HIIIII!!

19 - he/they, Side blog for posting fanfics

[sillierguy-3]

-Introduction!

Masterlist <-

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Hi, I'm Sillyguy! I've never posted on Tumblr, only reposted, so apologizes if my posts are ever visually unappealing! I'm still trying to figure everything out! I am employed and often burnt out so I may not post very often </3 Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

❂ I will always try to write for a gender neutral reader, as I want my fan fics to be able to be enjoyed by anyone!

❂ I'm iffy on if I'll write anything other than SFW, that doesn't mean you can't send an ask for it though!

❂ If you send me an ask and I don't want to write for it, I'll just ignore it! I'd never shame someone for what they're into!

❂ I'm not willing to write anything incest, cnc, rape, abuse, pregnancy, or parenting related as I'm uncomfortable with writing it.

❂ If I ever block you please don't be upset! This is my account and I want it to be a comfortable place for me, no hard feelings! :D

❂ Don't be shy about sending asks or asking to be moots, I'm not comfortable with being mutuals with minors though!

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I will write for Obey Me, Genshin, Red Dead Redemption, and Fragaria Memories!! I'm a huge fan of all of these series and have a pretty good grasp of all the characters within them so you can send me an ask for almost anyone and I will write for them! There are a few characters I dislike/won't write for, but once again if I don't want to write it I'll just ignore it! ദ്ദി(˵•̀ ᴗ -˵)

Thank you for taking the time to read and I hope you enjoy my works!

[xcellynn]

𓍯𓂃 THEY FIND YOU PASSED OUT IN THE SNOW

PREMISE . . . In which their lover is caught wandering through a blizzard in Snezhnaya. They happen to be out in the blizzard for their own reasons when they spot a distant figure emerging through the whiteout, only to realize it's you. After the two of you meet eyes for one fleeting moment, you finally collapse from exhaustion and the cold, leaving them to rush to your aid. ꫂ᭪݁ STARRING . . . mitya, valeriy, alyosha, tartaglia, dottore (in order) + gender neutral! reader

⚠︎ WARNING . . . › sfw!!, word count : 5k total / 1k per character, hypothermia, fainting, mentions of fever, use of [name], dottore being harsh, hints of s3lf-harm, established relationship, comfort, mild angst, protective behavior

note . somewhat proofread, mild spoilers of 7.0 snezhnaya archon quest (?) mostly places from snezhnaya being mentioned + i think i had too much fun writing dottore's part hmm

── ( 𝐦. ) Mitya was completely frozen the moment he realized the figure emerging through the blizzard was you. He had been focused on his fieldwork, following an unusual energy fluctuation that had leaked beyond Glupov and appeared on his equipment despite the worsening weather, so at first he only registered the approaching silhouette as another person caught in the storm.

He raised his voice through the wind, asking who was there, and when the figure finally came close enough for the snow to stop obscuring your face, his entire train of thought simply collapsed. His eyes widened, his expression going almost blank with disbelief as he stared at you. "[Name]..?" Your head lifted at the sound of his voice, and your eyes met his through the swirling snow.

Mitya couldn't move at all. He just stared, almost as though his mind couldn't accept that you were actually standing there. You looked equally exhausted, snow clinging to your hair, shoulders trembling beneath clothing that had clearly done very little to protect you from the storm, and there was something in your expression that made his confusion slowly turn into alarm.

"Mitya," you finally whispered, his name so faint that he almost wondered whether he'd imagined hearing it. "I'm here," he immediately answered, taking a step toward you. "What are you doing—?" He reached toward you, his eyes searching your face as though trying to understand how you'd ended up here, but before he could ask anything, your knees suddenly gave way. "[Name]!" The paralysis shattered instantly. Mitya lunged forward and caught you as your body collapsed, pulling you against his chest before you hit the snow. "No— hey, hey, stay with me!" His hands immediately moved over you, checking your breathing and searching for your pulse, and the moment he touched you properly, the panic became even worse.

You were freezing, not merely cold from standing in the storm for a few minutes, but frighteningly chilled throughout, your body almost completely limp against him. He brushed the snow from your face with shaking fingers, repeatedly calling your name and trying to get some response from you.

"Come on. Open your eyes." He stared at your closed eyelids, then down at your chest, watching desperately for its rise and fall. The questions he'd been trying to ask disappeared entirely beneath one overwhelming realization, you'd been walking through that blizzard for a long time, and he'd found you only because you'd somehow managed to keep moving until you reached him.

His equipment was forgotten in the snow behind him. The energy fluctuation that had brought him outside the city could cease to exist for all he cared. He gathered you into his arms, immediately wrapping his coat around you and shielding your face against his chest before carrying you toward shelter with a frightening urgency that made his normally composed movements almost frantic.

Once inside, Mitya became intensely focused, carefully getting you out of your frozen outer layers and replacing them with dry clothing and blankets while making certain you were warmed gradually.

His hands still trembled every so often, especially whenever he remembered how your knees had simply given out beneath you, but he forced himself to concentrate on what needed to be done.

Once everything he could do had been done, Mitya finally stopped moving, standing there for a moment as though he had only just realized how exhausted he was. His breathing was still uneven from carrying you through the storm, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looked down at you beneath the thick blankets.

A warm, damp towel rested gently across your forehead, your face finally beginning to regain some color as you lay quietly, your breathing soft and steady beneath the covers. He watched the rise and fall of your chest for several seconds, almost as though he needed to convince himself that you were truly safe now.

His shoulders gradually lowered, and he let out a long, shaky breath before sitting beside you. The room was finally quiet, and without the frantic movement of getting you warm and settled, the reality of what had happened began catching up with him.

His gaze lingered on your sleeping face, his expression softening with exhausted relief, before he gently brushed a few damp strands of hair away from your forehead. His hands were steadier now, though there was still a faint tremor in his fingers. He kept talking quietly as he worked, partly to keep himself grounded and partly because the silence left him alone with the image of you collapsing in his arms. "You know, I was supposed to be looking for an energy fluctuation tonight," he murmured, his thumb carefully smoothing along your hairline. "It leaked outside of Glupov, and I thought I'd just have to come out here, check the readings, make a few notes, and go back to report what happened." A breathless, humorless laugh escaped him as he glanced down at you. "You... really couldn't have picked a less terrifying way to get my attention, could you?" The attempt at humor didn't quite hide how shaken he was.

Once you were made comfortable and your condition had stabilized, he sat beside you rather than returning to his work, keeping one hand near yours and checking your breathing every few minutes.

Every small movement from you immediately drew his attention. A twitch of your fingers, a change in your breathing, even the faintest shift beneath the blankets had him looking down with renewed concern.

After he sat down, he gently took your hand, his fingers carefully closing around yours as though he were afraid even the slightest pressure might disturb you. His thumb slowly brushed back and forth across your knuckles, lingering over the warmth gradually returning to your skin while his eyes remained fixed on your sleeping face.

For a moment, he simply sat there in silence, his expression softening as he watched your breathing settle into an even rhythm. Then he lifted your hand slightly and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles before lowering it back onto the blanket, "You really scared me."

── ( 𝒗. ) Valeriy would be traveling with a small unit of Fatui soldiers while inspecting a remote outpost, the worsening weather already making the journey considerably more difficult than it had been when they first set out. He would remain composed despite the blizzard, walking near the front of the group while giving short, precise instructions about their route and the condition of the road.

Snow would lash against his coat and collect along his shoulders, visibility gradually shrinking until the soldiers behind him became little more than blurred silhouettes. Then, through the thick curtain of white, he would catch sight of something moving in the distance.

Valeriy would immediately raise one gloved hand, bringing the entire group to a halt. The sudden silence among the soldiers would feel almost unnatural beneath the roar of the wind. He'd narrow his eyes toward the distant figure, watching it disappear behind a wave of blowing snow before emerging again several paces farther away. It wasn't moving normally. There was an unevenness to its steps, a slow, staggering rhythm that made his instincts immediately tighten.

He'd order the others to remain where they were and advance alone, his pace increasing with every step. The figure would become clearer the closer he came, until the familiar shape of your clothing finally emerged through the storm. He would stop dead. For a fraction of a second, Valeriy would simply stare, his usual impassive expression giving way to something much harder to conceal.

"[Name]." His voice would cut through the wind, and you'd slowly lift your head at the sound. Your face would be pale from the cold, snow caught in your hair and eyelashes, your entire body visibly exhausted from however long you'd been walking through the storm. Then your eyes would meet his.

Valeriy would remain completely still, staring at you as though he needed to convince himself that you were truly standing there. Recognition would flicker across your face, followed by a faint movement of your lips. "Valeriy..." The sound would barely reach him, but he would hear it.

He'd take another step toward you, his attention narrowing entirely onto your face. "What are you doing here?" Yet before you could answer, your expression would suddenly lose focus. Your knees would buckle beneath you. "No." Valeriy would move instantly, catching you before you struck the ground, one arm securing your back while the other supported your head. Your body would feel alarmingly cold in his arms, far colder than it should have been, and his expression would harden as he checked your breathing and pulse. For one awful moment, he'd find himself waiting for the reassurance of a heartbeat. When he finally felt it, he'd release a controlled breath. "They're alive." His voice would be quiet but absolute. He'd immediately turn toward the soldiers, his expression remaining cold and composed despite the urgency underneath it. "We're heading back. All of us. Now." His gaze would sweep across the unit, leaving no room for hesitation. "Forget the inspection. I want everyone back at Snezhnograd immediately. Stay together, keep to the marked route, and don't fall behind." His eyes would briefly drop to you before returning to the soldiers. "Move."

He'd remove his own outer layer and cover you with it, shielding your face from the wind before lifting you fully into his arms.

He wouldn't allow one of the soldiers to take you from him. Instead, he'd carry you himself, keeping your head supported against his shoulder while repeatedly checking your breathing as they made their way back toward the city.

Once they reached Snezhnograd, Valeriy would take complete control of the situation. He'd have the heating system started immediately, order blankets and dry clothing brought in, and summon whoever was capable of assessing your condition.

Every instruction would be concise and deliberate, his usual cold efficiency becoming almost severe as he refused to let anyone waste time. He'd personally oversee your treatment, making sure you were warmed gradually and that your breathing and pulse remained stable, occasionally reaching down to check your hand himself.

The soldiers would notice that he hadn't left your side, though nobody would be foolish enough to comment on it. Valeriy would sit beside you once everything necessary had been arranged, his posture rigid and his expression unreadable as he watched your sleeping face.

Eventually, your fingers would twitch, and his gaze would immediately sharpen. When you finally stirred, he'd lean forward without hesitation, his hand closing around yours. "Look at me." His voice would remain controlled, but the intensity behind it would reveal how closely he'd been watching you.

Your eyes would slowly open, unfocused at first before settling on him. "You're safe." He'd pause, studying your face for any sign that you were still struggling to remain conscious. Only once he was certain you were awake would the questions begin. Where had you come from? How long had you been out there? Why had you gone into the storm alone?

He'd want every detail, but he wouldn't bombard you while you were still weak. Instead, he'd let you answer at your own pace, quietly listening while his thumb rested against your hand. Beneath the composed exterior, however, the discovery would continue to haunt him. He had seen you standing in the middle of a blizzard and, for one terrible moment, believed he might have arrived too late.

That possibility would be enough to make him unusually reluctant to leave your side. Even once you were stable, he'd remain in the chair beside you, his coat still draped over your shoulders and his hand still loosely holding yours. Whatever business had brought him to the outpost could be delegated. The blizzard could rage outside for another hour, another night, or longer. Valeriy would remain exactly where he was, silently watching over you until he was certain you were truly out of danger.

