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There are many facets to running into a familiar face.
[wc: 5.1k] gn!reader, modern au, exes to ???, alternating pov, attempting voice and tone and imagery and all that, topaz is called jelena, reader is a brat and a hater, attempt at humor, ig there’s angst, alcohol mentions, reader has their own backstory.
please enjoy! reblogs & feedback both appreciated <3 lovely divider by @.diviniyae!
The city smells different.
Or, at least, different than you remember.
Maybe the then fruitless pursuits in your life had distracted you from the true treasures flanking every street corner — for example, you now get the scent of hot sandwiches wafting temptingly from the bodega skirting the edge of the old baseball field. Spilled oil pops and fries under the sovereignty of the sun. The beach blows its breeze inward towards the pier, blanketing its boutiques in the aroma of brine. These are all things you’d previously missed because you simply weren’t paying attention.
Now that you’re aware of the beautiful (but overwhelming) clarity of the world and all of its showmanship, you wonder idly if other people are as enlightened. Do they know about this? Do they notice the distilled emerald of the skinny lemon trees or the mealy vinyl of the old diner’s booths? Do they notice like you do?
…Or are they too wrapped up in someone else to care?
It’s infuriating. It’s absolutely infuriating to see couples this time of year; they frolic and stare into each other’s eyes without a care in the world when the world so obviously cares about them. It’s crazy to think you were like that at one point. Freedom is eye-opening, you reckon. How you just itch to walk up to the nearest pair of lovestruck strangers and yank them apart — not as a declaration of war, but as an act of mercy! This is for your own good! Gaze instead so amorously at the cracks in the pavement, they won’t break your heart!
Thankfully, you’ve learned to be socially aware and to keep these urges contained. Securing a restraining order against yourself is not a recommended vacation activity.
It’s a gorgeous June day and you couldn’t be more thankful to be single, to have the company of only yourself. You wake up around eleven and sing off-key in the shower. You take your time getting dressed and presentable with no one impatiently trotting after you. You don’t check your messages once. You clip a thermos of cold brew to your belt and take the bus. Oh, how you missed the bus! No one speaks to you, you don’t have to share your seat, and you can enjoy music in your own bubble. There is no pain you don’t allow.
You’ve taken to calling the locations of your daily excursions Black Sites. It’s not like you have to explain yourself to anyone, but being that most of your favorite spots here are publicly accessible, this may seem like a silly name. But government black sites are clandestine, and as far as you’re concerned, you’re the only human alive traipsing through the muggy dayscape. Your usual haunts are sacred and private to you, and that’s all that matters. Today’s Black Site? The mall. A place of sanctuary and perfume peddlers.
As Carly Simon preaches in your ear about vanity, the bus lurches to a stop to pick up someone else. The new passenger ambles down the aisle after scanning their pass, choosing to plonk down next to you. Of all people.
“Hello,” they greet.
You don’t look at them. The ant-like buskers outside are much more interesting. “Seat’s taken.”
They chuckle. “Not the end of it.”
Now just what is this nonsense?
You finally deign to spare a glance at the intruder. They (he?) look to be getting on in years, silver glinting through his brown locks. His glasses make him look wise and his weathered hands also command a similar respect. Crow’s feet pull at his dark eyes and the tan skin of his face, reminding you of faultlines.
You should’ve set your damn bag down as a deterrent. If you wanted to be bothered, you would’ve just stayed home this summer.
“Do I know you?” is what you settle for.
“I would’ve hoped so,” he replies.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m your neighbor — when you’re actually home, that is. I helped you paint your back door last year around this time. I believe my friend also invited you to our bonfire. And if I remember correctly, you have quite the propensity for scowling into burnt marshmallows. I’m Welt Yang, and it’s nice to meet you for a second time.”
Oh. Now you remember, as awkward as it is now. He’s part of that odd menagerie of folks and their odd, unabashed behaviors. Memories wash over you like the limpid tide, most of them managing to scrape by untainted.
There’s you sanding down wood in your GET FUCKED sweatshirt, grumbling profantities that’d make a dock foreman weep. A faceless apparition next to you is snorting at your frustrated state, pointing indecisively between buckets of pink and purple. It’s because of this ghost’s volume that a friendly head of gray hair peers over their side of the fence into your yard, offering an asinine comment about potty mouths.
From there, you must’ve spent half the summer with Welt and the others. You remember the bonfire, too. Fireflies pulsing yellow had miraculously gravitated to the Menagerie’s poolside, sister flames drunkenly gyrating under the cover of residual sky-smog. You burnt your marshmallows many a time (not to your tastes), having never attempted the domestic roast-things-on-a-stick activity before. A laughing body dances in tandem with yours, sawdust and sparks flying in celebration. It smells of smoke and champagne.
These phantom pains only gain such vivid composition in retrospect. But in the moment, you do remember being happy.
Happiness used to be like precious gems. You refuse to think so frugally ever again.
“I remember you now.” You tip your head towards Welt, your version of an apology. “I didn’t see you at the bus stop earlier.”
“I happen to enjoy walking when my sciatica isn’t killing me,” he says.
“And it’s killing you now?”
“I resigned to public transportation halfway to the university.”
You shrug. “Bummer.”
“Indeed.”
With the conversation having hopefully reached its end, you go back to listening to Carly who’s still singing through one speaker of your wired earbuds. However, part of you now feels a certain obligation for the man sitting next to you. You’re friends — or you used to be something close to it — so perhaps you should display some amount of camaraderie. To meet your quota for the day. That’s all.
With the same gravitas one would use to fork over a loaded gun, you offer the other speaker to Welt. Maybe it’s a bit more like an imposition than you intend.
A smart man like him apparently knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Good. He thus accepts your wordless offering.
“Thank you.”
Peace. Both of you share the music for some minutes after, intertwined by song. The university is coming up soon when he pipes up again, tugging at the stop cord.
“Ah, I meant to ask earlier. Is Jelena around? We’d love to have you both by again soon.”
You frown and yank the speaker right out of his ear. “She was trampled to death by a stampede of wild horses.”
Welt gives you an odd look, unsure if you’re joking. You smile sweetly and wave him off.
.❦.
Objectively, the city smells the same.
This truth doesn’t stop the allure of better times from trying to weave its spell; Jelena is well-versed in the way of pain and how it manipulates her surroundings. As she stuffs her sweaty hands in her pockets, for a moment she swears there’s a tinge of vanilla tickling its way up her nose. Faint, fleeting, then gone. Your signature scent is (was?) a classic, and many others are surely wearing the same sweet fragrance, she reasons. That’s why vanilla haunts her. Not because you’re actually here.
…But there is a good chance you’re actually here, isn’t there? That’s why she took all this time off. She doesn’t expect to win you back so easily, if there even is an infinitesimal chance you’ll entertain so much as a conversation with her. That’s just how you are, and as lovelorn as she may have been when things ended poorly, she is not blind to your ways. Persnickety, her mind supplies immediately. Temperamental. Capricious. Easily scorned.
Cruel?
No. That thought is vetoed as quickly as it comes. As punishment for even associating that word with your face, she pumps her legs and breaks back into a sprint. Her body protests, but she’s learned that the runner’s high is worth any soreness. Her now-damp tracksuit is a testament to her rustiness, and it doesn’t escape her that she’s only so out of practice because you’re no longer here to accompany her. Exercise, especially in this heat, is much easier with a companion complaining by your side.
