like an old colleague, the imagery felt like a physical blow. The joke turned to ash.
The azure flame in his lantern violently hissed, flaring so bright it painted the snow in stark, electric blue. You blinked, startled by the sudden light, and looked up at him. "Flins? Are you alright?"
For a long, agonizing second, the Lightkeeper simply stared at you, his perfectly composed mask fracturing as an unfamiliar, suffocating possessiveness curled tight in his chest. He didn't want you as a memory. He didn't want you as one of the beautiful, tragic tales he told to travelers. "Yes," Flins finally murmured, his voice dropping an octave, entirely stripped of its usual teasing lilt.
He stepped closer, the graceful movement swift and almost predatory, until he was shielding you entirely from the biting wind. He reached out, his cold, gloved fingers gently but firmly adjusting the thick collar of your coat to cover your neck. "I just realized," he said softly, his golden eyes unblinking, "that I would very much prefer you stay above ground for a long, long time. Please... do not speak of digging graves tonight.”
premise. you're a good student at tevyat high, with stellar grades and a good personality to boot. even whilst trying to strive for the best academically, you seem to get yourself in these insane situations?
notes. first post on tumblr aaagh insane!!! might do a pt2 if i get that far, reader inspired by typical shoujo protagonists, crabs hate reader in xiao's section, reader is class president, reader wears glasses in lohen's section, apologies for ooc w some, implied that zhongli is xiao's dad, zhongli as history teacher, minorly proofread sorry for mistakes!!!
xiao, episode one.
"look, guys, there's crabs over here!"
you'd forgotten how unnatural hu tao could be at times. usually, being placed as class president is a novelty students celebrate, but after being forced to organise the beach trip to 'release steam', you weren't so sure. it took half of your will to live to even get everyone's signatures and the rest of it was being expended on trying to stop the public from judging hu tao's shouting.
still, being president is a role you can't forgo, so your feet meet sand quicker than you'd like to admit. "hu tao, i'm glad your happy, but aren't those, like, dangerous?"
she laughed, throwing her red bucket in the air. "mmm, maybe! apparently they're a very good judge of character," she beamed, but her new 'friends' were far too close for your comfort, especially once the brown-coated crab on her palm made itself known.
ganyu had joined the fray too, shyly scooping up one of the smaller crabs from the bucket. "woah, they're actually quite friendly."
"since when were crabs ever known for being friendly?" you probed, crossing your arms. it wasn't exactly harmful for them to be playing with sea animals... but if one of the younger years stumbled upon this and got hurt, it was definitely you who'd be placed at fault.
you bit your lip. "okay, fine. i'll hold one, but if i say they're dangerous, your putting them back."
hu tao nodded eagerly, fishing another crab out of her tub, its back a dusty blue. she softly placed it into your hands, which you raised slightly to get a proper glance at its face. (okay, maybe this was pretty cute...)
"ow!" or not. you were quick to notice the stabbing pain through your finger, and the claw which had attached itself. you quickly screamed, closing your eyes and praying it would just leave of its own accord, but the annoying guy wouldn't let go. if you had another second of the thing clawing to your hand, you'd be sure to hit hu tao, but the pain soon calmed.
"hu tao, you should've known better. no one should be playing with the crabs round here." oh. you recognised that voice, mainly because you only heard it at school meetings. finally, you opened your eyes, meeting green hair and a crab now sitting calmly in xiao's palm.
she huffed. "okay, sorry! i didn't realise it'd be that mean..."
he just sighed softly. "we should probably go clean that cut," he'd noted, before pulling you away from the group. you'd only just noticed his hand had been holding your injured one.
it was a little bit shameful to have to tell your history teacher that you'd cut your hand open because of a crab. even worse, you knew he was related to xiao in some way. though, before you knew it, you were sat under a parasol whilst xiao opened the first aid kit.
the silence was loud, even for a busy beach. you coughed. "um, i'm sorry for this. i was just worried about the younger years getting scared, y'know, and... yeah."
you looked up. xiao was smiling slighty; you'd never seen him do that. "it's fine. i know hu tao has some rather outlandish habits."
you hummed. that was true. hu tao had been in your class for a few years now, and she hadn't changed. maybe you wish she had, because the antiseptic wipe stung more than you wanted it to.