── ( 𝐚. ) Alyosha would be deep in the wilderness when the blizzard began to roll in, the snowfall growing heavier by the minute until the familiar paths around him were becoming difficult to distinguish. Tugarin would normally remain close, responding immediately whenever Alyosha called him back, but this time the dog would seem strangely distracted.

Alyosha would stop beside a cluster of snow-covered trees and call out, "Tugarin." No response. He'd wait a moment, listening for the familiar sound of paws moving through the snow, then call again, sharper this time. "Tugarin, come here." Still nothing. His expression would immediately tighten.

Tugarin wasn't the sort of dog to ignore him without reason. Alyosha would start moving through the snow, following the faint disturbances in the powder while calling his name again, but the dog would suddenly appear farther ahead before turning and running in the opposite direction. "Tugarin!" Alyosha would call after him, irritation briefly flashing across his face as he hurried to follow.

The dog would disappear behind a curtain of snow, forcing Alyosha to pick up his pace, and by the time he finally caught sight of him again, Tugarin would be standing beside someone half-buried in the snow. Alyosha would slow immediately.

You were barely standing, your legs trembling beneath you as you leaned heavily against Tugarin for support, one hand weakly resting against his fur. Tugarin would be whining and nudging at you, clearly refusing to leave your side. You'd weakly try to push him away, murmuring through chattering breaths, "Tugarin, please." as though you were worried you'd somehow drag him into danger with you. Tugarin wouldn't listen. He'd press closer instead, standing firmly between you and the storm.

Alyosha would watch the scene for several seconds, his suspicion immediately sharpening at the sight of an unfamiliar person so far from any safe path. He'd take a few careful steps forward, one hand instinctively moving toward his weapon. Tugarin would glance back at him but still wouldn't move. Then you would finally lift your head.

Your eyes would meet Alyosha's through the swirling snow, and everything would seem to become strangely still for a moment. He'd recognize you. His expression would change immediately. "[Name]? Why..?" You'd stare at him, your face pale and exhausted, snow gathered along your lashes and hair. Your lips would part as though you were trying to answer him, but no sound would come. Alyosha would lower his hand from his weapon and approach quickly, his attention moving between you and Tugarin. He'd see the way your knees were trembling, the way you were struggling simply to remain upright, and the realization that you'd been walking through the storm for far too long would settle heavily in his mind. "[Name], you need to get to someplace warm. Now." He'd reach toward you, but your strength would finally give out. Your knees would buckle, your body collapsing forward as Tugarin gave a sharp whine and Alyosha caught you before you could hit the snow.

Alyosha would immediately pull you against himself and check your breathing and pulse, his usual quiet composure replaced by a sudden, controlled urgency. "[Name]—!" You were frighteningly cold, your body nearly limp in his arms, and the sight would make his jaw tighten.

He'd look toward the trail behind you, studying the partially buried footprints and the direction they came from, already trying to determine how long you'd been wandering alone. Tugarin would stay pressed against Alyosha's leg, whining softly while watching you, and Alyosha would glance down at him before returning his attention to you.

Alyosha would glance down at Tugarin, his expression softening slightly despite the urgency of the situation. "Good boy. I knew I shouldn't have doubted you." He'd give the dog a brief pat along the head before looking back at you, immediately noticing how badly you were trembling. "Now we need to get [Name] back to the shelter before they get sick from being out here this long." He'd pull off his cloak and wrap it securely around you before carefully lifting you into his arms, keeping you close against his chest to shield you from the wind.

Alyosha would make his way back toward his place with Tugarin following immediately at his heels, occasionally running ahead before circling back to make certain Alyosha was still coming.

Once they reached their destination, Alyosha would carefully lay you down and begin warming you gradually, replacing your damp outer layers with dry, warm clothing, giving you thick blankets, and keeping you close to the heat source while having a close watch on your breathing.

Tugarin would settle on the bed, his head resting near your arm, occasionally lifting his ears whenever you moved. Alyosha would notice every little change. He'd check your pulse between tasks, adjust the blanket around your shoulders, and brush your hair with careful fingers.

The questions would already be forming in his mind, but he wouldn't ask them yet. Not while you were unconscious. When your eyes eventually opened, Tugarin would be the first to react, his head lifting immediately before he gave a few barks and nudged closer.

Alyosha would lean toward you, watching carefully for signs of confusion or weakness. "Wait, stay still, your body's still weak from the high fever you have." His voice would remain low and firm. "You're safe now." He'd let you gather yourself before asking what happened, listening closely to every word and every hesitation. His suspicion wouldn't disappear simply because you were his lover, seeing you emerge from a blizzard barely able to stand had already told him something was terribly wrong. Still, none of that would matter until you were strong enough to speak.

For the rest of the night, Alyosha would remain beside you with Tugarin curled nearby, the two of them keeping watch while the storm raged outside.

── ( 𝒄. ) Childe would be traveling through the region on Fatui business when the blizzard suddenly became severe enough to force his group away from their original route. The storm would be little more than an inconvenience to him, Snezhnaya had never been particularly kind about the weather, and Tartaglia was hardly the sort of person to let a little snow ruin his mood.

Then, in the midst of his walk, he'd catch sight of something moving through the whiteout. His voice would trail off. He'd turn his head toward the distant figure, narrowing his eyes as it appeared and disappeared behind the violently blowing snow. "Hold on." His sharp voice would be enough to make the soldiers stop on their tracks. Tartaglia would already be moving before they could ask what he'd seen.

The figure was walking toward them, though barely. Every few steps seemed to take an unreasonable amount of effort, the person's silhouette swaying in the wind as though the storm itself were pushing them backward.

Tartaglia's pace would quicken, his expression gradually losing every trace of amusement as something about the figure began to feel horribly familiar. Then the snow would shift, revealing your face. He'd stop for half a heartbeat, genuinely stunned.

"[Name]...?" You'd hear him and slowly lift your head, your eyes finding his through the storm. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you would move. Tartaglia would simply stare at you, his eyes widening as he took in the snow tangled through your hair, your pale face, and the way your body was trembling beneath your clothes.

You'd look at him with an exhausted sort of recognition, your lips parting as though you were trying to say his name. "Hey, I'm here." He'd take another hurried step toward you, his hand already reaching out. "My love, what are you doing out here? You'll get sick if you stay out like this." You wouldn't get the chance to answer. Your knees would suddenly buckle beneath you, your entire body giving out as though whatever had been keeping you upright had finally run out. Tartaglia's expression would snap from disbelief to panic. "[Name]—!" He'd rush forward and catch you before you struck the ground, dropping hard onto his knees in the snow with your weight collapsing against his chest, ignoring the loud calls from his soldiers behind them. His hands would immediately move over you, checking your breathing and pulse with frantic precision. "Hey— [Name], look at me!" He'd brush the snow from your face, his voice becoming increasingly urgent when you didn't respond. "Come on, sweetheart. Open your eyes." The moment his fingers found your pulse, he'd release a sharp breath, relief hitting him so suddenly that it almost made him dizzy. "You're okay." He'd say it under his breath, almost as though he needed to hear the words himself. Then he'd pull you closer, wrapping his arms around you protectively. "You're going to be okay. I've got you." He'd barely spare a glance toward the soldiers before ordering them to get the nearest shelter ready.

Whatever mission he'd been on no longer mattered. He'd lift you carefully into his arms and carry you through the snow himself, keeping your head tucked securely against his shoulder while repeatedly looking down to make sure you were still breathing.

The moment he reached shelter, Tartaglia's usual energy would turn into something much more frantic and focused. He'd get the fire going, call for blankets, make sure there was warm water available, and carefully remove the snow-soaked layers from your clothing before wrapping you in everything he could find.

He'd keep touching your hands and face, checking that the horrible chill was gradually leaving your skin, and every few seconds his eyes would return to your chest to make sure it was still rising and falling.

He'd keep talking to you despite knowing you couldn't answer, because the silence would leave too much space for his thoughts to spiral. "You really know how to scare me, huh?" he'd murmur while brushing the damp strands of hair away from your forehead. "I was already thinking about what would've happened if I lost you right there." He'd let out a quiet breath, trying to laugh but failing to make it sound convincing. "So you have to wake up now, okay? That's an order." His hand would linger against your cheek before he finally pulled back, watching you with an almost painfully attentive gaze.

He'd remember the way you'd looked at him through the snow, the way you'd managed to say his name before your body simply gave up, and the thought would keep returning no matter how many times he tried to push it aside.

When you finally stirred, Tartaglia would notice immediately. He'd lean forward so quickly that the chair beneath him would scrape against the floor, his eyes locking onto yours the moment they opened. For a second, he'd simply stare, as though he needed to make sure you were actually awake this time.

Then he'd let out a shaky laugh, lowering his head with obvious relief. "Good morning, sunshine." He'd press his forehead gently against yours, closing his eyes for a moment as his hand settled carefully against the side of your face. "You have no idea how happy I am to see those pretty eyes open."

Childe would stay close, letting you regain your strength while he continued checking your body temperature, adjusting your blankets, and making sure you had everything you needed.

His teasing nature would gradually return once he was certain you were truly safe, though it would be gentler than usual. He might complain that you'd given him the worst scare imaginable, or joke that he was going to start tying a bell around your ankle whenever you wandered off, but his hand would remain wrapped around yours throughout it all.

Beneath every joke would linger the memory of finding you in that storm, of watching you meet his eyes for one fleeting moment before collapsing into his arms, and Tartaglia wouldn't forget that sight anytime soon.

── ( 𝒅. ) Dottore would be conducting a field investigation in the middle of the blizzard, having deliberately ventured beyond the city to examine how the extreme conditions were affecting one of his instruments. The storm would be violent enough to turn the surrounding landscape into an indistinguishable expanse of white, yet he would remain remarkably composed, periodically checking his equipment and making mental notes about the fluctuations in temperature and pressure.

His attention would be fixed on the instrument when something in the snow would catch his eye, a disturbance that seemed too deliberate to be caused by the wind. He'd stop, his gaze narrowing behind his mask as he examined the shape from a distance. It would look almost like debris at first, half-covered by snow, but the longer he stared, the more unmistakably human it became.

Dottore would approach with measured curiosity, expecting an unknown variable rather than anything personal, until the snow shifted and revealed a familiar piece of clothing. His pace would slow. He'd recognize you.

For several seconds, he wouldn't move at all. The sight would be so unexpected that even his analytical mind would need a moment to process it, his eyes fixed on you as though the scene before him were some impossible contradiction.

You were out here. Alone. In this weather. His expression would become unreadable as he approached, his attention immediately cataloguing every visible detail, the snow caught in your hair, the pallor of your face, the sluggish way your body moved beneath the weight of your clothes.

"[Name]." His voice would carry through the storm, and you'd slowly lift your head at the sound. Your eyes would find his. For a long moment, neither of you would look away. Dottore would watch the recognition settle into your exhausted expression, and beneath that, something resembling relief.

You'd look at him as though seeing him was enough to convince you that you had finally reached somewhere safe. He'd take another step closer, his gaze sharpening as he noticed how difficult it was for you to remain upright. "What are you doing here?" There would be no answer.

Your lips would part, but your voice wouldn't come. Your eyelids would begin to droop. Dottore would immediately notice the change. "How long have you—" He'd reach toward you just as your knees gave way. Your body would slump forward, and he'd catch you before your head struck the snow, one arm securing you against him while his other hand immediately searched for your pulse.