A lot of things are easier, more enjoyable, with a companion by your side. It feels like she’s dragging her feet more, unable to keep the breath inside her chest (jogging aside). The world has turned into a molasses factory. The offerings of nature are not as beautiful. Any food she prepares needs to be seasoned threefold for her to taste it. Her ambitions, ever-reasonable as they were a year ago, have stagnated into the common day-to-day grind that tempers emphatic hands and genuine smiles.
No, her mind continues its chant, you are not cruel. If anything, you were completely justified to storm out like you did.
Perhaps therein lies the problem.
How long were you waiting for her to screw up so you could sabotage the untainted foundation of your relationship? How long were you waiting for an incentive to run away? Permission, even. Jelena knows she never intentionally handed you such a thing — quite the opposite, in fact. She pushed and pushed and systematically eroded your walls down so she could be the one to hold you in bed every night. She waited so patiently, so ardently, and then was eventually rewarded with a glimpse of the real you.
Your light was (is?) blinding.
She needs to get back to the stupid Airbnb, she decides. It’s equally stupid how these thoughts of you are the sole fuel keeping her moving. A few more blocks and she can rest. She slows to a jog after powering through another burst, having nearly reached the residential district of your summer home.
There’s no guarantee you’re here. Hell, you could’ve listed the damn thing for sale and decided to vacation overseas this year. You haven’t blocked her on any social media, but you haven’t been active either since last she checked. Maybe you’re simply at home. Maybe it’s kind of creepy for her to be in the city at all, scheming of ways to apologize and make things right. If a friend were to regale her with a similar crusade of persistence and denial, she’d email them a wikiHow article on How to Move On and then herself… move on.
But the fact remains that she was the one to let you go. This mistake is one of her worst. Had she tried harder to be the bigger person and reach out, you’d still be styling her hair in the dim balcony light. You’d weave your care into each tiny plait, meticulous and focused in a way that belies your outwardly cold demeanor. You’d reverse the nighttime hold and draw her into your arms for your fix of warmth, hoping also to give as permission to cyclically receive in turn.
You need to be asked after, sometimes chased. Did Jelena deliberately use this knowledge to also effectively cut you off? As a petty jab towards you for calling her out on her slip-up? As penance to herself for being undeserving of your forgiveness? In the following months, she thought about it a lot, deciding that a life without you was starting to look like the much worse option. Working on herself and having more time for other activities following the breakup was not as balm-like as she’d hoped; she ached regardless, plagued by this festering wound of regret.
All of this introspection aside… she doesn’t actually have a plan. Serenade you? Call you and hope she’s not blocked, propose coffee? Maybe lemonade instead. It is sweltering out and all that. Write out her sins in the sky and streak across the shore? Ugh.
She’s almost there now, looking forward to chugging water and pointedly avoiding heatstroke.
The tiny townhouse doesn’t smell of home, but she’s hard-pressed to complain about the fruit basket and complimentary bucket of chilled champagne that was left to her. These types of accommodations are places she sees enough of, places to fill the gaps where home cannot quite reach. How empty things are, without you.
She certainly doesn’t mind the blissful air conditioning, though. Letting out a sigh of relief, she dumps her shit on the granite-topped kitchen island and snatches her water bottle from its spot near the sink.
“Numby,” she calls after taking a long swig, “I’m home!”
Her companion doesn’t come running like they normally do. Disappointed but not surprised, Jelena frowns and trails into the living room. She unzips her tracksuit top and flings it carelessly to the floor on the way, trying desperately to cool down.
Maybe talking to them won’t help, but what the hell, it won’t harm anything. Numby understands her to a T.
“Are you sleeping again? C’mon. You didn’t wanna go for a walk, you barely ate breakfast, and you don’t wanna play with your toys. The vet said you were fine, you big drama queen. Good call on staying here this afternoon, though… it’s boiling. You would’ve overheated. Just thought I’d offer, y’know?”
The faintest snuffle echoes out from under the coffee table. Jelena’s worry is barely masked as she crouches down, peering into their hiding spot.
Ah, there they are. Wilted and shoving their snout into one of your old scarves — because of course they’re dealing with your absence as poorly as she is.
And her heart splinters all over again.
A hum. “It still smells like them, huh?”
Numby wiggles around to face their owner, leveling her with a look.
“Yeah, yeah. I would know, right? I’ve probably stuck my nose in it a few times myself.”
A sharp oink! of dissent.
“...More than a few times,” she amends, defeated. Then she perks back up. “But don’t worry, okay? I’m trying to come up with a plan to win them back. It’s just logistics — and the matter if they’ll go for it or not — but shooting our shot comes before any potential rejection. That’s our focus.”
Even though Jelena’s sure her pet can understand her just fine, it feels more like she’s reassuring herself than them. The thought makes her chest tighten with nerves. What if she can’t do this? What if coming out here entirely was stupid? What if you’re not even in the city?
Her heart disagrees with that last bit; it’s like the organ is always measuring the ever-changing distance between you and her, thumping along to the beat of your footsteps from the boardwalk to the nearby bistreaux. Ghosts of you everywhere, on every corner, like she’d just missed you.
Granted, there are some places she’s been avoiding. Your Black Sites, namely.
Could it be that she’s too afraid of running into you after all? She hasn’t exactly picked up the phone to call you either, even though she’s considered it many times.
“I just need to do it, don’t I? God, being proactive sucks.”
Numby chuffs.
“I’ll head to one of our—their spots, and if they aren’t there, I’ll call them. Promise.”
A plan is born just like that, then. Jelena pets her sweetie-baby-honey as compensation for their suffering, then rises to stand. Now she must pick where to go, and if her gamble pays off…
No. She shouldn’t get too ahead of herself.
(“Don’t get too ahead of yourself there,” she laughs, wiping a small glob of cheese and jalapeno from your chin. “You don’t need to send yourself into a coma before we get to paint.”
You stare, unimpressed and likely wanting to gorge yourself on food court fries for eternity. “You shouldn’t doubt my bottomless stomach.”
“I trust my judgment more than yours.”
“Your mistake.”)
She knows where to go.
Emboldened by her sudden decision, she whirls around and beelines for the door. Before she does, in fact, get ahead of herself — Numby oinks again, louder this time to reach the kitchen she’s stumbled back into.
“Right, shower first! Then… well, we’ll see.”
Whatever will come of this, she doesn’t know. She just knows she has to try.
.❦.
The prospect of the late afternoon has begun to clear out most of the mallgoers. Not that it bothers you, of course. Less racket, more room to move around and make sales assistants sweat. You don’t necessarily enjoy that last part, but you seem to have that effect on people regardless.
A cluster of teenagers chatter by the fountain, engrossed in discourse about the indie rock band opening at the looming Robin concert. As you stroll by, you passively soak up every slanted and syrupy syllable, every derisive drawl. If words were physical phenomena, you’d be able to see them curling throughout the room like smoke, the speaker’s intended tone flicking the wispy trail angrily or playfully or whatever is emotionally applicable. Instead of braving the smoke, you cut through it, leaving behind clouds of passionate bickering.
You’ve entered and exited a few high-end clothing stores. Nothing much catches your interest so much as you just like the atmosphere. One thing about the city is that no one knows you extraordinarily well — you believe you saw only once a couple trying to discreetly point in your direction — meaning that you have the power of anonymity. There are no old attachments trying to give you a hard time. You have the means to want for nothing, with none of the messy strings that come with it.