"sorry about that. but, nearly done." his fingers soon went for the bandages, wrapping a few layers around your finger. he wasn't exactly harsh, more so firm in what he was doing. once he was done, he gave your hand a light pat, like signalling he had finished his job.
you nodded at his handiwork. "impressive. at least i know who to come to when i get attacked by sea creatures again."
xiao had managed to laugh at that. then you paused. didn't hu tao say crabs can read people? "wait... you held the crab just fine, right? it only bit me!" you then looked over at hu tao's station. there were at least more than ten now, stroking the back shell of the crab without question. you groaned. "what the hell?"
albedo, episode two.
it was embarrassing to admit, but you were pretty sure you've liked albedo since the first day you met him. it was the day of the dreaded maths exam, and you were seated next to him. he'd subtly slid his answers to your side. you were usually a dedicated student, but having a guy risk expulsion to help you on a test? husband material.
so, it was no surprise when you wrote him a letter of confession. it wasn't exactly easy: what return address could you put, locker 483? so you just put his initial on top and stuffed the letter in before school begun. you weren't sure of his exact locker, but you knew it was near one of the doors, so you slid it through the grooves of the appropriate locker and moved on.
you tried getting a peak of him at break; he was stood at his locker with one of his classmates, al-haitham. they were both looking down at something, presumably your letter, but ayaka dragged you away before you could even catch his reaction!
though, you'd imagined, no biggie. you had maths with him later on in the day, so the answer would be revealed then.
"hi, albedo," you smiled, already sat in your seat. you had been expecting 'letter' to be one of the first words mentioned, but...
"hi."
what? you looked over at him, to see him busying himself with whatever task maths had asked of him. you blanked; this is definitely not the way these confessions play out in anime. "you, er... read anything good lately?"
he hummed. "not really."
it felt like a sucker punch to the gut. had he just not read it? no, you were sure he did, you literally saw a peak of the letter when you walked by him earlier. maybe he didn't understand your intentions? but you made them perfectly clear...
the lesson passed by much slower than usual. you didn't attempt more conversation, and neither did he. in fact, you don't think he could've left the classroom faster. had you offended him that badly?
you were the last to walk out of the room, except your way was blocked.
"name."
"oh, al-haitham? what's up? i don't think i owe a library book..." you drifted off, looking back up at him.
he evaded your eye contact. "no, not that; i just wanted to apologise. about your letter. i'm sorry, i don't feel the same way."
you scoffed. "is this his way of shutting me down? wow."
al-haitham finally looked at you. "he? why are you referring to me in third person?"
the bell rang to officially signify students should be leaving now. "you? what are you on about? that letter was for albedo, but—“
"no. you put it in my locker."
your face dropped. "what?! that was for albedo. i even put an a on the front!" maybe that was a slight fault in your plan. albedo, al-haitham... you can see the mix-up now. "i'm so sorry, i have to go!"
if you were quick enough, you'd be sure to catch him. your feet pounded against the tiles of the hall in fast succession. was that the reason for his coldness before? even if not, you can't risk it; albedo would definitely avoid you if it was.
there was only one place he'd be. you slammed the lab door open, being met with his eyes staring dead into yours. "name?" it was still that cold tone, but he approached once he saw your panting figure.
"did something happen?"
"the letter's for you, not al-haitham! i didn't put your name on it because i knew my friends would tease me for it. but that was my mistake and i'm sorry, truly. if you like more not, that's up to you. but i couldn't stand you not knowing the truth."
albedo placed his lab goggles on the desk finally, walking over to you. "i see. i will admit, i was slightly surprised you'd asked al-haitham out for coffee. but to answer the question in your letter: yes, i'd love to go to that cafe with you."
wanderer, episode three.
valentines at tevyat high could rival any of the big holidays. huge banners of hearts laced the hallways, heartograms were available to send to that special someone; but most importantly, the chocolates.
you'd made a rather big batch. enough for your friends, your parents, even for your neighbour's little kid. you'd stared at the last pouchful, tackily decorated with a red bow and labelled 'wanderer'.
initially, he wasn't in your list of givees. he snuck his way in there like he snuck his way into both your mind and your heart. even so, when they lingered in your palm, you didn't exactly know what to say. happy valentines day seemed optimal, but you had no true reasoning for making them. you weren't particularly close, and...