The detached composure he'd maintained until then would become something much more intensely focused. He'd check your breathing, feel the temperature of your skin, examine your pupils, and assess every sign of consciousness he could find.

The realization that you were dangerously cold would make his jaw tighten beneath the mask. He'd remove his coat and wrap it around you, pulling you securely against his chest before lifting you from the snow. The instrument he'd been studying would be left exactly where he'd abandoned it. Whatever scientific curiosity had brought him into the storm had become completely irrelevant.

His entire attention would now be fixed on you, on the frightening stillness of your body, and on the fact that he'd arrived just in time to catch you before you disappeared beneath the snow.

Once Dottore brought you back to the small laboratory he had been using as a temporary base, the entire room would immediately fall under his control. The few subordinates working inside would barely have time to react before he carried you through the door and ordered them to clear the nearest examination table.

His coat would be dusted with snow, your body still wrapped tightly against his chest, and the expression beneath his mask would be so severe that nobody would dare waste a second asking what had happened.

"Move." A subordinate would hurry forward to help take you from him, only for Dottore to turn his head sharply. "Don't touch them." His voice would be cold enough to stop them in their tracks. He'd lower you himself, carefully arranging your frozen limbs before immediately checking your pulse, breathing, and temperature. Someone would bring blankets and attempt to help arrange them around you, and Dottore would snap without even looking up, "I said I'll handle it." Another subordinate might mention that they could prepare the equipment while he worked, only for him to give them a cutting glance. "Then prepare it without standing over my shoulder."

The laboratory would become unnaturally quiet as everyone returned to their tasks, leaving Dottore to work with frightening concentration. He'd remove the snow-damp clothing, replace it with dry layers, wrap you securely in blankets, and carefully regulate the warmth around you.

Every movement would be deliberate, every measurement recorded, his fingers repeatedly checking your pulse as though he refused to trust the numbers until he'd verified them himself. He'd brush frozen strands of hair away from your face, studying the faint color returning to your skin, then straighten and finally release a controlled breath. You were stable. For the moment.

He'd remain there another few minutes, watching your breathing, before abruptly stepping away to check the equipment he'd abandoned earlier. He'd return after a short while, glance down at you, and find you still unconscious.

Another interval would pass before he left again, giving instructions to a subordinate to alert him immediately should your condition change.

Each time he returned, his eyes would go straight to you. Your breathing remained steady, your pulse remained present, yet you stubbornly refused to wake. The pattern would begin irritating him, not because your unconsciousness was unexpected, but because he'd already calculated roughly when your body should begin responding.

He'd stand beside the table, arms folded, staring down at you for several seconds before quietly remarking, "You really intend to make this inconvenient, don't you?"

Eventually, Dottore would return to your side for what felt like the hundredth time, finding you exactly where he'd left you. His gaze would linger over your sleeping face, his expression becoming increasingly unreadable as the minutes passed. He'd sit beside the table and carefully take your hand, feeling the warmth that had finally begun returning to your fingers.

His thumb would move slowly across your knuckles, almost absentmindedly, while his attention remained fixed on you. He'd lean closer, lowering his voice so that the subordinates across the laboratory couldn't overhear. "My dear, if this was an attempt to hurt yourself, you selected an exceedingly inefficient method." His thumb would pause against your hand. "And doing it while I happen to be nearby is particularly foolish." There would be something almost scolding in his tone, though his fingers would remain surprisingly gentle. He'd study your face for another moment before continuing, quieter now, "You could have simply come to me." A faint sigh would escape him as he adjusted the blanket around your shoulders. "Whatever compelled you to walk into that storm can be dealt with. There is no reason to make me reconstruct the circumstances from a half-frozen body."

He'd leave again eventually, returning to his work because he refused to spend every second hovering over you, yet he wouldn't get far. A few minutes later, his attention would drift from his notes toward the examination table. Then he'd stand, cross the laboratory, and check your pulse once more.

The cycle would repeat until one of his subordinates finally became brave enough to point out that he had checked you several times in the span of an hour. Dottore would give them a flat stare. "And?" That would be the end of the discussion.

When your eyelids finally fluttered much later, his attention would snap toward you immediately. He'd approach without hurry, though the speed with which he reached your side would betray how closely he'd been waiting. "There." His voice would soften by a fraction as your eyes struggled to focus. He'd lean down, one hand steadying your shoulder while the other remained around your wrist.

"Stay still." Once he was certain you were conscious, he'd study your face with intense scrutiny before quietly adding, "Now you can explain why you were walking around in the middle of a blizzard." His tone would be calm, almost clinical, but his hand would remain around yours throughout the questioning, unwilling to relinquish that small point of contact now that he'd finally gotten you awake.

© excellynn 2026, please do not upload or repost my work in any other platform without my knowledge, if you'd like to translate or repost it ask for permission first, please do not feed my work into ai, i do not use ai or anything of that sorts to create my work!

[scaraobsession]

“Wandereeer, I can’t sleep, you’ve been gone for too long”

“I’ll join you in a bit, I’m almost done with this.”

The whiniest whine ever leaves you. How can he be so heartless as to leave you all alone in the cold, hard bed?

"But Sweetheeeeart, you've been saying this for an hour now. I'm tired"

He glances over his shoulder, the sight to behold is truthly a pitiful one. Instead of the blankets, it should be him in your warm, loving embrace right now.

But his thesis paper is nearing completion, surely he can work on it for just a bit longer—

A tug on his sleeve makes him jump in his chair.

"Pleeeeeease Wanderer, I need you", you whine feebly, wiping a sleepy tear from the corner of your eye.

Your cute bedhead, drowsy expression, pleading eyes and cozy nightwear all make him want to pull you into a tight embrace and tell you that he's here for you to cling to all night if you so desire.

The thesis is almost completed.

But how is he supposed to resist you?

Surely it can wait another day.

♡ ♡ ♡

masterlist

[kitorin]

wanderer didn't enjoy being called pretty.

it was natural phenomenon, a puppet crafted from a branch of irminsul by the hands of the very electro archon herself, was bound to be flawless, composed of features revered by myth and legend.

but skin that remained pale and unfazed by the sun, or weight immune to fluctuation, were things that lacked any sort of humanity. they were unnatural, unrealistic, and characteristics no human should strive for.

dolls hardly resemble people, they were simply canvases to craft perfection instead of beauty. wanderer was completed, not born.

he knows very well of his artificial nature. he knows he cannot alter it, nor did he dwell too much on what he couldn't change. however, being called "pretty", was a jarring reminder of his inherent difference, and the absense of a heart.

so, whenever someone called him complimented his face, he didn't feel too much. he'd simply brush it off, before grunting and moving on with his day, books clutched tightly.

humans concerned themselves with 'beauty', dedicating hours of effort and an eternity of stress to pursue something that lacked a true form. it was something far too precious to subject to a singular, objective form, unlike the principles of mathematics and science. whatever 'standard' of it that existed was simply consequence of certain people being too vocal about their preferences.

wanderer had heard of dehya's complaints of her wide shoulders and muscular build, yet he couldn't comprehend why one should feel ashamed of such strength. layla kept her face down, excusing it with her dark circles, when wanderer thought they were rather pleasant, even though he hardly noticed their presence. he's overheard teenagers groan about acne and pimples, but all he saw was growth and metamorphosis, a bittersweet farewell to childhood. he wondered how proud their parents must've been.

humans are a bit dense sometimes, he thinks. and oblivious to how beautiful they can be, with a tendency to believe otherwise.

"stop saying that."

"what, that you're pretty?" you commented, poking him in the shoulder. "but you are pretty."

and for some reason, you were well aware of his inhuman nature, yet showered him with praise.

the house of daena was, for the first time in a while, empty, with the exception of you two. all that glowed were the desk lamps, and the midnight wind occasionally ventured inside through its large windows.

wanderer was skimming through his required readings, you were annoying wanderer.

"you do realise nothing about me is natural." he muttered. "that includes how i look."

you do not find him beautiful, or anything of the sort, you thought of his creator as talented. you were enamoured by the raiden shogun's craftsmanship, not wanderer himself.

you shrugged. "fake flowers aren't real. they're still pretty."

he grunted, continuing to read his book. fake flowers were also loveable.

"and." you slouched, inching closer to him while resting your head on a stack of books. "it's not just your face, y'know. bold of you to think you're handsome."

to that, wanderer snickered, before swallowing it down and turning a page.

"you're pretty because you're kind."

he disagreed, he knew otherwise. he kept reading his book, the ink words barely registering to him.

anyone who'd even heard of the balladeer and his violent ways would disagree easily.

"and you're my favourite." you added, slowly tapping a nail against mahogany. "my favourite person."

wanderer's breath hitched, and then he swallowed.

"like you finished the rest of my essay that one time. even though it was my fault i was falling behind."

he scoffed. that was because you were struggling to adapt to the akademiya and its overbearing walls. wanderer felt the same too.

"and you're a really good listener. i can tell you anything."

wanderer rolled his eyes this time. listening was hardly anything, he thought. everyone had their own life, a tale unique to them. if anything, for someone to open up is a blessing, a sign of trust and comfort.

"oh, and cats! you always pet cats."

of course he did. he adored all wildlife. cats just happened to be his favourite.

"i don't get what point you're trying to make."

you shrugged. "you're more human than you think. far more than most scholars of the akademiya. and people in general. you can yap about being a puppet all you want, but you have a heart."

finally, wanderer peeled himself from his book; he wasn't exactly paying attention to it anyways. disagreement danced at the tip of his tongue, but he refrained.

maybe it was how you glowed despite the absence of light, or the softness of your voice floating through the air. maybe it was because you said everything he wanted to hear.

but if you thought of him as human, then he must be one, regardless of his nature.

his cheeks screamed red. "you're talking so much today, what do you want?"

and lucky for him, you didn't think to stop and tease him. "you. i want you." you stood up, snatching his book, and he let you. "do you even sleep? take a break."

wanderer sighed, taking your hand. "fine, if you insist."

so through the house of daena you pulled him, promising to buy him all the snacks he wanted for working so hard. you reprimanded him for not sleeping and taking breaks, wanderer simply promised to do so from then on.

perhaps, he was the dense one, after all.

[sillierguy-3]

-Masterlist-

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Scaramouche

-Comforting a Puppet

[kossuma]

Husband!Childe who remembers your preferences so effortlessly that you sometimes forget you've ever told him them. He knows which side of the bed you prefer, which foods you pick around, which cup you always reach for, and exactly how warm you like the room at night. He never makes a show of remembering. He simply reaches for the right thing every time.

Husband!Childe who always slows his pace when you fall behind. He could be halfway down the street before realizing it, but the moment he notices you aren't beside him anymore, his stride naturally shortens until you're walking shoulder to shoulder again. He never even seems to notice he's doing it.

Husband!Childe who brings home little things that reminded him of you. Not always expensive or particularly useful, sometimes just a strange trinket, a sweet from a distant place, or something in a color you like. He'll have traveled halfway across Teyvat and still somehow come home with something that makes you think, Of course he saw this and thought of me.

Husband!Childe who gets genuinely startled whenever you cry. Not because he doesn't know what to do, but because seeing you hurt hits a part of him that fighting never quite reaches. All of his usual teasing disappears. He becomes unusually attentive, staying close, wiping your tears away, getting you whatever you need, and quietly making sure you never have to sit with whatever upset you alone.

Husband!Childe who wakes up at three in the morning because you quietly admit that you're hungry. He's barely conscious, hair completely disheveled, eyes still half-closed, yet somehow already getting out of bed. Ten minutes later, he's standing in the kitchen making whatever midnight snack sounds good to you, because apparently being woken from a perfectly comfortable sleep is a small price to pay for seeing you happy.