Some might call it a double-edged sword. Thinking of it that way puts you in a bad mood, so you usually don’t attempt such an exercise.
But you can’t say you’re not reminded, sometimes. Standing out in the throng of tables, there’s a family sitting in the corner, spare chairs waywardly skewed and made footrests for the more lackadaisical characters. They all look alike, the same collection of features painted on each face in differing interpretations; they were all made to be by the same artist, technique and signature plain as day. One doesn’t need to be a cultured individual to discern that. And one especially doesn’t have to be a cultured individual to discern joy. Everyone, it seems, can be happy.
Cheer radiates from them like an infectious disease. A boy steals a pickle slice from what you assume is his big sister’s tray, this which earns him a halfhearted elbow to the side. Nevermind the fact that she had set them aside from her patty entirely because she doesn’t like them. Nevermind the fact that the boy, the little brother, had stolen them without hesitation because he knew she wouldn’t mind. Not truly.
What kind of connection must they have, to understand one another so wordlessly? Pickle-stealing is not a formal arrangement — you can only surmise it’s an understanding born of love. You try not to scowl, feeling a headache coming on.
Your appetite is declared dead right then and there, but you enter the food court proper anyway, slinking over to a random table. You dump your bag into the seat next to you, feeling weighed down. A pressure stomps on your shoulders and twists tension into your neck. Bothersome.
Has this location and its history finally caught up to you? The idea sounds ridiculous; you’ve never had an issue separating past from present before. You’d never let some relationship blip get in the way of your happiness. You’d go as far to say you’re thriving in this ecosystem post-breakup.
(“Let’s never break up,” you blurt, all uncharacteristic and tentative. Your thumb strokes Jelena’s knuckles, coveting her hand as you hold it. “I couldn’t handle it.”
She eyes you in her peripherals, still somewhat committed to the TV. You want to kiss her. “Who said anything about breaking up? You’re stuck with me.”
“...On the contrary.”
She turns.
She laughs. Joyful, awestruck, she laughs.)
You didn’t want to be reminded.
Perhaps that’s fundamentally at odds with the notion of spending your summer here. Perhaps part of you, the ugly and small person who still feels they will never fit in and experience heartache and heartwarmth… just misses her. Who could blame you for being a little nostalgic? That’s all these feelings are — manifestations of nostalgia. You know you aren’t very approachable, and while that has its perks, what about its drawbacks?
The same person who wants their friend back still stuffs goose down pillows under the covers of the vacant side of the bed. You only do it because it is just so, so empty otherwise.
The corner family has increased in volume. It sounds like the little brother and the big sister have abandoned eating, scuffling some ways away, parents distracted. You watch as they move from nebulously behind you to the nearby escalator, grappling over something colorful. You try to ignore it, pulling out your phone to re-enter the world of social media for the first time in months.
Your profile’s been in a state of dormancy since that night. Your five posts — all couple photos of you and her — remain up, no new likes or comments save for a few bots. Same goes for followers. Looking at the pictures gives you a strange feeling, like she’s somehow watching you in return right through the screen. Gooseflesh razes your arms as you make the mistake of lingering on the sight of her wide smile, an aquarium tank behind you both in photo three as you celebrate six months of dating with a private jellyfish viewing.
You swiftly navigate to her profile instead.
You don’t know what you expect to find. That you’re blocked? That she’s deleted all evidence of your life together like those weren’t the best times you’ve had in your entire life? Or worse, like she’s moved on and found someone new to fill your shoes? Hard to say. You brace yourself for the utter disappointment or vindication you’re about to experience.
…Everything’s still there.
Like an equally mysterious tableau of the modern relationship, all of her photos (including the ones she shares with you) are still public for all the world to see. Nothing new posted. Just like yours. Is it perhaps a bit depraved to be stalking your ex’s profile? You prefer not to think of it that way, it not being anyone else’s business aside. You have healed, you have moved on, and wondering after her welfare is not creepy. You haven’t checked in months.
Today must simply be a tumultuous outlier in the sea of your life. That’s all.
The clamoring grows closer and you’re no longer able to ignore it. Just as you look up, what appears to be a toy airplane flies out of the boy’s hands and nosedives, skittering across the floor and under your table until skidding to a stop at your feet. You regard their faces with a neutral expression, the girl looking rather sheepish to have been fighting with her brother at all. The boy looks worried, probably concerned for the state of his toy.
You sigh, pushing back in your chair and picking the item up. “You shouldn’t squabble with your family over something so trivial.”
The siblings exchange glances and seem to be baffled and put-off by a stranger lecturing them.
“We were just playing around,” the girl defends weakly.
“Yeah. Um, can I have that back now?” asks the boy.
You nod, taking an extra second to make sure the plane isn’t scratched or damaged from the tussle; it looks to be fine, but you thumb away a smudge of dirt for good measure. You give the propeller a spin and cross the remaining distance to hand it back to little brother.
It takes a great deal of effort to suppress your tirade. Love one another, because there might come a day where one of you betrays the other, leaving the betrayee with nothing but a black card while the betrayer starts another family and completely forgets about the betrayee. This is paramount. Stop staring at me like I’m Frankenstein’s monster, maybe?
“Thanks! Bye!” they chime in unison.
You watch them rush back over to their family, head shaking in silent admonishment — you tried to telepathically beam your warning into their brains, but perhaps they’re too young or dense to grasp your wisdom. You hope they don’t come to regret this.
More than that though, you’d like to leave already and stave off this migraine in the privacy of your own home. As you begin to journey for the down escalator, you realize, belatedly and serendipitously, that a lone figure is standing by an empty kiosk on the way.
And the illusion shatters.
Jelena is just… standing there. Dressed in a cropped blouse and shorts and looking like an angel, as if the universe delivered her to you based on your unconscious desires alone. However, being honest with yourself, when has the universe ever been on your side? Taking that into consideration, just what kind of omen is this? You blink. Once, twice, thrice, and she doesn’t dissipate into stardust. Her expression is unsurprised, so did she know you were—
“Hey,” she ventures, posture shifting from casual to rigid like her body wants to move but her mind knows better than to let it. She, without looking, juts her finger in the direction of the kiosk. “Keychains. They’re, uh, for Pride. The seller probably took a dip in the fountain to cool off. Shame. I wanted to buy a couple.”
What.
“What are you doing here?”
You don’t mean to sound so accusatory. It’s just how the words escape your mouth.
Her expression crumples and you hate how you put that look on her face, but the question remains notwithstanding, along with all of the conflicting thoughts and emotions tangling together in your head like a cacophony of impossible promises. She takes a minute to decide on her words, so unlike her usual confident self.
“I… look.” She sighs, slackening just barely. “I didn’t follow you here if that’s what you’re thinking. I had this feeling, and I decided to head uptown for old time’s sake. Coming to the city in the first place, though? Yeah, that’s on me being… being sorry, and wanting to see you again. Considering I hadn’t seen you at all before now, I thought maybe I was wrong. Thought you went to the chateau, maybe. Or the cabin. All in the name of avoiding us, seasonal suggestions aside. Can’t ever guess with you.”
The smoke begins to coil around your ankles like a viper. There is a whole sensory overload of awkward-ashamed-apprehensive-angry-apologetic happening, thick enough to choke on. You say nothing, ravaged by the change in balance; you no longer see, smell, hear, touch, or taste.