a girl in the lower year approached him as you reeled, exclaiming a sweet cheer before skipping down the hallway. you'd managed to see the heart-shaped cardboard in his hand. there was no chance you could give them to him now, he'd just received them from another woman!
so, you'd agreed that lunchtime would be best. you spent four periods hyping yourself up. it's just chocolate, he'll appreciate the gesture, it's not like you've never spoke. still, to you, these were a statement. i choose you. or maybe not, considering this is only school, but still!
your hands held the pouch once again, feet finally moving towards his lunch table. there was sethos and cyno, all appreciative of the attention, but wanderer definitely had the most. two girls were at his shoulders, not to mention the pack that consumed his free space, all with chocolate in hand.
seriously? maybe this was a pointless endeavour. you wanted to give him a sweet treat, not contribute to his teeth rotting. the pouch found its way back into your bag once again with a heavy drop. you manoeuvered your way around their table, ignoring the glare directed straight into the back of your head. probably a love-struck girl angry that your in the general vicinity of her crush.
therefore, you couldn't help but wait to go home; the only obstacle was your last lesson. you’d gotten there pretty early, considering there was nothing (or rather, no one) to spend your time on in substitute.
you’d been focusing on your book when the door opened with a harsh whack to the wall. there was barely any time to look at who it was before the scraping of a chair filled the room: and then he was sat in front of you.
wanderer. with the most pissed off expression you’ve ever seen.
“have you been avoiding me?” his fists were tight against his chair.
you hesitated. “no… why would you think that?”
he grumbled, grabbing his bag and pulling out a sleek box. it must’ve been from a bakery or something, the golden logo reflecting against the light in the room. “i’ve been trying to give you these all day but you’ve left every time.”
“oh! oh. wait. valentines chocolates? for me?”
“don’t read into it. just have.” wanderer pushed them forward.
you smiled. “well, in that case…” you reached into your bag again, lifting out the red pouch. suddenly, it didn’t feel so scary as before.
he didn’t react outwardly, but his hands took the gift quickly. “are these homemade?”
“yeah. it was pretty hard.”
you didn’t miss the slight blush that graced his face.
lohen, episode four.
out of all the days your body chose to be sick, it had to be today. you were supposed to be going out with lohen today, but you had to cancel because you woke up with a striking headache. he'd left your message on seen, so it was a clear sign he was too mad to speak. would he forgive you if you just left him alone?
your chain of thought was interrupted by a knock on the door. before you could even answer the person, however, they quickly entered your room. blue hair and red eyes were your first clue (you hated figuring out who it was just off of colours, but your headache meant your glasses were a definite no-go). "how are you feeling?" and that was your second.
"lohen?" you mumbled, hands rummaging on the side desk. water, book, but no glasses... dammit. this wasn't how you wanted to present yourself to him.
he quickly walked over to the desk, grabbing the frames with adept ease. his hands hesitated, but eventually folded them open and placed them on the bridge of your nose. "there ya go. much better."
there were many questions you wanted to ask; how he got in, why he came in the first place, whether he was still mad. but your cough got you first, and lohen wasted no time in sitting on the edge of the bed. he rubbed your back whilst the fit pursued, then sighed. "you're really sick, huh?"
"what, are you saying you thought i was lying? is that why you came?"
he hummed. "well, no. but if you were lying, i'd be pretty impressed at how hard your trying to keep this facade up," instead, he raised his right arm, revealing a plastic bag.
lohen had actually bought some useful things for someone whose sick. a thermometer, painkillers, a flannel and some soup.
"wow, my knight in shining armour, thankyou."
"well, couldn't have my favourite class president dying, could i?" he'd taken the thermometer out of the packaging, placing it under your tongue. "plus, maybe i had ulterior motives. we were supposed to go out, and i kinda thought you'd bailed intentionally, so..."
you raised your brows. "and if i had?"
"you don't wanna know."
there was something about lohen that could be ridiculously unnerving. you never knew if it was the fact his eyes reminded you of a vampire, or hid oddly violent tendencies in and out of the classroom. now was one of those moments: his smirk, albiet cute, was not helping the chills running through your body.
the thermometer finally beeped, and you pulled it out. "39.3."
you scraped a laugh. "yeah. this is so boring, though. we were supposed to go out, and i was so excited! that pop up literally lasts two days..."
that was right: you and lohen had planned to go to a music pop-up, by your request. they were handing out the new cd by one of your favourite groups. lohen hadn't exactly remembered the name, 5wirl or something. still, you were clearly pretty bummed about missing it.