Husband!Childe who always leaves the best bite of his food untouched for you. Even if he's been looking forward to it the entire meal, he'll somehow stop himself from eating it. He'll insist he was already full anyway, despite the fact that you watched him eye it three times.

Husband!Childe who secretly loves seeing your things scattered around the house. Your book left open on the sofa, your hair ribbon on the table, your shoes abandoned near the doorway. He'll tease you about being messy, but he never actually moves anything unless he has to. There's something comforting to him about constantly finding little evidence that you're there.

Husband!Childe who automatically fixes anything that's slightly out of place on you. A crooked collar, a loose scarf, a strand of hair caught beneath your coat. His hands reach out almost absentmindedly, straightening everything before he moves on as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Husband!Childe who knows your different kinds of silence. He can tell when you're simply tired, when you're thinking, when something has irritated you, and when you're quietly upset but don't want to talk about it yet. He doesn't force you to explain yourself. He simply adjusts himself to whatever you need until you're ready.

Husband!Childe who becomes ridiculously pleased whenever he manages to make you laugh. He'll remember exactly what made you laugh, then bring it back weeks later just to see if he can do it again. Somewhere along the way, making you smile became one of his favorite challenges, and he's far too competitive to ever stop trying.

Husband!Childe who becomes noticeably softer when you're half-asleep. His movements get quieter, his teasing fades, and he handles you with an unusual amount of care. He'll pull the blankets back over you when they slip, move anything that's uncomfortable, and make sure you're settled before letting himself relax again.

Husband!Childe who, after everything he's experienced, still finds one of the best parts of his life to be the simplest one: coming home to you. He can spend days surrounded by noise, danger, and people demanding his attention, but there's something about finding you waiting for him that makes his shoulders finally loosen. Home, to him, stopped being a place a long time ago. It became you.

[wandering-haz3]

Hii! I saw that you were doing requests so could i request Capitano x chronically ill fem reader? Reader suddenly became ill not long into her and Capitano's marraige and now she spends most of her days in bed. No pressure tho ofc, thank you :DD

capitano with a chronically ill wife!

note: im so sorry this took forever to write oml 😭 i had writer's block for weeks hopefully this lives up to your expectations

lore spoilers ahead

you met him shortly after joining the fatui. the lack of money and the bitter cold that lingered in the outskirts of snezhnograd were motivating enough to leave your hometown. you came from a family of blacksmiths, well recognized in their own regard in the distant past. but after years of increasing technology and the decreasing demand for honed swords, your family lost most of their income.

you were an only child, and with the frailness of your father's heart and your mother's old age, you set off for snezhnograd hoping to find a job. the city was much warmer, a result of the heat from kresnik's torch. the paths around the city were tangled in an orderly way, making you find your way to the heart of the city quickly.

the first place you tried to look for a job was at an antique store. entering the shop, all you could see were models of ancient artifacts and long lost jewels protected by glass walls. but they were just that, cheap models priced as authentic ones. you had a good eye for noticing the value and originality of products, as your father taught you when appraising a sword.

you were blunt, to say the least, and by the end of the conversation, you were escorted out by the elderly woman, shooing you away like one would a flock of lingering pigeons. you could only grit your teeth and move on to a busy restaurant. you were denied almost instantly, considering you had no serving experience and couldn't name the first ingredient in solyanka.

after the fifth place you went and were denied from or wasn't hiring, you were about to go list yourself in the adventurer's guild until you saw a recruitment poster hanging on the wall. fatui recruitment posters weren't uncommon across snezhnaya, but this was your first time actually reading what was on it.

the process was rather selective, as per her majesty's expectations, but the benefits were very good. a decent salary to send home to your parents, access to living quarters paid by the fatui, regular access to free healthcare, and all travel expenses paid. to say it sounded like a luxury compared to your family's poverty was an understatement.

by the following month, you were a fully fledged member of the fatui. even if your prowess in wielding swords was exceptional, you were placed in the low ranks as a fatui operative with an anemo delusion. not only that, but you were assigned to serve under capitano, the first fatui harbinger.

you never met him before, but you heard about him through your coworkers and the other operatives. how he was a brutishly strong man, but was valiant, righteous, and incredibly skilled as a commander. you didn't think much of it then, too busy writing letters to your parents back home to make sure they were receiving the money you sent them.

along with being an operative, you also kept your roots as a blacksmith intact. at first, it was only one of your closest coworkers who asked you to repair the hilt of a sword, but in the long run, everyone ended up coming to you with problem with their blades, even people from other harbingers' companies.

you didn't mind it. in fact, you liked sticking by your family's line of work. the process of melting old scraps of metal down and repurposing them into something brand new always seemed to soothe your nerves.

one day, as you hammered away at a piece of burning steel, a helmet clad man walked in, silencing the room with his mere presence. you barely glanced up at the man, already used to people you didn't know coming for repairs. you set the unfinished sword in a tin barrel of water, letting it cool and harden. when you turned, you saw the way your coworkers were rigidly standing, eyes widened.

you looked at the man without much thought. he was tall, and the heavy coat on his shoulders made him look as wide as the door he came in through. he set down his blade on a desk that was repurposed as a workbench, fingers clawed and his voice deep when he spoke.

"the blacksmith, yes?"

"clearly." you answered bluntly, not noticing the way someone flinched in the corner of your eye. you saw the man's frame tense as if someone slapped him and knocked his helmet off his head.

".. i require your service." he moved on expertly. as you glanced down at his blade, you could see the wear in the steel. parts of the blade were far duller than the rear end where the metal met the hilt, and subtle cracks ran at the edge. you hummed with dissatisfaction. it was clearly the sword hadn't been seen by any blacksmith for a very long time.

"you sure you don't want to scrap it instead?" you suggested.

"this blade is a treasure. to scrap it would be to betray a loyal companion." grabbing it, you turned on your heel, facing the furnace.

'well said.' you thought. you waved him off. "it'll be good by tomorrow. come back then."

when he left the room, anton, one of the oprichniki, slapped you across the head with enough force to make the sound echo in the room. it was only after he told you who you practically insulted, that the blood left your face and you, who was loudmouthed, couldn't find any words whatsoever.

the next afternoon, you didn't wait for him to come. instead, you were escorted into zapolyarny palace by a servant, the captain's sword wrapped loosely with fine leather binding in your arms. you felt your heart beat out of your chest loudly as the servant held the door open for you, the captain sitting at a desk.

you expected a firm reprimand, even a demand for your resignation. instead, the captain simply gestured you to sit and placed a cup of tea in front of you, the sword placed between the two of you.

by the end of the meeting, you had obtained a higher rank in the fatui and a promise for more encounters to come.

as the years passed, something between the lines of companionship and love formed between the two of you. you were one of the only people thrain, as he told you after he realized what phenomenon you were both experiencing, ever fully trusted.

naturally, your relationship wasn't very public nor was affection, but the people in his ranks very well knew what the slight favouritism and leniency towards you meant. when together, he would rarely stray from your side. he knew you were more than capable of defending yourself, both physically and verbally, but your warmth was always something that captivated him more than any victory.

you sat in the comfort of your shared quarters, languidly twirling with a strand of his long, black hair as you both sipped tea, his helmet off as he hummed with something akin to contentment. the room was warm, quiet with only the crackling of the fireplace breaking the silence.

but with a quiet motion, something slid into the palm of your hand, a box no bigger than a mouse covered with velvet, yet heavy. you looked at thrain, who had his eyes closed and lax, but his frame was tense, like he was steeling himself for a battle he had yet to conquer.

you set down your cup of tea carefully, and with shaking fingers you opened the box. inside, rested a diamond ring, a thin band that wouldn't bother you when you fixed swords, but with a diamond bright enough to blind any fool who dared approach you.

your eyes met his, now looking at you with all his interest and clearly, love in his eyes. it was a look you had never seen before, where all you could really think of doing was nodding your head slowly with tears in your own eyes and pressing a kiss to his lips, feeling his clawed fingers slide the ring onto your ring finger.

you didn't need a wedding to become his wife. even without the ring, you were simply and irrevocably each other's. whenever you came up in conversations, the title of wife would leave his lips with a fondness no one had ever heard from the honorable captain, and you, the blunt swordsmith, would smile brightly with the mention of your husband.

one day, as you worked in a forge that was made specifically for you at the demands from the fatuus you helped, you couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly warm. at first, you believed there was too much coal in the furnace, but when you turned to look, the furnace hadn't even been touched.

you ignored it at first, helping bind sword hilts and carving poles from wood for practice spears until you felt strangely overworked. that raised the first flag of concern. they weren't particularly taxing jobs, specially for someone like you, who was conditioned from a young age.

you left the forge early that day, convinced that maybe, you were out of it and you needed more rest. but the more steps you took toward your place of residence, the louder your heartbeat banged into your ears, a rapid, heavy beat that refused to calm down even when you sat to rest.

then came the chest pain. it wasn't exactly sudden, but after brisk walking, you felt it. it was uncomfortable, almost as if there was a pressure trying to break past your ribs from the inside out. you groaned, feeling your heart ache painfully, starting to beat irregularly, slumping against a wall.

had it not been for a passing fatuus who recognized you, you would not have made it anywhere, fainting on the side of the street.

when you woke up, you were in the comfort of your bed, blankets wrapped over you while thrain stood silent above you, his gaze piercing through the darkness of his helmet. your body ached with residual pain from the fall and whatever it was that caused you to faint.

"thrain?" you mumbled, eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light of the fireplace. you tried to sit up, but his firm hold on your shoulder eased you back down onto the softness of the pillow.

"do not try to sit up." he said sternly, but not unkindly. his hand lowered to your hand, clawed fingers curling around your calloused ones and squeezed tightly. "(name). i must tell you something." his voice was strained, as if he was having difficulty phrasing what he wanted to say without losing his composure.

after the fatuus carried you back to your residence, they also called in one of the doctors for the fatui. after not much investigation from the events that led to your fainting and your father's heart problems, the doctor inferred that it was very possible that you had inherited a heart disease.

cardiomyopathy.

it was a disease that affected the fibers of your heart, making the left ventricle swollen and harder for blood to pump as easily. it explained the uneven heart palpitations and the fatigue.

it only really came to fruit due to the sheer amount of physical labor that came with being a blacksmith. normally in the early stages, it would be easier to reverse and to lead a fulfilling life. but you, whose family came with the genetic downside, were not the same as others. the physical exertion along with the genetic factor made the cardiomyopathy act much faster.

fatal.

you were quiet after he finished explaining, too quiet. he would rather you cried or screamed or cursed to whatever being that bewitched you and stole your life from you. instead there was a stony silence, which was followed by a tight smile, as if nothing were wrong and you hadn't heard any of his words of your impending doom.

"i suppose that means i'll have to take a short break from smithing, then?" you sighed outwardly, as if it were a minor inconvenience, but he knew the truth. the way your voice trembled slightly and your fist clenched tightly around the end of the blanket.

you were trying to convince him, and mostly, yourself, that you would be fine.

thrain's hand slid away from yours, moving to cup your cheek and rubbed his thumb on the smooth skin. he was gentle, as he always was with you, but you could feel a maelstrom of emotions behind that single touch. he leaned down, the cool surface of his helmet meeting the warmth of your forehead.

the gesture was enough for you to let out a restrained whimper, then a sniffle, and then tears that wouldn't stop. yet despite the ugly crying, the incoherent mumbles, and the trembling of your figure, he did not let go. instead, his hand pulled your head to cry on his shoulder, though he too mourned with silent melancholy.

the first couple of weeks were neither good nor bad. most days, you'd walk around the perimeter of your residence, feeling the chilly everwinter breeze ruffle through the strands of your hair or brush against the warmth of your skin after sitting in front of the hearth.

thrain would walk with you whenever he had the time to, your arm wrapped around his as he talked about the new recruits under his wing or some of his missions.