You no longer float above it all. You are undone. There is only her.
Jelena takes your silence as permission to continue, reining in her more unpalatable emotions and feelings on the subject. “Sorry, got ahead of myself. And that’s not my real apology, promise — I’m just asking that you hear me out. Those are my terms. You can tell me to fuck off all you want right now if it suits you, but I’d just like to talk.”
Then she adds, earnest and bright-eyed, “Please.”
She came here. She came for you, even if you made it clear during the argument how much you never wanted to see her again or something equally insincere, and when she didn’t give chase, you figured you made the right choice in leaving so she could not be the one to do it first. The consequences of your wrong choice were lying dormant until you were confronted head-on by the reality of them. By the reality of her.
“Talk,” you echo stupidly. “Here?”
For a second, Jelena looks dumbfounded as to have gotten so far with her argument of passion.
“...If you want. But,” she exhales, “I was planning to ask you out to coffee. Thought that’d be better.”
Coffee.
Neutral ground, all things considered. You are not entirely sure what talking could possibly entail at this point, and the thought maybe scares you a little bit, but after grudgingly coming to the realization that you cannot bear to turn her away after all this afternoon’s revealed to you, your position has turned awkward and vulnerable and all things you despise. Terrible.
…Hopeful?
No. You are not hopeful by design. You were once and look where that got you.
But maybe it got you here? Standing right across from the woman you love and another shot at loving her?
“It’s much too hot for coffee, Jelena. How about lemonade? More appropriate.”
The repose is deadly and loaded. You long to escape.
“Yeah—yeah, that’s alright with me. Definitely,” she says, disbelieving and breathless and stuffing her hands in her pockets. “I could message you details? If…”
“That’s fine,” you reassure.
“Great.”
Not the word you would use, personally. However, you are starting to sense another end to another conversation, even if this one is more important than most. You clear your throat, fidgeting with your bag and eyeing the escalator again.
“I have to head home.” Nevermind that you used to share the summer home in question with her. “You should wait here for the seller to come back. You wanted some keychains.”
It’s not perfect. You aren’t leaping into her arms even if a small part of you wants to (your capability to do so is also questionable). This isn’t a grand reunion.
But it’s a start.
“...Right,” Jelena laughs, almost relieved. “I’ll do that. Um, see you around?”
You bob your head once, succinct. Then you begin to walk away, pretending your legs aren’t shaking and that you didn’t just get tripped up in the most wonderful or most ruinous way possible.
You used to hoard the priceless gems of comfort and understanding, squirreling them away in your closet meant for your eyes only. Now, bejeweled in contemporary Swarovski, your mind wanders back to the very principle of the closet exhibit; storing good memories for later, for much more bittersweet viewing, is just borrowing grief from the future. Perhaps such preemptive mourning was poorly judged on your part.
There is always time to turn things around, isn’t there?
The thought tickles you. How romantic. How unlike you.
(Jelena takes her hands out of her pockets. How they itch and await the possibility of something old, new, more, or less.)
STELLARONHVNTERS: an art & writing network that welcomes content creators for all hoyoverse games! ( gi, hsr, tot, hi3rd + zzz. )
───⟢ WHY YOU SHOULD JOIN US! 👾
for exposure ! established in february of 2024, we have a dedicated following of hoyoverse fans that would love to be exposed to your works.
for community ! we aim to foster a close one! we have an active discord server, with channels dedicated to art, writing, original characters, selfshipping, and each hoyoverse game.
for events ! we host myriad art, writing, & game events—such as prompt events, murder mysteries, extreme bias games, and many more—both for members only & open access.
for advice ! many of us are just here to have fun, but if you’re trying to hone your skill—whether it be with creating, or catching up with a game—we’ve got you! there is always someone insane about something and willing to answer questions.
🗡️ we’re the stellaron hunters and we’re normal about The Characters!
🩸 INTERESTED? check out our blog; our applications are open now until the 13th !
STELLARONHVNTERS: an art & writing network that welcomes content creators for all hoyoverse games! ( gi, hsr, tot, hi3rd + zzz. )
───⟢ WHY YOU SHOULD JOIN US! 👾
for exposure ! established in february of 2024, we have a dedicated following of hoyoverse fans that would love to be exposed to your works.
for community ! we aim to foster a close one! we have an active discord server, with channels dedicated to art, writing, original characters, selfshipping, and each hoyoverse game.
for events ! we host myriad art, writing, & game events—such as prompt events, murder mysteries, extreme bias games, and many more—both for members only & open access.
for advice ! many of us are just here to have fun, but if you’re trying to hone your skill—whether it be with creating, or catching up with a game—we’ve got you! there is always someone insane about something and willing to answer questions.
🗡️ we’re the stellaron hunters and we’re normal about The Characters!
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Summary: How would your first date/meeting with them go?
Featuring...!: Dan heng, Anaxa, Aventurine, Phainon! (Sunday and Mydei will be in part 2)
Tw: none! Tooth-rotting fluff, a bit of quips here and there!
A/N: ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩Valentines special <3 enjoy! (I wanted to put a bit more characters in here but I'm tired and its the chinese new year holidays :/ so I might do a part 2 on this) also sorry if the character proportions are mismatched TT. I wrote the first half about a year ago and I picked this back up today so my writing style, proportions, etc might have changed...forgive me if they disturb your reading experience! Also Amphoreus ruined me. I just finished 3.3 and am typing this with teary eyes :(.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩DAN HENG
Not only had he confessed to you first, but he had also been the one to ask you out on a date!
Very very very nervous boy
He didn't show, but deep down he was scared that you would reject him
You had caught his eye from the get-go, and during all his days of trailblazing and being the train guard for the astral express, you just wouldn't leave his mind!
The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled had him in a chokehold, and the way you laughed had him melt like honey in a warm pot
He's not oblivious or dumb, so he knew that the emotion which he was feeling was love
So when the chance presented itself, he confessed to you immediately.
That leads him to where he is nowㅡ stressing over the various cologne options he could wear, and making sure everything is perfect for your date later on.
Oh boy he is stressed stressed.
His brows are constantly furrowed from the amount of pondering he's doing, and multiple times has he sat down in the corner over his overthinking
Poor guy :(
It gets so bad that March has to come in to help him
Dan heng doesn't speak, he doesn't say anythingㅡ but the way his eyes shine wih the tiniest bit of confliction speaks volumes
Frustrated, Dan heng turns to the one thing he knows he's good at
Reading.
He researches how to woo a girl online, and he consults his books about how to set up the perfect romantic date
Dang, people weren't lying when they said to 'do the thing you're best at' huh?
Because within moments the picnic is ready, the outfit is chosen, and the vibes are all set! :D
Now all he has to do is wait for you to get here
You arrive on time, in a gorgeous yellow sundress that highlights all your features, and your makeup perfectly done for the special occasion!
Badump! Badump!
Do you hear that?
That's the sound of Dan heng's heart beating out of his chest
He leads you to the spot of the date, which happens to be underneath a lush, green tree right next to a cliff with the most amazing view of the entire city!
Surrounded by beautiful pink flowers and grass, you gasp in delight as he grasps your hand gently to lead you to the picnic
You two talk for hours on endㅡ each topic bringing forth new information about eachother and yourselves!
You guys were so invested in your conversation that you didn't even realize that the sun was settingㅡ turning the sky into the most beautiful hue of rose that you've ever seen
Dan heng notices first, and with a small smile on his face he speaks gently to you.