"well, you couldn't come see the fun, so i had to bring it to you." he reached further into his bag, holding two of the new cds. they both had tiny scratches on the covers (you daren't imagine how lohen resourced these) but they were still as good as you imagined.
"lohen, your clinically insane. this is... oh my god, it's like i'm dreaming!" you squealed.
he laughed loudly. "see? having a fever isn't so bad when you have someone who can grant your dreams for you."
"i'd call you a drama queen, but i'll let you have this one, since you've been so gracious."
that seemed to appease him enough. "so, the plan is i make your soup and we can listen to their new album together. how does that sound?"
you couldn't help but grin. "deal."
kinich, episode five.
as class president, you were usually in charge of most of the activities throughout the school year. however, the most important was always the summer festival. last year, the previous class president forgot to save enough funding for it so they cancelled... and got made fun of for ages after graduation. you could not let your legacy be the same!
and, for the most part, it had been going well. as a celebration for the students in the final year, there was music and food and dancing. you'd watched your friends enter before, who practically begged for you to join them, but the pressure was too much. what if someone got hurt, and they needed your help? nuh-uh. no leisure for today.
well, that was the idea. it was growing late at this point; nothing had gone wrong, really. you sat at the benches towards the beginning of the festive area, staring at the lights. it did truly seem beautiful... but, it wouldn't be wise to go.
"hey." he'd stood in front of you before you'd processed it. he was a close friend, considering he always gave you a hand whenever you struggled with the logistics of being class president. his garments tonight were definitely more relaxed compared to his usual school uniform.
"hi, kinich! just in time for the main event! so, the trail goes forward to food and mini games, and,"
"yes, i know."
you paused. "oh, right. what is it then? looking for someone?"
kinich looked around before his hand outstretched. "kind of. i think you should come look around with me."
"ah, i don't think it's for the best. i need to stay posted in case anyone needs me. i can enjoy from outside."
he tilted his head. "but you can properly appreciate the work you've put in when your actually in it. come in, if anything actually goes wrong, that's the teachers responsibility." he pondered for a moment. "take this as you repaying me for the favours from this year."
you couldn't deny that he had a valid point. anything seriously wrong could be tended to by the teachers, or any responsible adult for that matter. kinich had extended you much help this school year, to which you hadn't payed him back. plus, you also hadn't ate yet, and the food smelt so good... "fine. i accept. but if anyone asks, you dragged me away from my post."
and, archons, were you glad that he'd asked you. it was incredible. the lights glowed up in a warm yellow, illuminating the whole atmosphere, and you couldn't help but bask in the festivities. it felt like he prepared for this beforehand; he bought skewers before your stomach could rumble, joined in on crafts before you gave him puppy eyes, and even found the perfect spot to watch fireworks whilst you quickly caught up with friends. they had been gushing about how he'd asked you before any of his other friends, but that wasn't even confirmed, right?
you found your way back to him, where he greeted you with a small nod. "i, er, have to thank you for tonight. i mean, i wouldn't have even seen all these things if you hadn't have asked me to come with you. and for buying those skewers; i swear i'll pay you back!" that was most important. you remember mualani mentioning how kinich is with his money.
he shook his head, turning to look up at the sky in wait for the fireworks. "you don't need to pay me back. not with money, anyway."
you were about to probe him on what that meant, but the booming of fireworks soon caught your attention. they rippled in the sky in a gorgeous sparkle, and to be frank, you were too enamoured to notice kinich staring at you.
earlier, you had told him that fireworks must contain wishes of the people watching, which is why they burn so brightly. so, maybe the words diluting on his tongue could be conveyed through the display instead: that he didn't need any money, because you'd already paid him by just accompanying him tonight.
i just want you to love me as much as i think about it
giving your boyfriend the silent treatment after an argument ft. anaxa, sunday, blade
notes: gn!reader, attached/obsessive men, sunday being both manipulative and pathetic somehow, blade is a warning, song from here
༄ anaxa:
✣ droves of students come out through the doors of one of the many science buildings, yet the one sight you actually came to see is nowhere to be found. a despondent sigh exits your mouth as you stand and accept your defeat.
how pathetic it was — you were the one who started this childish ignoring game when you found yourself on the back-burner of anaxa's priorities once more. truly, you'd thought this would knock some sense into him and make him realize how much he missed having you around. instead, you stand like a fool on a campus you don't even attend, coming to terms with the fact you seem to care about him much more than he cares for you.