"they ask about you, anton and the others." thrain said with a fondness he reserved only for your ears. "though i have reason to believe they excuse their recent lackluster performance with your absence from the forge."

a smile graced your features, followed with a quiet snort. "i would have thought my cousin was suitable enough for his refined preferences with his weapon. picky man, any blacksmith will do."

the breeze picked up, becoming cooler as the sun descended the sky. thrain's eyes watched you carefully. "he is.. acceptable. but he does not wield a hammer with nearly as much passion as you did, nor does he cherish a blade as thoroughly as you do."

he stopped you, making you see him eye to eye, holding your shoulders firmly. for the first time, you heard exasperated anger in his tone, in his stance. "(name), even if you do not recognize it, you are irreplaceable. it is incredibly maddening to see you act as if you are already gone from this world. you cannot seriously expect the people around you—me— to witness you speak of yourself as such."

"i know that!" you yelled with exhaustion, immediately regretting it, but didn't seem the slightest bit offended. your chest heaved with the incoming tears, your voice was strained and uneven, angry even, but it was the first time since you were diagnosed where it seemed you felt the weight of your illness. "i'm terrified, thrain. i don't want to die young. i want to live and be a swordsmith for the rest of my days but i can't even lift a hammer over my head anymore. for gods sake—"

you fell forward, burying your face in the thick pelts of his coat. his hands, which had been idle on your shoulders reached out to pull you closer. as you sobbed into the fur, his nails raked through your hair and your back, a gesture he often did absentmindedly late at night in the comfort of your bedroom.

after that, your condition worsened.

the once vibrant colors of your skin had gone a sickly grey pallor and you could no longer afford the walks you had grown attached to. now, you were confined to the softness of your bed, resting beneath a layer of thick fur and surrounded with fluffed pillows of your liking.

thrain began taking longer respites from grueling, distant missions. while there were some he could not avoid, most of the time he spent the minute he came home was dedicated to you.

he would come home from tedious meetings with the rooster or from dealing with situations gone out of hand at the border between nod-krai and snezhnaya with sluggish but refined moves, putting up his coat by the entrance and leaving his helmet alongside it, as was his routine. then he would go up the steps with his familiar gait, heavy and commanding even in the sanctuary that was your home.

then he would crack open the door to your shared room and you would be there. sometimes you would be reading the newspaper or books of your liking he brought back. other times, you would be deep in sleep, mouth slightly open and light snores filling the room and a hint of drool at the corner of your mouth (in which you later claimed was a figment of his imagination).

he preferred it when you slept. it was a sight he became accustomed to. seeing it in the first moments of waking up early in the morning or late at night when he spent far too much time sitting behind desks or at the training grounds. to him, it was a sight that granted him momentary peace, that you were still alive and yourself. but that peace went away the second he remembered your skin was not supposed to that color.

in the moments you were awake, he would sit in the chair next to the bed. it wasn't there before, but after you were condemned to stay in bed, he moved it from the corner of the room to be by your side. he would listen to you ramble and complain about the news, often with a scowl on your face.

"can you believe the korolevskiy troupe is no longer performing the swan's repertoire?!" the newspaper crumbled beneath your hands. "absolutely unbelievable, it is their finest modern work!"

"yes, dear."

the moments you were passive and calm were just about as thoughtful and passionate as your moments of exasperation with the news. sometimes you would talk about the aspects of the books you read, mostly fictional unless they were topics you actually cared about. other times you praised the efforts of the captain's troops.

"anton became second lieutenant today." thrain quietly spoke as he carefully set down a saucer with a cup of tea on a small wooden lap table above your legs.

you hummed contently. "i'm glad. he always showed promise."

when night came or when you were simply too tired, he would move to sit on the bed beside you, sitting against the headboard with unsigned documents to review on his lap.

sometimes he would sort through the documents with detachment, eyes always darting over to your sleeping figure. he would catch himself staring at your peaceful expression often, pen forgotten in the loose grip of his hand, leaving behind small splotches of ink of the document that he would later sigh at.

the spontaneous bouts of your illness scared him.

you'd be complaining about the new training implementation for the fatui squadrons when all of a sudden, your voice became breathy and heavy, jaw clenching in pain as your idle hand moved to your chest, clawing at the fabric of your shirt. your eyes would gloss over and you'd groan out a curse under your breath.

his first instinct was always to stand by you, toppling over the chair as his hands firmly gripped your shoulders. he was the former sentinel knight of the kingdom of khaenri'ah, a warrior who led battles and won them with unmatched prowess. the first fatui harbinger, looked upon for his strength and swordsmanship.

yet faced with a mortal illness, he was useless.

he did not fear death. in fact, it could be said he looked forward to it. the curse of immortality that plagued his being made him long for it at times. to be reunited with his fallen comrades and peacefully fall into the embrace of the warm caress of death.

but then there was you.

thrain did not fear death for himself, but for you, it left him wrecked with terror hidden behind his composed demeanor.

every drop of blood in your body, every cell, every hair follicle, was unfortunately, devastatingly, mortal. whereas he lived for well over five hundred years, your lifespan was less than a fifth of that. in the eyes of gods and immortals, it was the mere blink of an eye, a split second in the grand scheme of time and her plans.

every time it happened, he would silently steel himself, preparing himself for the worst. for the moment you fell back against the pillows he arranged carefully and the light in your eyes faded into a bleak dullness. for the moment the warmth of your skin (or what was left of it) left permanently and your heart would seize to move.

but he would regain his breath every time you lightly hit your own chest, voice having its usual irritation, cursing the blasted organ for the millionth time.

one day, he quietly sat down on his side of the bed as you read the newspaper thoughtfully. had he no urgency, he would watch you until you spoke or fell asleep. but the details he brought back from his meeting with her majesty were some he could not stall for.

"(name)." thrain's voice was low but clear. "i must talk to you."

you never knew about his connection to natlan. rarely did he bring up his past in the fallen nation of khaenri'ah, tales of his former duties and the nation's features. but not once did he tell you about his comrades. about the night kingdom or his anger towards the pyro archon.

the silence that followed was too quiet, too suffocating. you blankly looked down at the newspaper on your lap, but you weren't reading. the words had blended together and blurred minutes ago. your hands twitched by your side but were stubborn holding the sheets in tight fists.

"..i do not know if i will ever come back. but, please understand, this is a sentence i must carry out."

tears refused to fall, but they were there. one fact was certain: if thrain ever came back, there was a good chance you would be gone by then.

".. when do you leave?"

the weeks leading up to his departure were bittersweet. he had managed to take some time off to spend more time around you. most of the time, it was spent in embraces, hours laying on the bed just talking about life and memories. but never about the future. never about what was to come.

it made him want to stay, torn between his loyalty to you and the souls in his body.

but you made the choice for him.

a few days before he was set to leave, he woke up from a fitful slumber. normally, he'd let himself seep into your warmth, letting himself forget about his curse and his duties as a harbinger. letting himself be your husband.

but once the morning haze left, he realized that warmth was not there, nor was the quiet snoring from your figure. instead, there was cold flesh, bitter silence, and your last action.

a small smile gracing your corpse.

a farewell to life.

a farewell to him.

[the-original-skipps]

|| When you wipe away their kiss as a joke. || Genshin Impact Reactions ||

hey guys I’m back from a short inactivity! I can’t just not post my weekly reactions now can I? lol really went all out with this even wrote for characters I’ve never written for either so sorry if it’s ooc anyways enjoy the short men squad!

: venti. albedo. xiao. heizou. kazuha. cyno. wanderer. lyney. kinich. illuga. lohen.

❥ Albedo’s expression doesn’t change despite your actions. He doesn’t feel the slightest bit of the dejection you hoped to evoke instead, he is awfully curious. He leans in with a thumb to his chin, observing your reaction with a studying gaze as his mind races for potential causes.

“An interesting reception. Could you elaborate on what caused such a reaction?”

You can almost feel yourself regretting the joke now that you’ve made yourself his next problem to solve. He tilts his head slightly as he continues to wonder silently to himself before asking various clinical embarrassing questions that immediately make you reveal the punchline just to get him to stop.

“How unfortunate. I was just about to explore some possible hypotheses.”

❥ Venti gasps loudly, dramatically grasping his chest where his heart is in mock pain. He’s quick to take on the role of a wounded lover, acting as though you had just committed the most heinous offense possible. The words leave his lips like a tragic play scene.

“Oh, my beloved! How you wound me with such a cruel response…!”

When a suppressed giggle escapes your lips at his ridiculousness, his face morphs into his familiar cheeky grin. Happy that he was able to amuse you. He playfully leans in, giving your lips a quick tap accompanied by a boyish wink, ready for a repeat.

“Would my love care for another round~?”

❥ Xiao freezes like a statue at the sight of you wiping your lips, worry quickly filling his eyes as his mind swarms with the thought that he might have caused you pain or unease. He feels his gut twist, averting his gaze and crossing his arms to turn away from you before mumbling a question.

“Did I… make you uncomfortable…?”

You feel guilt practically eating you alive for causing such a reaction. You’re quick to explain it as a joke in a hurried panic, worried he’ll disappear the longer you let the misunderstanding simmer. You only calm down once a tired sigh leaves his lips. You vow to yourself never to pull a prank like that again for as long as you live.

“I… see. Do not startle me like that again.”

❥ Kazuha feels his eyes widen in momentary surprise before his lips pull into a soft apologetic smile. The slight hurt he feels is nothing compared to the fact that he made you uncomfortable. He pulls out a clean handkerchief before taking your face in a gentle cradle.

“May I?”

He dabs your lips softly, his tender eyes gauging your reaction for any unease you might feel. His delicate handling of you evokes a flutter of butterflies within your chest. He’s just so effortlessly charming that you almost want to pull him into another kiss! Though, maybe you should apologize to him first…

“My apologies, my love. I hope that makes you feel better.”

❥ Heizou’s lips curl into a mischievous grin — he knows exactly what you’re up to, but two can play this game. He puts on a serious, detective like face, placing a hand on his chin as he observes you the way he would a fresh crime scene.

“Subject shows mild signs of feigned displeasure, elevated heart rate, and flushed cheeks… I’m going to need to inspect the evidence closer.”

He places a hand gently on your cheek, his eyes intensely locked onto your lips in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. He whispers that he has finally deduced the answer, telling you to lean in closer to hear it. Only to seal your lips with his once more, a triumphant smile playing against your mouth.

“Turns out the suspect just wanted to tamper with the evidence, but I cracked the case first~”

❥ Cyno cocks an eyebrow, watching you silently as you use your hand to wipe your lips. His expression is serious and stern, completely betraying the reaction you had hoped to pull from him. His gaze is sharp when he suddenly takes hold of your wrist, pulling your hand away from your face.

“I hope you understand that what you’ve done is a serious offense.”

You tense in surprise, wondering how wiping your mouth could possibly be a crime. As he begins to elaborate with utter deadpan seriousness on the exact legal extent of your "infraction,". The more you listen, the more you realize how ridiculous it sounds and that he’s turning the tables on you.

“I’ll let you off with a warning this time. Do it again, and I’ll have you arrested.”