"It's getting late, we should go now."
You pout at those words, not yet ready to go from this beautiful moment
Dan heng chuckles at your cute faceㅡ a faint blush rising to his pale cheeks due to your adorable expression.
"Don't worry." He smiled, gently grasping your hand as he said so.
"Let's see each other tomorrow. How about that?"
You nodded reluctantly, still sour from the fact that your time together had to end
Noticing this, Dan heng laughed almost inaudiblyㅡ and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to your forehead
Oh look at that! The color of your face now matches the sky! How amazing!!
Almost smirking at your dazed expression, he held your hand and led you away, walking you to your homeㅡ what soon will become your shared home <3
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Caelus and March were hiding in one of the bushes nearby
Just so you know, they took a video of the entire thing
They are so gonna tease Dan heng about this later.
✮⋆˙AVENTURINE
Aventurine is a gambler, he lives off of high stakes games and lives for the thrill of life
So when he saw youㅡ a fresh new worker for the ipc in his department, he just knew that you were going to be one of his biggest gambles of all time
Call it a gambler's intuition~
He would always stick next to you
And I mean ALWAYS.
He would make flirty remarks to you at any time and place
He would bring you little gifts that you would try to refuse with all your mightㅡ but end up accepting due to his insisting
He would stick to you like a leech 1000000%
But the thing is, all those times together with you had allowed the gambler's heart to beat at the sight of you
It was only supposed to be a game really, so how come you managed to worm your way into his heart?
Aventurine doesn't really know how to express love or give it to someone, so you can expect that he's panicking realll bad
Expect him to pop up more often and shower you with more lavish gifts than usual
He'll make more flirty remarks and try to joke around with you more too
From an outsider's perspective, he might seem really good at making a woman blush and twirl her hair around like a teenager with a crush
But in reality? Boy he does NOT have a clue on what he's doing
It gets so bad that he has to go to Ratio of all people to get love advice
And I bet the guy hasn't even looked at a woman romantically in his entire life.
One day Aventurine decides to fuck it
He checks his outfit in the mirrorㅡmore expensive than an entire house, no doubt.
He glides a hand through his golden locks, which from it wafts the scent of his expensive cologne
And he goes up right next to you with his signature charming smile while holding a bouquet of roses in his hand
"I was walking down the street, dearest y/n, and when I saw these roses I couldn't help but think of you"
Ok, your eyes went wider than saucers. This entire bouquet probably costed more than your entire outfit! How could you accept this?
Naturally, you tried to refuse the roses as politely as you could (although they were very fine roses indeed), but Aventurine just laughed and pushed the roses into your arms
"Now now dear y/n, you wouldn't want to hurt my feelings would you? But if you insist on repaying me, then how about a date? The luxury diner. 3 PM, don't be late"
Aaaand that's how you earned yourself your first date with Aventurine! Score!!
You wore your best outfitㅡa cherry-red dress whose straps looped around your neck and reached just above knee-length
When you finished getting ready and got out of your house guess who was standing right there at the door love~ you guessed it! It was Aventurine!!
He gently grabbed your hand and gave you his signature charming smileㅡwhile leading you to the sleek, black limo parked outside your house.
Oh. My. Goodness.
You can bet 1000% that that thing costs more than your ENTIRE. HOUSE.
Taking no notice of your shocked expression (or maybe he did, but just quietly snickered to himself about it), he opened the door for you and invited you in with a flirty grin on his face
Now, you were already surprised all right, BUT. That limo was nothing compared to the place where it dropped you off.
It was the five-star, fancy new restaurant with insanely high prices, a personal waiter/butler for guests, a private room for each guest that came by to eat, almost every single food in the entire galaxy, and classical music played by a LIVE OPERA.
This time, Aventurine noticed your shocked face. Who wouldn't? You'd either have to be blind or the biggest fool not toㅡyour jaw was drilled to the red carpet underneath your feet, and your eyes were bulging out of your sockets.
Aventurine laughed
"Haha, c'mon darling, lets go get some desserts~"
Yea you and Aventurine pigged out on the finest dishes and cuisines.
At the end of the night he held your hand gingerly, leading you out of the car and back on to the doorsteps of your house
His eyes and expression were masked underneath a careful mask, one you couldn't help but notice as you looked at him
When he caught you staring, he turned around and let you catch a glimpse of his eyes underneath his expensive sunglasses (who tf uses sunglasses at night)
And for a brief flash of a second, something genuine flickered in his gazeㅡso fast, so simple, that you thought you were imagining it at first. But when you caught him turning his gaze away from your face, you couldn't be more positive that what you saw was real. And maybe, it was just the beginning
Maybe, just maybe, you would be the one to unravel the plaster covering up his face.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 ANAXA
The first time you saw him, you were rather apprehensive of him. He was considered 'The blasphemer' after all, and while it was never confirmed, there was a rumor going around the scholars at the grove of epiphanyㅡthat the 'blasphemer' would end up tainting whomever made contact with himㅡresulting in the scholar himself and anyone who resonated with him to be faced with the right hand of thanatos after death.
While you prided yourself on being an avid pursuer of logos, an unsettling feeling sometimes settled inside of you whenever you caught a glimpse of that scholar. So while you naturally believed that the rumors were falseㅡyou still avoided the man like a plague, and fled from spots where he lingered.
Unbeknownst to you however, the mint-haired scholar's heart lept a little but whenever he caught a glimpse of you. It never lasted for ling though, for you always fled the scene before he got a chance to talk to you.
The day you finally spoke to him was out of a necessity. You had needed some materials for an experiment, and no matter where you looked, they were nowhere to be found.
So for the success of your experiment, you ended up approaching anaxaㅡwho was busy scribbling away on his wooden desk.
"Hello, sir Anaxagoras, er- may I perhaps take up a moment of your time?"
His pen stopped its movement on the paper, and he assumed a mask of indifferenceㅡwhen, in reality, he was slightly pleased at the fact that you came to him first.
"Hmm. That depends on what you have to speak to me about. Elaborate, but do it fast. Time is gold after all."
This dude's arrogance is larger than Phainon's depression.
You bit the inside of your cheek and did as he said.
"Well sir, I needed some materials for my experiment to commence, and unfortunately, they aren't in anybody else's possession right now. May I perhaps inquire on whether or not you hold them in your inventory?"
You handed him the list of the components needed, and watched nervously as Anaxa scanned the paper with an expression of indifference.
'I can't believe I have to ask him for these. Of all the people here. What if he doesn't have them?' You thought anxiously.
Just as you were opening your mouth to speak, Anaxa raised his head and put up a finger.
"I do indeed possess these materials and, judging by the things you need, can tell what kind of hypothesis you are trying to prove with your little experiment. I could offer you my things, and a little bit of personal advice for your causeㅡfor a price, of course."
A price? You came here to borrow some of his substances, and he's asking for a favor in return?
Irritation flashed through you. It was common courtesy in the grove to lend other scholars research equipment. All of the scholars there were trying to expand the area of knowledge currently known to mankind, for the good of the majorityㅡso there was an unspoken and strict rule that allowed for borrowing of componentsㅡfor a price of lending a helping hand whenever others needed it as well.
But apparently, those rules didn't apply to 'Anaxagoras the blasphemer'
Anaxa caught a glimpse of the annoyance that spread across your face, and gave you a sneer.