"oh, are you waiting for professor anax?"
you glance up to see a vaguely familiar face. one of anaxa's students, clearly, and one you assume you've met before. the fog in your brain must be showing, because he just laughs and tells you his name after a brief apology from yourself.
"no worries! i don't expect you to know everyone. the professor just brings you up a lot, so it's hard for us not to know who you are."
interesting.
"he does?" you ask with an even tone, not trying to seem too eager. "complaints, i'm sure."
the student only gets a couple of words about how 'prof anax looks super dopey when he talks of you!' in before a loud cough echoes besides you two, making him freeze as the smile quickly drops from his face. you peer and see the source of your problems himself, eye slanted and foot tapping in a staccato rhythm.
the young man besides you seems to stop breathing as anaxa coldly breaks the silence, "i was sure the work i assigned was ample enough to keep you distracted, but i see you still have other priorities."
with a curt nod, the student rushes away as anaxa makes his way closer to you. bitterness overtakes your thirst to win, and you mutter, "so he can speak," just loud enough for him to catch the resentment in your voice.
"if i recall correctly," his lip twitches into something mirroring your displeasure, "this childish escapade only happened because you were insistent in your own misguided assumptions—"
"that is the problem, anaxagoras," you cut him off, moving on from your yearning spell to being defensive of his criticism. "whether i'm in the wrong or not, the way you dismiss and belittle me for it still makes you an asshole."
he brushes off the insult with ease, "an asshole who's partner is speaking to him again. a net positive, if that slipped your mind."
the remark makes your brow raise. really? that was his mastermind idea?
"what, piss me off to make me stop talking to you, piss me off more to make me talk to you again? that didn't seem like a stupid plan to you?"
"if it was stupid, it wouldn't have worked," he says with a final tone, taking two more steps towards you until he's able to grasp your hand. one, two, each of your knuckles is kissed with intent. an apology in every touch.
"if for even a brief moment, you've questioned the severity of how much i crave you, i have my doubts about who is the true imbecile of this relationship."
never-mind. still an asshole.
༄ sunday:
✣ "my love," sunday begs, matching the way you speed your movements to try and shake him off.
you don't even react, staring straight ahead as your footsteps echoed on the sidewalk. according to sunday, the only thing worse than fighting with you was not hearing from you at all. in turn, you're not surprised at not only the level of desperation he feels to try and satiate your indignation, but the fact he hasn't stopped vying for your attention since the moment it originally started —
"two days, seventeen hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty one seconds," he starts with stiff timbre, "is more than enough time for us to sort out our disagreements, isn't it? i'm sure you're aware of how deeply remorseful i am by this point, darling."
still, your conviction is unwavering no matter how pathetic his displays become. he always tries to sweet talk and love-bomb his way back into your good graces, knowing how achromatic his entire world becomes the moment you're not with him.
images flicker in your mind, not conceived of your own imagination. the true magnitude of his grief is prevalent, as he normally would never allow his telepathy to be so carelessly mismanaged. in his frenzied state of trying to subdue his emotions, he's allowing his thoughts to leak from his brain without consequence.
barely perceivable, you glimpse at him for what must be a millisecond, but he hones in on the action like a starving animal.
a throb pierces your head ; more of a pleasant singe as opposed to any real pain. you stumble slightly from the unexpected feeling, and sunday is in front of you before you could even figure out you were going to hit the ground. a satisfied smile worms it's way onto his face as you land in his hold, and his arms constrict quickly so you have no chance of getting out.