❥ Wanderer’s expression hardens as he watches you wipe your lips. His usual scowl grows harsher, and he crosses his arms in displeasure — trying to hide the sting he felt from your action. He’s quick to mask his true emotions with mocking sarcasm.

“If you’re so disgusted, maybe I should scrub your lips until they fall off.”

He’s also fiercely petty, so as soon as your hand leaves your mouth, he grabs you by the collar of your shirt and pulls you into a sudden rougher kiss that leaves you gasping in surprise. It’s wet and sloppy, intentional just to make even more of a mess than what you originally planned to wipe off. Something he usually refrains from doing but right now, he’s feeling spiteful.

“Tsk, do that again. I dare you.”

❥ Lyney’s jaw goes slack, as if he’s entirely unable to believe what you just did. His reaction goes from zero to one hundred as he flamboyantly portrays his heartbreak. A hand resting dramatically on his forehead before he grins, having immediately thought of a counter ploy.

“I see you’re in need of some professional assistance. Let me pull a magic item right out for you…!”

He reaches behind you as if pulling off a sleight of hand, and a handkerchief magically appears in his fingers. Right as you reach out to take it, he playfully swoops in to steal a kiss instead, offering a charming wink and a smile as he pulls back. He doesn’t even bother to hand you the handkerchief.

“How’s that for a magic trick~?”

❥ Kinich blinks, his eyes locking onto you as he wonders why you’re suddenly wiping your lips. Instead of feeling embarrassed or dejected, he fishes a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to you, briefly wondering if his lips were somehow stained with ash or dirt from his latest hunt.

“Here, use this. It’s better than using your hand.”

As you take the handkerchief from him, it doesn’t take long for the sound of voluminous booming laughter to ring out from a certain floating dragon lord. Whom Kinich promptly swats away like an annoying fly.

“Ha! They’re trying to scrub off your gross mortal germs, Kinich!”

❥ Illuga watches you with eyes filled with concern. His first instinct isn’t to take your action as offensive or hurtful, but to worry. He briefly wonders if his lips had turned cold or rough from the frigid temperature and all the traveling he’s been doing lately.

“Sorry... did I make you cold?”

He gently pulls your hand away from your lips, encasing it warm between both of his own. Bringing your fingers close, he softly blows warm air over them. Hoping to chase away the chill. When your cheeks turn red ー not from the warmth, but from sheer fluster — he presses a tender kiss to your knuckles, offering a gentle smile. How could you possibly reveal it as a joke now when this is his reaction?!

“Feel better? Do you want me to lend you my coat?”

❥ Lohen’s eyes widen for just a fraction of a second before his lips curl into a smirk. He’s by no means offended. In fact, he’s taking it in with sheer delight. He’s quick to lean in again, just to watch you jolt in surprise, his thumb playfully swiping against your bottom lip.

“Wasn’t to your liking? Well, let me try again…”

Before you can even protest, his lips seal onto yours. The thumb that was previously on your lip now holds your chin in a tight grip, pulling it so that your mouth opens wider, his tongue entering to tangle with yours. Maybe you shouldn’t have provoked a tiger when it’s still hungry…

“Try wiping that away~”

[harusimpwanderer]

Lohen? Lohen!

[awhkaiy]

— THE WEIGHT IN HIS PALMS

# a.n: hands, HANds, HANDS!!! *summoning scara/wanderer nation*. we love wanderer’s hands here. no i didn’t stutter. sfw short fic. gn!reader. contains spoilers for his lore.

# w.c: 1.3k

Wanderer’s hands really did carry every version of him, like layers of lacquer on an antique doll. You’d know that if he were to find himself close to you, enough to reveal the shape of his soul to you.

Hands originally carved to be a vessel for divine power, left empty in a quiet pavilion when Ei deemed him too soft. Hands that hammered iron in Tatarasuna, held a dying child’s cold fingers, and tried—and failed—to keep human fragility from slipping through them. Hands that gripped an Electro Gnosis with absolute, arrogant reverence, wielded the lines of fate, and fought Dottore’s grueling, bloody experiments.

And now? Hands that dip feather quills into black ink, scroll through dry Academia papyrus, cut vegetables for students who get too engrossed in their studies to eat, and wield Anemo Vision with precise, effortless grace.

Puppets don’t generate their own body heat the way living things do. His skin is smooth, unblemished, and perpetually cool to the touch like polished marble or chilled glass. When his fingers accidentally graze a human’s wrist or hand while handing over a book, a scroll, or a bowl of food, there’s that micro-second delay. A subtle, instinctual stalling. His mind registers the pulse, the quick jump of blood beneath skin, the radiant, living warmth. If called out on it, he’d snap something sharp about “human inefficiency” or “carelessness.” But the truth is, to a creation that was abandoned for being “too fragile,” he is secretly fascinated by how soft, warm, and resilient human life actually is.

He acts like he despises weakness, but when he considers something fragile—a delicate flower in Sumeru, parchment, an exhausted student—his gentleness is much clearer. He knows his own strength. He knows he was built to hold divine weight. So when he touches something mortal, his knuckles lock into absolute, hyper-controlled carefulness—as if he’s afraid the mere pressure of his mechanical joints might shatter them.

The first time you noticed the contrast between your skins—of porcelain and pulse:

The ink on the margin of the thesis was still wet.

​Wanderer moved with a quiet, lethal efficiency that belonged on a battlefield, yet here he was, sliding a fresh stack of references across the wooden desk without making a sound. His fingers—slender, immaculate, unblemished by the scars that should have come with four centuries of violence rested on the edge of the paper.

​As you reached to take the document, your knuckles brushed against his. You didn’t pull away immediately, and neither did he.

His skin was cool, smooth as sea-smoothed glass, lacking the soft give of human flesh. But against his fingers, your skin was a sudden, violent contrast—radiating a steady, quiet heat. Beneath your skin, he could feel the faint, rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. So fast. So fragile.

​For two beats of that fleeting pulse, Wanderer didn’t move. His thumb twitched, a barely perceptible micro-movement, leaning into the warmth just enough to feel it sink into his artificial joints.

​Then, like a line cut on a kite, he drew his hand back, pulling it into the deep sleeve of his robes. “You’re distracting yourself,” he muttered, his voice flat, though his indigo-blue eyes remained locked on the spot where your hands had met. He turned his head away, crossing his arms over his chest to trap the fading heat against his skin.

“Finish the third section before the oil in the lamp burns out. I won’t rewrite it for you when you make a mess of the conclusion.”

But that night, you’d noticed that touch. You’d noticed that curiosity and longing in his gaze. Maybe that’s why the second time his hands caught your attention, you held on tight.

—of human fragility and mechanical discomfort:

The brass kettle had a faulty latch, something he’d noted three days ago and meant to fix, if only the student housing maintenance wasn’t so utterly incompetent. A sudden, violent burst of steam sputtered from the spout, followed by a harsh splash of scalded tea water cascading off the lip of the desk.

​Before the first drop could hit your skin, he was already there.

​His movement wasn’t human, it lacked the slight recoil of panic or shock. His hand shot out, palm flat, cutting through the spray like a blade to block the worst of it from splashing over your face and chest. The near-boiling liquid pooled across the back of his knuckles, dripping onto the floorboards in heavy, dark spots.

“Careless,” Wanderer snapped instantly, his voice sharp, cold, and tight with a sudden, disproportionate tension.

​He didn’t even look at his own hand. His indigo eyes were pinned entirely on you, scanning your face, your throat, the front of your collarbones—checking for red marks, for blisters, for the telltale signs of human pain. “You sit there staring at parchment until your mind turns to soup. Did any of it hit you? Answer me.”

​”I’m fine,” you breathed, blinking at the sheer speed of him. There was no hiding how startled you were. “Wanderer, I’m fine. It missed me.”

​Only when he was entirely satisfied that you weren’t burned did the rigid line of his shoulders drop half an inch. He made a low, irritated sound in his throat and reached for a dry cloth to wipe the desk.

“Look at your hand,” you said, reaching out to catch his wrist before he could pull away.

​He froze at the touch. Steam was still rising off his skin. The water had been hot enough to redden a human palm, to cause sharp, agonizing pain. But his hand was... unchanged. Smooth, pale, and entirely unaffected.

“It’s fine,” Wanderer muttered, trying to pull his arm back with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“No, it’s not that,” you said softly, your fingers tightening gently around the cool curve of his wrist. You turned his hand over, tracing the back of his knuckles where the hot tea had pooled. “Your hands... they don’t hold heat. The water was scalding, but you’re still cold.”

​The sentence hung in the air, deceptively simple, but it hit the quiet room like glass shattering on stone. Wanderer went dead still. He stared down at where your warm, living fingers were cradling his. To him, the contrast was blinding. You were skin and blood, prone to burning, prone to bruising, carrying a pulse that beat like a trapped bird. And he was a vessel built of synthetic joints and everlasting silver wood—impervious to the sting of hot tea, but forever barred from generating the warmth you gave off so effortlessly.

​For a long dangerous second, the sharp comeback died in his throat. He looked at his own hand—the hand that had held a Gnosis, that had drawn blood in the abyss, that had just shielded a mortal from a minor household accident—and felt the quiet, hollow truth of what he was.

“They were made not to feel it,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet, so stripped of his usual venom, that it sounded almost alien. He didn’t pull away this time. Instead, his fingers twitched against your palm, a slow, hesitant curl of his hand—not closing into a fist, but resting heavy and quiet in your grasp, absorbing the heat he couldn’t make on his own.

“It makes no difference,” he added, turning his face toward the window, though his hand remained stubbornly, silently anchored in yours. “So stop fussing over it.”

Wanderer is a weapon made of wood and ancient Khaenri’ahn technology, trying to navigate a world made of flesh, blood, and mortality. Yet, when he felt you lean in, brushing his fingers gently against your cheek, and pressing soft kisses to the knuckles—he thinks maybe he can start loving his puppet-self the way you do.

interactions, reblogs and likes are appreciated! this post belongs to © awhkaiy. do not repost or translate or feed my work to ai.

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[kossuma]

Husband!Wanderer who gets furious if anyone else tries to handle your things or cater to you. The moment a shopkeeper offers to help carry your packages or a friend tries to fetch you a glass of water, he immediately steps in, takes the item, and gives the person a razor-sharp glare. "They don't need your help. Mind your own business."

Husband!Wanderer who insists he doesn't want any affection in public, yet his hand constantly finds yours the second you step into a crowd. He’ll latch his fingers tightly around yours with a scoff, muttering, "Don't get lost. I am not spending my afternoon looking for you."

Husband!Wanderer who silently keeps track of every tiny thing you offhandedly mention liking: a specific pastry from a bakery you passed weeks ago, a ribbon in a shop window, a rare tea, and then "accidentally" acquires it. When he drops it in front of you, he flushes slightly, turns his face away, and lies through his teeth: "Someone gave it to me. I have no use for it, so you take it."

Husband!Wanderer who gets absurdly protective when you're sick. He will ban you from leaving the bed, tucking the blankets around you so tightly you can barely move. He’ll sit on the edge of the mattress all day with his arms crossed, glaring at you every time you try to sit up. "If you move so much as an inch, I will personally tie you to that headboard. Drink your soup."

Husband!Wanderer who hates the cold himself, but the moment he notices you shivering, he will yank off his outer layer or pull you straight into his chest under his cloak. When you point out that he’s warm, he’ll wrap his arms tighter around you and grumble, "Shut up. I'm just using you for body heat."

Husband!Wanderer who secretly loves it when you play with his hair, though he'll die before admitting it out loud. If you start running your fingers through his bangs while relaxing together, he’ll sigh deeply, lean his entire head heavily into your lap, and pretend to fall asleep just so you won't stop.