"Oh please, my time is valuable and my equipment even more so. Do you think I don't need to use dew blood as well? I am, in fact, offering you a very generous trade. My request is simple; in exchange for giving you my materials and knowledge, I will be at your side and undergo this experiment with you. And you are not allowed to run away from me this time."
You felt your cheeks heat up and your eyes widened.
"Run away? When have I ever done such a thing? And, if your time is so precious, why are you bothering to help me out at all?"
Anaxa huffed, rolling his eyes.
"Oh don't bother with the excuses, you and I both know that you can't bear to be in the same room as me, much less talk to me. And, to answer your question, I too take intrest on how this experiment will work out. I have my own hypothesis which differs slightly from yours, and I wish to see that I am correct."
Oh. That makes sense.
"Wellㅡwhat if I refuse your help then?"
"Then I suppose you will need to waste much time and effort in getting the needed ingredientsㅡwhich is ultimately a waste considering I have everything you need."
Darn it, he's right. You couldn't think of any other possible solution. However, if you associated yourself with this man, would you be recognized as a blasphemer too? You were hesitant. You didn't want to be denied the flowering fields of thanatos and the loving embrace of reincarnation. You didn't want to be rejected by them and roam the fields of ohkema for eternityㅡlike the suitors of beautiful Penelope.
Finally, your desire for knowledge shunned your dread. You looked at him with something determined kn your gaze and nodded.
"Alright. I agree to your terms."
Anaxa smiled
"There you go, no need to act as if you're signing your life away."
He got up from his wooden chair and led you to a cupboard filled with various vials and glasses.
You carefully watched as he set the table, preparing the ingredients in an orderly fashion.
He looked up from his preparation and raised an eyebrow at you standing there.
"Well? Am i supposed to do this all by myself?"
You quickly snapped out of your daze, a slight flush warming your ears.
"Oh- um, right, yes. Apologies."
The steps after that were nothing but a blur. Anaxa was surprisingly not that horrible to be with. He was a fun partner to have a intellectual debate with, and although you never wanted to admit it, he was the smartest scholar in the grove. His steps were intricate and preciseㅡeach drop measured with attentiveness, each slice with delicacy.
While you were chopping up the roots to put in your draught, a sudden unwanted thought appeared to you.
'Wait...does this count as a date?'
You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking of that.
'of course not!' You scoffed mentally. 'We are strictly scholars working on an experiment together to prove my hypothesis is correct! Nothing more than that!'
As if he read your thoughts, he looked over at you and shot you a small glare.
"Why are you not paying attention. I hope you aren't doing this just to waste my time."
His words were sharp like daggers, but there was not a hint of malice anywhere. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep the grin from appearing on your face.
"Yes- of course. My apologies Anaxagoras."
You two worked in silence for some time moreㅡoccasionally arguing about the correct order to put the alder wood and the dew blood in, him ordering you around to do something, and you making a snarky reply in return.
By the time you were finished the concoction was ready, and the two of you performed various analyses with it.
His hypothesis was correct btw.
As you finished cleaning, you packed up your things and began to leaveㅡnot before shooting a small smile in the mint-haired scholar's direction of course.
"Thank you for your cooperation today, I honestly don't know how I would've done it without you."
Anaxa didn't even look at you when he was replying. Facing the other wayㅡhe acknowledged your statement with a simple nod of his headㅡvery anaxa-like of him.
Still, you felt that you had to say something. You always thought that he was a taboo to be aroundㅡbeing wary of him and never even casting so much as a glance in his direction. You picked the lint off of your clothes while continuing.
"Well, it really was a pleasure doing this with you Anaxa. Thank you for your assistance."
After that you exited his officeㅡnot noticing the fact that he hadn't bothered to correct you when you called him 'Anaxa' or the way the tip of his ears flushed the slightest shade of crimson.
✮⋆˙ PHAINON
Phainon was a very cheerful guy.
You had noticed it all the time.
And...honestly? You'd have to be blind to not notice.
He reeked of samoyed vibes and was known to strike up friendly conversation with anyoneㅡeven on a monday. Sometimes you thought that he had the survival instinct of a potato. But he's the delivererㅡknown to have slayed the most hideous monsters in battle hundreds of times.
So maybe a deliverer potato.
Anyways, you sometimes saw him waving to you on the street with his closest companion Mydei near his side. You had only talked to him once before, and that was to inform him that his shoelaces were untied. And yet he still treated you as if you were besties who grew up togetherㅡall while maintaining the regal prince-ly aura of his.
Sometimes, you waved back. And in those sometimes he always had the expression of a child who was given candy.
You couldn't help but find that...kind of endearing.
So of course you held a secret fondness for the cyan haired warriorㅡeven if you had only exchanged a couple of smiles and glances from down the street.
But you were content with that. For you thought that there was no way someone like Phainonㅡwho literally has almost all the young maidens in Ohkema drooling over hiㅡㅡnotice someone like you. You had only caught his eye from time to time when you crossed paths in marmoreal marketplaceㅡyou were sure that you never invaded Phainon's thoughts like how he invaded yours.
Oh boy you could not be more wrong.
You see, Phainon had had "affection" for you since the day you walked up to him and told him that his shoelace was untied. He could remember seeing your serious (but gorgeous) face looking towards him.
He thought that you had needed help at firstㅡpeople usually approach him for the reason of getting help. But no. You looked straight into his soul, pointed your fingers at his foot, and said "your shoelace needs to be tied."
It was comically hilarious and he still chuckled some time to time whenever he thought of it. Ever since that day, you have not wandered from his mind even once. He never got your name, so he called you the 'shoelace girl'.
And yes, after that entire ordeal he always kept his shoelaces tied.
One day, when he was training with Mydei, he let his thought roam a little bit to you. To your eyes, your eyebrows, and how 'the shoelace girl' would be like. He wanted to get to know you better, he realized.
"Oi, deliverer." Mydei huffed.
Phainon snapped out of his train of thoughtsㅡreturning his attention back to the warrior in front of him.
"Oh- uh...yes Mydei?" He grinned sheepishly.
Mydei scowled. He felt like there was something off about Phainon today. He wasn't focused like usual, and while he may have thought that he was doing a good job of hiding it, Phainon's lip curled at the corners from time to time. Even when he was losing! It was constantly irritating Mydei, for he had many better things to do than spar with a partner only half-focusing on the training.
"You're not paying attention today."
"Pfft- what? Of course I am! What are you on about?"
"You've been smiling at the air for minutes and your gaze seems a lot less determined to win than usual. I'd say that you've gone soft, delieverer."
Phainon's jaw clenched out of affront yet he still kept a well plastered smile on his face.
"Oh? Is that so?"
"Yes, indeed"
Mydei sheathed his sword before crossing his arms and continuing.
"Whatever it is that's distracting you, take care of it. You're wasting my time."
Phainon put his hands up in defeat and rolled his eyes.
"Oh fine, fine." He paused to grin. "Well then Mydei, you wouldn't mind if I left right now would you? I have some more...important things to take care of."
Mydei didnt even spare him a glance as he turned his back to the chrysos heir.
"Then why are you still here? Go."
Phainon laughed and called at his retreating figure. "Alright, Mydei, try and beat me next time will you?"
"You're delusional, you've never won a single fight against me!"
After Mydei left, he spared no second thought as he ran over to marmoreal market. He had no idea where you lived, or where you worked, so he walked around the market while praying to Zagreus that you were roaming these streets as well.