"my angel," he coos with pleading eyes, covering the sides of your face from any bystanders. "i'll carve out my heart if that's what it takes to be blessed with your affection once more, but please don't deprive me of the melody from your lips."
you bite the inside on your cheek, glaring at him. even when you know he's trying to twist your heart to his liking, part of you can't help but want to just concede. the emptiness left behind from being adored by sunday isn't easily filled, not with nearly as much earnest emotion that he provides you. if nothing else, it wasn't a question if you were truly the world that he orbits.
with a sigh, you wriggle and push him away, standing straight up, noticing how the fabric of his gloves tightens from clenching his fist. you acquiesce in spite of better judgment, but still lace your first words with malice, "maybe if you got on your knees and asked nicely."
the instant the request is spoken into the air, he's on the ground, staring up at you with devotion so reverent you worry that ena is standing behind you. you quickly look around, praying that nobody sees such an insane display. you truly had thought he'd have too much pride to deny the outrageous suggestion.
"is this enough to placate your animosity? or would you rather i go further?" he asks with just enough smugness that you question whether or not it's actually there. maybe he's playing games, maybe he really is that needy, but it's gotten to a point you no longer can justify.
"for aeons sake, sunday. get off the ground," you groan, rubbing your temples. he complies easily, standing before you with happily fluttering wings and a pleased look on his face. even if you were annoyed, you were speaking to him, and you were sure he was filing this as a victory in his brain.
you roll your eyes and continue down the street, this time letting him follow next to you and grasp your hand in his own. you're not exactly happy about the outcome, but what's done is done. as a last jab as him, you grumble, "you're sleeping on the floor tonight."
"whatever you'd like, my love."
༄ blade:
✣ the buzzing of your electric toothbrush fills the bathroom as you finish getting ready for bed. even though nothing really happened today, every minute seemed to drag without your boyfriend by your side. no matter how many times you've begged him to at least send you a text to where he's gone when he gets pulled away for a mission, you're left worrying yourself sick every time he disregards your words.
evidently, actions are the only thing that will cause the gears in his brain to turn. if blade can't understand how you feel, then maybe a disappearing act of your own will shock him with realization. in turn, the past two days have felt like a horror survival game for you. avoiding blade is a task even his most slimy of enemies have a hard time achieving. when he knows your breathing like the creases on his palm, it becomes roughly twenty times harder. luckily, kafka had been in the mood to play and kept you in the loop of blade's general location while also concealing your own.
after rinsing off the bristles, you sigh and turn off the lights before heading for your bed. maybe you'll message blade tomorrow, try to get through by telling him it doesn't feel so good to ignored, does it?
when you click the remote to turn your fan on, two distinct eyes stare at you from behind it.
blade doesn't flinch at your ear-piercing scream. his gaze simply narrow as he slowly steps towards you, speaking lowly as if he's cornering his prey. which, considering the blood sprayed across his face like a careless painting, is exactly how you feel at the moment.
"did your time away give you what you desired?" he asks lowly and ice-cold. there's no room for joking in his tone. clearly your little game had irritated him to the highest extent.
you try to recollect yourself while dealing with what is going to be a very large problem. while you didn't expect him to be giddy once you were reunited, you also didn't think he'd be this irate.
"i couldn't locate you. no heat readings from your house, despite what's in front of me at this moment," he states grimly, close enough to grasp your chin in his hands. his eyes bore into yours with such intensity you feel as if it might light you aflame.
"… now you know how i feel?" you retort with a stiff chuckle, hoping to play it off like some ill-thought out joke.
he doesn't laugh.
his sword gracelessly drops to the floor as his other hand rests on the small of your back, pulling you closer. his forehead rests against your own, filled with such uncertainty that your entire theory seems like little more than cruelty towards your lover.
he lets out a shaky exhale, murmuring into the dark of the night, "even if you no longer decide i am needed, if this body is to no longer serve it's only purpose, there is nowhere in any galaxy where my hand will not reach you."
it's a promise he's made before, the one you hang on to during the nights where you're worried if he'll even return to you at all. this time though, the weight is much heavier. you don't know who he cleaved through in a mindless rampage to find you, and you're not sure you want to ever find out. all you know is how sincere he seemed to treat those words.
your lips part to apologize but he's on you faster than it can come out, kissing you with enough desperation to ensure you'll never try something like this again. when you whisper a quiet, "sorry," into the kiss, his hold on you tightens.
"never again," he says with a somber tone, as if he's already seeing flashes of the atrocities he'd commit if this were to ever occur once more. you can't help but agree internally, if not for the fear of everyone around you — never again, indeed.
Though he'll never say it to your face, he let's you get away with so much. Not because you're good at convincing him to go along with your shenanigans. But because he just can't say no to you.