Husband!Wanderer who aggressively defends your terrible habits or minor mistakes to anyone else, even if he rags on you for them at home. If someone gently critiques your cooking or work, he’ll cut them off instantly with a cold, condescending sneer: "And who asked for your opinion? They did it better than you ever could, so keep your mouth shut."

Husband!Wanderer who hoards every little note, doodle, or trinket you’ve ever given him, keeping them hidden away in a safe, pristine box that he thinks you don't know about. If you ever catch him looking through it, he snaps the lid shut in a panic and accuses you of snooping on "important documents."

Husband!Wanderer who gets petty if you pay more attention to a pet or animal than to him. He’ll stand in the doorway, staring daggers at the cat in your lap until you finally look up, at which point he’ll cross his arms, roll his eyes, and snap, "Are you going to sit there petting that useless creature all day, or are you going to pay attention to me?"

Husband!Wanderer who, despite all his sharp edges and loud complaints, will gently rest his head against your shoulder after an exhausting day and just hold your hand in total silence, letting his guard completely down only when it's just the two of you behind closed doors.

[dovelix]

picture perfect

⟢ synopsis... having a partner with a kamera in hand that instead of capturing ordinary things, decides to capture them. (fluff)

⟢ featuring... pierro. capitano. dottore(35). columbina. arlecchino. scara. sandrone. signora. pantalone. childe.

PIERRO

The jester's quarters is usually shrouded in a heavy, suffocating silence, reserved for the grim reality of planning a war against the divine. The maps spread across his enormous oak desk are stained with the ink of fallen nations, and the air always carries the faint, ancient scent of ash and dried parchment.

But then there is you. And the soft, mechanical click of a kamera lens shifting into focus.

When you first asked him to buy you a kamera, he didn't think much of it; you always had a habit of staring at scenery for far too long, or of saying out loud how beautiful something in your line of sight was, so naturally he assumed a kamera request was to capture such sights. Pierro never thought that the real reason behind the request was simply to capture him.

Of course, you always took pictures of beautiful sights, but more often than not, when Pierro was around, the first thing he could hear was the soft click of your kamera towards him.

At first, it caught him off guard.

Click.

He was reading reports.

Click.

He was overlooking troop deployments across Snezhnaya.

Click.

He was quietly watching the snow fall beyond the palace windows.

Every time he heard that familiar shutter, he expected you to be photographing something behind him.

Instead...

The lens was always pointed directly at him.

...click

Pierro doesn’t move immediately. He keeps his gaze fixed on a pile of documents, his gloved hand hovering inches over a document. A deep sigh comes out before he even looks up. 

"Again...?" He asks before another sound invades the room.

...click

"...Is there something amusing about my paperwork?" Pierro's tone deceptively flat. 

"Nope." you reply easily.   

"...Then?".  

"You look pretty... even when you're so focused like this." 

"..."

Silence.

Not uncomfortable.

Merely thoughtful.

There was something in the way you said 'pretty' that awoke an amused feeling in Pierro; he never thought someone would use such word about him so matter-of-factly.

Maybe it was that amusement that made him allow you to take pictures of him in the first place. Although Pierro had set a rule about taking pictures while he was working, just in case your clumsy hands might lose the camera and it may fall into the wrong hands, but besides that, he truly never minded how many photos you took of him. How could he deny your happiness?

Having someone look at him through a lens just to find something beautiful to preserve is the only warmth he has left.

CAPITANO

The first time it happened, Capitano assumed it was an accident.

The quiet click echoed through the camp. He turned his helmet slightly toward you, waiting for an explanation.

You simply lowered the kamera with a smile.

"...Apologies," you said, though your expression suggested you were not sorry in the slightest. "The light looked nice."

He gave a single nod.

"I see."

That was all.

Or at least, that was what he thought.

Capitano is not a vain man.

Praise means little to him.

Admiration even less.

His entire life has been devoted to duty, to honor, to protecting others before himself. He neither seeks attention nor enjoys standing at its center. If anything, he prefers remaining unnoticed, his face forever hidden behind cold steel.

Which is exactly why your fascination confuses him.

One evening, after hearing the familiar click for what must have been the seventh time in the span of an hour, he finally speaks.

"...May I ask something?"

"Of course."

"You possess hundreds of photographs."

You nod.

"I do."

"...Then why continue taking more?"

You blink as though the answer is obvious.

"Because they're all different."

"...Different."

"You're never doing the exact same thing."

You begin scrolling through the kamera.

"Look."

You move beside him, showing him the tiny photographs.

"This one's when you were talking to Ororon."

"..."

"This one's after Sandrone's tea party."

"..."

Capitano studies the images in silence.

None of them are grand.

None are carefully posed.

They are simply... moments.

Small things.

Things he himself would never notice.

"I still don't get why I am the solemn center of each photo..."

"Because i love you." You simply said. "Isn't normal to take pictures of one's true love because they're the most important thing in someone's life?"

You made a small pause.

"Besides i like the idea of preserving your memory with photos... just in case."

Capitano's shoulders become strangely still.

"I see."

From then on, he never asks you to stop.

Sometimes, while you're fumbling with your Kamera, he'll patiently wait before walking away.

"...Finished?"

"Almost."

"...Take your time."

DOTTORE

He notices long before you realize he has.

"You've photographed me forty-three times this week." His voice suddenly interrupted.

You nearly drop the kamera.

"...You counted?"

"I remember." He quickly answered, his gaze hovering over you for a moment.

"...Curious."

"What is?"

"You never photograph my laboratory."

"You never photograph my work."

"You photograph..."

"...Me."

He gestures toward himself.

You simply shrug.

"I like you."

He pauses.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. But something in his focus sharpens.

"Can you repeat that?"

"I like you, is it a crime to photograph something i like?"

He studies your face with unmistakable curiosity.

"...Fascinating."

Rather than discouraging you, he begins doing small things in return, he'll deliberately lean against his desk while reading, knowing the angle of light will change, knowing it will alter how he appears in your frame.

He'll remove his gloves before writing notes, slower than necessary, as if testing whether you notice the difference.

He'll pause in the middle of speaking, just long enough for you to react, as if waiting for the exact moment your finger tightens on the shutter.

Click.

"...As expected."

"You did that on purpose."

"I wished to confirm a hypothesis."

"...You posed."

"...If that is your preferred terminology."

It even surprises him how much he enjoys it.

Not the attention itself, but the fact that its you giving it. That distinction becomes important to him in a way he doesn’t fully articulate, though it lingers in the way he allows himself to be seen a little more often than before, he's is not someone who cares for vanity, nor for how he appears in a frame. And yet, the knowledge that you choose to capture him out of everything in your world truly fascinates him.

He's even looking forward to seeing the results.

"May I see today's collection?"

COLUMBINA

You never really hid the fact that you took pictures of her, in fact you were quite obvious, despite that, she never really said anything, sometimes you wondered if Columbina was even aware that the subjects of the pictures you took was her despite how obvious it was. Of course, Columbina wasn't dumb.

...click

Today she slowly turned her head, as if the light itself has gently called her attention, not startled but curious, her movements are soft, unhurried, almost dreamlike.

"Are you taking a picture of me again?"

"Mhm."

"May I see?"

You hand her the kamera without hesitation.

She looks through every photo with quiet curiosity, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She lingers on some longer than others, tilting her head slightly as if listening to something only she can hear within the images themselves.

"..."

"...You always photograph me when I'm singing."

"I think you look happiest then."

She tilts her head further, almost childlike in her curiosity.

"...Do I?"

"You do."

A gentle smile appeared on her, soft and distant like moonlight on still water, beautiful, at least you saw it that way. Very dramatic that is true but, Columbina's beauty was truly the best thing you could've captured.

At least that's what you tell everyone.

"...Then keep taking them."

"Even if I take a lot?"

"Especially then."

Sometimes she'll quietly wander over while you're reviewing the pictures, footsteps almost silent, as if she’s afraid to disturb the moment even though she’s already part of it.

Without asking, she'll lean her head against your shoulder, watching the screen as if sharing the same memory, breathing in the same quiet.

"...I like seeing myself through your eyes." She said suddenly.

You blinked.

"You say that like it's strange."

"Is it?"

She blinks slowly.

"I think it's nice."

She never thinks your habit is strange.

If anything...

She finds it sweet that someone would treasure even the smallest, quietest fragments of her existence.

"You know..." Columbina suddenly whispered.

"hm?"

"I think i would like it if you were in the photos with me too, we can't let your beauty go to waste."

Your shoulder stiffened slightly, your gaze flicked away as your cheeks burned slightly.

"Don't say things like that so suddenly youー"

click

"huh-"

"hehe now i have a picture of you too, all flustered (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡"

ARLECCHINO

You never hid the fact that you took pictures of Arlecchino either, and it wasn't like you could hide anything from her regardless. It had never bothered her this small habit of yours, however she did set a clear rule.

"The House is off limits."

You nod immediately.

"No operations."

"No confidential meetings."

"No children unless they're not doing something important and have clearly stated properly that they're comfortable with pictures being taken."

"I understand."

Her rules are absolute, and you respect them without hesitation, its not like they don't make sense.

Outside of work...

She has no objections.

She's reading in the lounge.

Click.

"..."

She doesn’t look up.

Making coffee in the early morning light.

Click.

"...You’re persistent."

Fixing a loose button on her coat before stepping out.

Click.

"...I can hear you, you know."

"I know."

One evening she catches you scrolling through thousands of photos, her presence silent behind you. You don’t even notice her until she speaks.

"...You kept this one?"

She points toward an image taken after a long mission.

Her hair is slightly messy.

She looks exhausted.

Human, in a way few ever see her.

"You look very handsome when you're exhausted." You reply honestly.

Silence stretches between you for a few seconds.

A very faint, incredibly rare smile tugs at the corner of her strict lips. She lets out a quiet, fond sigh, shaking her head.

She leans slightly closer, just enough to see the screen better.

"You document everything."

A pause.

"Even moments I would consider... unnecessary."

Her eyes narrow slightly, but not in displeasure. More like she’s trying to understand the logic behind it.

"I like seeing you even in your most unflattering moments."

"As romantic as that is, I don't think anyone appreciates a bad photo."

She straightens, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she reaches out and gently tilts your kamera down, not stopping you, just adjusting your angle with precise, practiced care.

"If you insist on doing this..."

Her thumb brushes the edge of the device.

"...then at least do it properly."

SCARAMOUCHE

Scaramouche at first finds the whole thing annoying, as much as he loves you it is truly persistent how you keep trying to capture every single moment of him.

"Put that useless piece of junk away before I shatter it into a million pieces. I am not joking."

"No."

"..."

He walks toward you.

You instinctively hug the kamera closer. He just stops close enough that it feels like he could take it if he wanted to... and he did.

He snatches it with effortless speed.

"Hey—!"

You expect him to delete the pictures immediately.

Instead...

He stares at it.

"..."

The silence stretches longer than it should, his eyes narrow slightly, his thumb hovers over the device, not quite pressing anything. For a moment, he looks almost irritated at the idea that something so small has managed to capture him so easily.

He tilts the kamera slightly, and the screen reflects faintly in his eyes.

"You really think this is worth keeping?"

"Yeah." You reply quickly.

That single word makes him pause.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

He scrolls slowly and reluctantly

And then stops.

It’s a picture of him when he thought no one was looking—standing alone, wind brushing through his hair. Just... quiet.

"..."

He clicks to the next image.

Another.

Then another.