Luckily for him, Zagreus must've been in a good mood today. He spotted you trying to buy some apples at the vendor's stall. By coincidence, you had on the outfit that you wore when you first met him. And you still looked beautiful as ever.
Mustering all of his confidence, he walked over to you and tapped you lightly on your shoulder while giving you his signature samoyed grin.
"Hey there shoelace girl!-"
"Shoelace girl?"
"-would you want to maybe..uh...take a walk around the marketplace with me? I saw you over here and thought to say hi!"
You stammered, shocked that he would approach you. You had always thought that your relationship would end with simple greetings in the marketplace and some glances to each other from here and there. Never would you have guessed that he would approach you directly. Not that you were complaining thoughㅡyou had always wanted to hold a conversation with him! So, naturally, you said yes to his invitation.
The walk with him felt nice. He was really energetic whenever he spokeㅡemitting a golden aura wherever he went. He was an east person to chat with and joke around. You were, to say, quite enamored with the way he managed to smile with each sentence.
You suddenly thought of something.
"Oh right! By the way Phainon, why did you call me Shoelace girl?" You exclaimed.
Phainon shrugged before giving you a grin. "Well, the first time we met you talked to me about how my shoelace was untied. It's not untied anymore though, see?"
He stuck out the foot that had once previously had an untied shoelace. Proudly showing off the fact that nowㅡit was in fact, tied.
You crinkled your nose at him and replied with an accusatory tone.
"But still, did you have to call me shoelace girl?"
"Why? Would you have preferred I call you Shoelace maiden? Kinda sounds like the name of a fictional superhero, am I right?"
His eyes twinkled mischievously, and you could do nothing but sigh at his antics. Who would've thought that the mighty delieverer would be this childish!
You liked it though, so you weren't complaining.
Throughout the rest of the walk you and him chatted some more. You chatted about who was the best chrysos heir (Phainon kept insisting that it was him, while you kept saying that the tribios were better), who could hold a higher note (it was you. Phainon's throat clogged up and he started to have spasms after a while), and how long would it take to ride a droma from Kremnos to Ohkema (you both bet that it would take over 10000 system hours).
To summarize it, you really enjoyed yourself with him. He wasn't the sort of dumb, mindlessly kind guy that you thought he would be. He was very funny and kind, yes, but he was the farthest person from unintellectual you could think of. He just liked to hide how much he observed and knew under his noble heart and alight smile.
When he led you to your house (you showed him the way), it was already noon. The two of you paused at your front door before he opened his mouth to ask you something nervously.
"Hey, y/n! So- I was wondering if you would like to meet me later, after I finish sparring with Mydei."
Your heart fluttered at the invitation, and the way he bashfully scratched the back of his head had rosy hues etching onto your face.
"So, uh- like a date?"
Phainon's eyes widened slightly before returning to their normal size.
God was he red now.
"Oh, uh- yea! Like a date!"
A shaky smile made its way onto your face.
"Oh! Alright then! Where should I meet you?"
"I'll come pick you up at your place, don't worry! I'll come back in 3 system hours."
"Oh! Alright then see you soon Phainon!"
He held your hand and placed a gentle kiss to the back of it.
"Alright then" he smiled "see you soon!"
After you entered the house, you got ready to meet with Phainon for the second time that day.
And when the time came for the date, you stepped outside of your house to see Phainon waiting for you with a bouquet of freshly picked roses.
You were praying to all the titans that were listening to not make your blush obvious.
The date went really well, the two of you walked and ateㅡjubilant vibes radiating off the two of you. You chuckled and laughed, ate and dancedㅡacting like it was the last night on Amphoreus.
And when it was all over and he walked you back to your house, with the bouquet of roses still clutched tightly in your hand, you thanked the titans that his shoelace was untied on that fateful day.
A/N: Hi... so I know that this was supposed to be a valentines day special, yet I'm uploading it in May HAHAHAHAHHA......Uhm... yeah. I apologize for the inactivity, I've been really busy recently and haven't had time to write. This fic has also been a result of me having written the entire thing way earlier, but being too lazy to upload it haha...My writing has gotten a lot better than this, but I'm too lazy to fix it (again) so this shall be the final version! (And I'll pray that my past self checked it thoroughly). Also, I'm sorry for not including some of the newer characters in hsr! I haven't played the recent tb quest and stopped at amphoreus halfway. So...my knowledge on the new characters is close to 0. And also, originally this fic had Mydei and Sunday in it! They were planned to be included here, but while I was on 2/3 of Mydei's part, I dropped this and forgot about it haha! So...If I decide to write this fic again (a part 2) then they'll be included! Further details will be on my blog, because this is getting to long! Lastly, ILYSMM TY FOR READING AND WAITING FOR ME TO UPLOAD 🥹
Taglist: @amorsial @winteryreads (+let me know if you wish to be included! Winny where did you gooo TT)
Millennia have gone by, and yet not a single creature has found a cure for lovesickness. Xiao is no exception– and worse, difficult as his feelings are already, they are compounded still by jealousy. Xiao knows it– fortunately, you seem blissfully unaware.
Unfortunately for him, Barbatos knows it too, and decides to free his lips with some fine wine. When Xiao’s words tumble loose, you decide it would be alright to be more courageous than him, for once–
–and ask him to stay.
(A kiss, Xiao thinks, is a fine gift to receive on a birthday.)
Xiao x gn!Reader, 10.5k
— ☘ — ☘ xiao x mortal reader, jealous and lovesick xiao, mutual pining, v slightly suggestive at a part, xiao is v smitten, reader lives in the harbour, reader is not lumine, slowburn (mostly implied bc this is a oneshot and you’ve been friends for years), drunken confession, cuddling, boob jokes, some hcs (menogias made his outfit, xiao has claws like xianyun), alcohol consumption, reader swears a teeny bit, reader has a vision, it’s all just meandering fluff I’m sorry 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ♡
Xiao hears all that happens in Liyue.
Most prominent are the desperate cries for help– forever at the forefront of his mind, these take priority.
Then come the prayers, although there are not many ordinarily; the majority fall into the lot of the adepti of Jueyun Karst. Even so, there are those that pray to him. They naively murmur their wishes to the wind in the hopes of him receiving them.
I pray my sister has a safe pregnancy, says one. I hope my child has a good day, says another.
(That is not my domain, Xiao thinks every time. But even so, I hope it for you. And if a gust of wind keeps the woman from falling to the ground when she stumbles, and if a qingxin flower mysteriously descends from the heavens to land atop the child’s head, making them the envy of all their little friends– well.)
Then come the mentions of his name– this he needs to keep an ear out for. Although, not every murmured Xiao is a summons– intent matters, after all. Such passing mentions are commonplace. Although they are littered all over his subconscious like scattered leaves in the wake of a storm, Xiao pays them little heed.
Lastly, Xiao hears all else– if he so wishes. A conversation between two drunk men at Chihu Rock, the furious hisses of a mother-cat unwilling to let anyone near the minuscule flakes of lint she calls her kittens, the soft cheeps of the finches as they return home to roost after a long, dry day of foraging. (They have his sympathy– the fourth month is upon them, and the sun beams smugly upon all the world beneath.)
Then– if he strains his ears enough– your laughter. And, for the past couple weeks, someone else laughs alongside you, when you ought be heading home quite alone.
And it would mean nothing, nothing at all. If. If.