If you decide that you're going climb on him— whether that be in the comfort of your own home or in broad daylight. Do it. He won't encourage you, but won't stop you either. Just be careful not slip. He'll catch you if you do, but he'd rather not risk your safety like that
If you decide that you randomly want a quick look at his muscles under his clothes— strip him. Sure, he may think you're weird, but he won't make any attempts to stop you either. If you try this in public though, that's a whole other story. Maybe. Play your cards right and you'll get your way.
On that note, if you choose to run your hands along his bumps and curves— he'd let you! He'd silently watch as you fawn over his sculpted physique — created through years of hard work. Assuming you decide to put your mouth on him, he won't object. There'll be a slight furrow of the brows, but nothing more.
Then, there are the times you bite him. He'll jolt, but then look at you with a look of bewilderment and/or nonchalance. What you get is entirely dependent on his mood that day. He'll ignore the sting, but will intead focus on how cute you look when you're pleasd.
If you must, you're allowed to cling to him all day. Sure, he'll huff and puff as he drags you from place to place, but he'll never tell you off for doing it. In fact, when it's the dead of night and your completely wrapped around him like a second blanket, he actually quite enjoys the extra weight. It reminds him that you're there — alive— and that you want him.
It doesn't matter what you do. He'll say nothing and just observe your odd behaviour. There will be no argument. There will be no fuss. And there will be minimal resistance to your antics. All you'll get is a quiet, loving gaze as you get up to your usual antics.
At the end of the day, sure, he thinks you're the strangest creature to have ever crawled out the crevices of the earth. But he likes you that way and is willing to indulge you in whatever your dearest heart so pleases! <3
Megumi Fushiguro, Sae Itoshi, Shoto Todoroki, Shouta Aizawa, Kiyotaka Ayanokoji, Blade, Dan Heng, Phainon, m!Rover, Levi Ackerman, Giyuu Tomioka, Izuru Kamakura, Kinich Malipo, Aki Hayakawa, Mash Burnedead, Saitama, Genos, Shishiba, Teru Minamoto, Tamsy Caines, Illumi Zoldyck, Loid Forger, Julius von Pallistan, Takashi Morinozuka, Natsuki Seba, (+your faves)
if the req are acctualy open! but if not then im sorry for the bothering but despite so im happy anyway sending it
so
what about an wanderer x reader whos an goth lolita?
i was wondering, thinking about this and tryna find an one shot with lolita styled reader or just goth but couldn't
perhaps, except i sometimes see people writing yn in an pink coquette or familiar! what maked me wonder what about the oppsite?
hope this catches your attention;D
wanderer and his gothic lolita partner <3
cw: sfw, established relationship, i wrote this on fone, could be seen as modern au or not
hello! i can’t really do oneshots rn but i’ll give you headcannons ^-^
i really think wanderer is the type to be thankful about your fashion. why? well, most of the outfits he sees he deems hot trash. seeing something that finally isn’t just the same thing over and over again is refreshing and he’s glad he gets to stand beside you.
won’t admit it until you offer… but would love to match. no he doesn’t know how it would work, but he wouldn’t mind even just the same color scheme.
when you two are just with each other, out on a date or whatnot, he finds himself buying whatever reminds him of you in impulse. especially when you spend a little long when looking at a necklace through a rose-tinted glass pane. you will be having it by the end of the day.
does not tolerate anyone who tries to give you a look or backhandedly insult you about your fashion. he believes you look good in anything, and doesn’t believe people who don’t lol.
introducing you to aunt buer felt natural, and in her eyes? she thought it was natural he finds a partner who happens to be a little out of the ordinary too, everyone will stare, and she likes to think it’s because you two shine bright together.
asks you to do his hair/makeup sometimes! he knows you’re good at what you do… despite that, he still doesn’t know what to expect because he’s never seen himself outside of the light of being hat guy or a harbinger.
tries his best to understand the fashion choices you make. i say ‘tries’ because he… he doesn’t see why you would need this much ribbon for one outfit. he pays for it anyway.
and to add onto that, i like to imagine he also adores it a lot if you make your own outfits. he will state that its an impressive skill that you could make use of for mora if ever you were to look for money. not that you would though, not when he was there by your side all the time.
people have asked him ‘you’re really with… them?’ and he gives that snarky little “yeah? and? you jealous? i would be too.”