Each one makes his expression shift in the smallest, barely there, but still there way.

And yet he keeps going.

"...Why do you even take so many?"

He looks at you.

Really looks.

Then he immediately hands the kamera back.

He turns his head away as if that ends the conversation, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fully leave. He clicks his tongue once, like he’s trying to erase the entire interaction from memory.

He complains every single time.

He rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, calls you ridiculous, insufferable, and worse, but never actually stops you. He just stands there enduring it like it’s a personal inconvenience he refuses to admit he tolerates, like your presence has become an irritation he’s quietly accustomed to.

Yet...

After complaining so much, now whenever an entire day passes without hearing the shutter—

"...You've been quiet."

"Hm?"

"...No pictures today?"

You smiled mockingly.

"Aww do you miss the attention?"

"...Don't misunderstand."

He crosses his arms, looking away, voice sharpening as if to cover something else.

"...It's simply strange."

A pause.

"...Annoying, even."

But he doesn't leave the room right away.

SANDRONE

When you first asked Sandrone for a kamera she expected for you to document the tea parties she hosts, after all it's probably one of the only beautiful and peaceful moments that she has and she takes good care of making everything nice and sets a beautiful table presentation.

So when she finished setting everything every time she didn't expect for the kamera to always point at her.

At first, she assumes it is a mistake.

"...You are not photographing the table?"

Her voice is flat, but there is a faint pause at the end—like she is genuinely trying to understand.

You lower the kamera just a little, still smiling at her.

"I am. But you’re part of it."

She blinks once.

She thought it was just a one-time thing.

But then it happens again.

And again.

Every tea party, every carefully arranged afternoon, every moment she designs for “peace” ends up with your attention drifting away from the porcelain or mechanics and toward her instead.

"...You are doing it again."

"I know."

A pause.

"...I wanted to."

"...Why."

"Because you look cute."

There is a pause.

A long one.

Her fingers tighten slightly around her teacup.

"...That is not a sufficient reason."

But her voice is quieter than before.

And she still doesn’t tell you to stop.

The next time, she prepares more carefully.

The table is even more precise than usual. The lighting is adjusted. Everything is arranged like a display meant to be observed from a distance.

She sits down.

"...This time, focus on the table."

"Mm-hm."

You say it too easily.

Suspiciously easily.

She narrows her eyes slightly.

And then—

Click.

"..."

She doesn’t look up.

She just lets a long sigh out.

It was her again.

Of course it was.

"You are not listening."

"I am."

"You are not."

"I am listening and taking pictures."

"You should be listening and then taking the pictures."

"It works for me this way."

click

She knows she can't change your mind about the pictures you take, and deep inside she probably would be sad if she ever managed for you to actually stop taking pictures of her.

But she won't ever say that out loud of course.

SIGNORA

There are very few things Signora considers worth preserving.

Power fades. Beauty withers. Nations rise only to collapse beneath time's heel. Even people are fleeting; she learned that lesson five hundred years ago when Rostam died and Rosalyne died alongside him, leaving only the Crimson Witch... and later, the Eighth Harbinger. Every attachment she has ever treasured has ended in ashes.

So when she realizes that you are trying to preserve her...

She doesn't understand it.

At first, she assumes it's infatuation, the kind that fades.

She has seen nobles obsess over appearances. Diplomats flatter beautiful women. Admirers become bored after a season.

She expects the same from you.

After all there's no denying that she's a beauty, even she knows that. She expects admiration.

The familiar click of the kamera echoes through the hallway of the Zapolyarny Palace.

She doesn't even bother turning around.

"You've photographed me three times since breakfast."

Click.

"...Four." You grin shamelessly. "You looked pretty."

"..."

A faint sigh leaves her lips.

"You have remarkably low standards."

"You are my standards."

"..."

For a second, only a second, you catch the slightest pause in her stride before she continues walking as if nothing happened.

You photograph her while she's reading, while she's silently drinking tea, while she's staring through palace windows during snowfall, while she's half-asleep on the couch after returning from an exhausting mission, the glamorous moments, the ordinary moments.

The moments no one else is ever allowed to witness.

That confuses her more than any compliment ever could.

"...Why?"

You lower the kamera.

"What do you mean?"

"Why preserve... these moments?"

She gestures vaguely toward herself.

"I am not attending a banquet." She says."I'm hardly dressed for court, there's nothing impressive happening."

"...Because it's you."

"..."

"I don't need a special occasion."

"..."

"...I wanted to remember how peaceful you looked."

She looks away before you can notice the tiny crack in her carefully maintained composure.

People think Signora is vain.

She certainly enjoys elegance.

She carries herself with impossible grace, expects refinement, and refuses to tolerate sloppiness.

But beneath that polished surface is someone who once loved so deeply that grief transformed her into living flame. Someone whose memories of happiness became buried beneath centuries of pain and duty.

Your photographs begin reminding her of something she thought impossible.

Being remembered.

Not as "The Fair Lady."

Not as "The Eighth Harbinger."

Not as the Crimson Witch.

Just... Rosalyne.

Even if neither of you says the name aloud.

PANTALONE

To the Regrator, everything in existence has a price tag, a net worth, and a calculated return on investment. Relationships are usually no different. But when it comes to you and your constant photography, he becomes endlessly amused by your habit.

Whenever he catches you aiming the Kamera.

"Would this side be better?"

"...You're posing."

"I'm investing in quality." He smiles. "Am I providing adequate material for your collection today, my dear?"

He enjoys teasing you far too much, adjusting his posture just slightly every time you hesitate, as if the entire world is simply another negotiation to be refined into something more profitable, more perfect, more you-approved

If you gasp because he looked particularly handsome in one picture...

"Oh?"

"That expression."

"You liked that one."

"I—"

"You did."

He never lets you finish your denial, smiling likes there’s something quietly satisfied in the way he watches you react.

Eventually your old kamera starts struggling under the weight of constant use, worn down by how often it’s used to capture him in every possible light, every angle, every expression.

"A muse of my stature deserves only the finest tools for their craft. The resolution on that standard-issue Snezhnayan model is quite tragic."

You blink, lowering the kamera.

"It works just fine, Pantalone, is just a bit worn down."

He simply chuckles. "Nonsense. Only the best for the one documenting my legacy."

And without a word, it disappears.

The following morning, a beautiful new one rests on your desk, polished and far more advanced than anything you owned before.

"...You bought me this?"

"It captures finer details."

"You didn't have to."

"I know." Pantalone spoke with a pause. "...I wanted to."

he becomes your most cooperative model. He will literally pause high-stakes financial meetings with foreign dignitaries the moment you walk into the room, raising a hand to silence a trembling merchant just so you can get a clear photo of him looking imposing.

"One moment," Pantalone will tell the terrified merchant, completely ignoring the man's panic as he turns his most charming, radiant smile toward your lens. "My partner requires a portrait from my good side. Pray ensure you don't catch the glare on my rings, darling."

CHILDE

Taking pictures of Childe was the worst habit you could have possibly developed. Not because he hated it, the exact opposite.

He enjoyed it far, far too much.

The first few times, it was innocent enough. You'd catch him laughing after a fight, completely focused while cleaning one of his weapons, doing anything really. You'd quietly pull out your kamera, snap a photo, and he'd only glance over with that familiar fox-like grin.

"You taking pictures of me?"

"...Maybe."

"At least get my good side, baby."

That should've been your warning.

Because the moment Childe realized you genuinely loved taking pictures of him...of him, not because he was the Eleventh Harbinger, not because he was famous, but because you simply liked watching him exist...

he made it everybody's problem.

"Look at this picture my baby took of me!"

"So fucking stubborn aren't ya? haa, i guess once my baby sees me they'll have to take a bloody picture of me."

"Oh, this? My partner took this, aren't they talented?"

Every time he notices the kamera...

"Wait!"

He strikes an exaggerated pose mid-step, almost too fast for you to react.

"No, no, this angle!"

He shifts dramatically, turning his chin like he’s on a stage, eyes bright with anticipation as if the world itself is an audience.

"Oh! Get one while I'm sparring!"

He’s already halfway into a stance, energy coiling through him like a spring.

"Now! Before I move!"

Click.

His grin widens immediately.

"Oh! One more!"

And then another.

And another.

You end up with hundreds of dramatic photos of him mid-action, mid-laugh, mid-everything he possibly can turn into a performance. He treats your camera like an audience he never wants to disappoint, always trying to outdo the last version of himself you captured, as if each picture is a challenge he intends to win.

And somehow, he never runs out of energy for it. Even when he’s clearly been training for hours, even when sweat clings to his hair and his breathing is just slightly heavier than usual, even when he's bloody and on high, he still finds a way to turn it into something theatrical

"Alright, We're taking a double portrait," he declares, snatching the kamera right out of your hands and holding it up at arm's length.

"Smile!"

He spends the next ten minutes dragging you into a dozen messy, laughing selfies, some blurry, some with him kissing your cheek, and others where he's making a ridiculous face.

"We're sending the best one to Teucer," he says proudly, carefully slipping the kamera back into your coat pocket before planting a soft kiss on your forehead. "Gotta show the kids back home that their big brother found the best photographer in Teyvat."

He's so annoying.

all rights reserved © dovelix | do not repost, copy or run my work through AI

[sillierguy-3]

Comforting a Puppet

What happens when the 6th of the Fatui has a nightmare?

Fluff, Scaramouche referred to as Kuni, Scaramouche is mean, tried to be as character accurate as possible ^^;

You awoke to droplets on the back of your neck and arms wrapped uncomfortably tight around your waist. It was quiet, and your shared bed was still. The 6th of the Fatui had always cried with a silent stillness. He didn't shake, shutter, or gasp like you when doing so. He had no lungs to spasm at the uneven breaths. He had no lungs, but to you, he had a heart.

You roll over to face him. "Kuni?" Before you could get a look at his face, he pulled you close and buried it in the slope of your shoulder, not wanting you to see him teary eyed and puffy lipped. More tears dripped there. You lay awkwardly, not sure where to put your arms. It was honestly getting a bit uncomfortable, so you spoke up again. "Is it alright if I rub your back..?" His voice came out nasally yet steady, "It doesn't matter to me." You let out a hum and wrap your arms around him, rubbing your hand up and down his back, stopping at his nape to play with hair there before starting again.

It was quiet, but his crying hadn't ceased. "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing that concerns you, really, you should just go back to sleep," there's a bite in his words and tone that you had grown accustomed to. You let out a small sigh, "I'm worried about you, you know?" He scoffs. "How very gracious of you. I never asked for your worry, you know? Honestly, you're so coddling it makes me puke." Before he could continue, you nudged him off your shoulder and kissed his lips. He tilted his head, reciprocating, despite his words. Pulling away, you cup his face and wipe under his eye with your thumb. "Kuni?" He closed his eyes and let out an annoyed huff, "What is it?" "You didn't taste like puke." You knew better than to tease him, earning a light zap. You giggle at the tickling sensation.

You both settle back into your comfortable positions. You opt for playing with his hair, the strands silky and cold. The repetitive movements cause sleepiness to creep back into your eyes and brain. "Are you still awake," you whisper curiously in his ear. "What do you want," he asks, annoyed. "I love you. Goodnight." You don't get a verbal response, but he pulls you closer, a hand moving to cradle your head. He didn't have to say anything for you to understand what he meant.

HI!! THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I'VE EVER MADE A FANFIC AND I REALLY HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT 🥹

I also made all the dividers and edited the photos!! (to overcompensate for the fact that I feel like my writing is mid) Anyways they're free to use with credit! TYSM FOR READING!!(★^O^★)