(He imagines what it would be like, to walk you home, shoulder to shoulder. He dismisses the vision.)
It means nothing even now, he reminds himself, not knowing why he needs reminding. What conceivable reason could there be?
Xiao has known you for a long time. Years of unlikely friendship. Perhaps, he allows, it is precisely because he has few friends that he feels… protective. Yes, that is all. You are deserving of only the best– you are a treasure, after all. Even Rex Lapis said so once, unprompted, fondly casting a glance at your lively eyes, the warm smiles you’d give them as you made your way over. Genial, he had said, when he’d visited the Inn last and found the two of you taking a stroll in the marsh.
Comforting, Xiao had thought. Strange, then, that your smiles have brought him little solace as of late.
Xiao sighs.
It would be a bit naive, he quietly concedes, to pretend he didn’t know why. He is too old, has seen too much– felt too much– to not know what chord his heart strums now.
He gives it no name. He does not need to, and he’d rather not besides. After all, it is an ugly little thing, and acknowledgement does nothing to loosen its toils from his mind.
Last week, you’d paid him a visit. Your regular comings and goings have been more sporadic as of late, with Cloud Retainer’s recently roused temper sending flurries of icy rain to soak all the harbour, forcing everyone and everything with good sense indoors. It caused no real harm, but did serve to be a wretched nuisance, and no amount of prayers and offerings had done anything to make even the slightest change to the weather. You’d asked Xiao why, and he’d bitten back a smile. Something about her mountain still being “positively bedaubed in mint,” he’d said, privately relishing the fact that you knew precisely what he spoke of. He’d told you what had happened this Lantern Rite, after all, tiptoeing around this detail and that. You hadn’t asked any questions, but he’d seen your focused expression and known you’d guessed the rest on your own.
You’d laughed and laughed when he’d told you about Mountain Shaper seeding all of Mt. Aocang with mint, he fondly recalls. (So these laughs bring him solace– he sees, although he does not wish to.) Your mirth perhaps spelled trouble for you, though, because you’d gone on to tut and call Cloud Retainer a ‘sensitive granny,’ and Miss Xianyun, standing a mere half dozen steps away, had not been amused.
Why punish us for it, you’d groaned, when the skies had torn open to shower some more over the inn, just as you’d gotten up to leave. Xiao had been unsurprised– that much was plain to see– but if a part of him was really quite pleased, he hid it well, even from himself.
No matter was all he had said, stoic as ever, and had held your hand to bring you home. It took scarcely a breath, but the warmth of your fingers had lingered on the leather of his gloves for several moments after.
(And of course– although contact was admittedly a little unnecessary, holding your hand would surely have made you a little more comfortable with something as foreign as teleportation, yes?)
The evening breeze brings him out of his thoughts by delivering yet another peal of distant laughter to his ears, and he dissipates it with a sullen wave of his hand. The air goes still for a moment, as though insulted. Then it picks up again, reminding Xiao strongly of a rebuked child pretending to not care. It ruffles the leaves of the giant tree, and plays and fools about the Inn’s loose eaves-and-shingles with breezy little whistles. The very vision of liveliness.
It prances about him, too, and playfully tousles his hair into his face before darting off to bother someone else. Xiao doesn’t look up. Part of him is grateful to be broken out of his reverie, but part of him finds it to be of little use. He is suddenly hyperaware of his muscles– of the arch of his tired shoulders and the ache in his feet. Something heavy sinks to the bottom of his stomach, and twists up coils tightly round his chest. He imagines what it would be like, to have you laugh at something he’d said, instead of your newest coworker, who is all that is charming and vivacious and mortal.
He got cake for everyone yesterday, you’d cheerily said last week, bringing a spoonful up to Xiao’s lips. He had felt both thrilled and dismayed. In the end he’d schooled his face into neutrality and commanded himself to feel the same, as you obliviously continued– It was to thank everyone for being so welcoming or something. It’s really good– try it.
It’s alright, Xiao had wanted to tell you. In the end, though, all he could force out of was a nod of half dismissal and half (questionable) agreement. Perhaps it was puerile, but he finds he doesn’t regret it.
Xiao stands and shakes his head, thumping his spear into existence. He ought to clear his mind.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Tomorrow comes, as tomorrow always does.
The passage of time means little to Xiao– the hours run by in mere moments and it is morning before he knows it. One instance the night sky blinks meekly at him. When he shuts his eyes, he feels the stars gaze upon his skin; when he opens them, he meets the sun’s glare and scrunches them shut.
How long did he sleep? There’s a dull ache in his arm from the awkward angle– he’d draped it carelessly over the rocky ground and learnt his lesson for the nth time. He cares not– his body aches always regardless, and another dull throb means nothing. Mere tears to the sea.
Xiao blinks at his palm, at the blood encrusted on his glove, and blinks. He’s angry today, he realises– full of vitriol, the whispers in his mind more poisonous– although the reason dodges him.
(Or perhaps, he dodges it.)
Xiao looks blearily around.
The sun is out today. It is low in the sky– dawn. He frowns, registering his surroundings. No, sunset. You must be setting off for home, chattily bidding your friends goodbye. Or perhaps you’ve already reached.
He starts to strain his ears to see if you laugh today too, but stops. He does not wish to make himself angrier.
It is unfortunate, then, that the weather is just as he likes it. Tiny clouds bumble through the skies like soft lambs. (He is reminded of Ganyu when she was little, and his temper cools slightly.) Moreover, there is a breeze buffeting eagerly at his back, ruffling his hair with its soft, eager fingers and begging him to spread his wings. He’ll hardly have to flap them, he knows, for them to carry him all over Liyue. He pulls off his muck-encrusted gloves, clenches and unclenches his fingers. It isn’t even humid today– the breeze seems to have lifted all the moisture off.
He sees a fox lapping at a puddle as he hikes down the hill, having pettily decided to walk. How vexing, for Cloud Retainer to have ruined his week to suddenly find herself pleased with all the world. Perhaps he should find the Traveler and ask for every little mint seed found on their travels to scatter all over her mountain. She is not there nowadays; she would never know until the rains arrive once more and there is suddenly nothing but cool green all around.
He sighs.
He sighs as he plods along, sighs as the finches cheep eagerly at him, and sighs as he hurls his spear into a lawachurl’s back. He sighs again as he bends down to pick it up, then again when he glances over the expanse the dusk-painted marsh, only to see just how far the inn is.
He reluctantly teleports.
Landing on his balcony soothes him slightly. He shakily exhales when he hears familiar laughter arise from the kitchen, along with the smell of oil and scallions. The breeze also carries a certain fragrance up to his nostrils, and he tips his head to smell it better. Some flower he forgets the name of. Or is it a resin? A new varnish to some piece of furniture? No matter. He’s about to make his way to his room when his ears prick up, and his footsteps come to a halt.
“When… think he’ll return?”
“You can… to him, he’d never… you.”
“...bad for calling…”
“How foolish!” (Verr’s voice is loud here, and incredulous. The last remnants of Xiao’s ire are fast replaced by curiosity when you retort–)
“Not even! I can’t bother him on his special day.”
“Do you even love him?” Huai’an teases, and Xiao’s anger sharply returns and twists itself into something larger and still more bitter. He walks quietly into his room and tosses his gloves into a corner, vowing to set off again as soon as he's changed into fresh clothes. Something tugs at him even as he fumes– and Xiao is no good at understanding his feelings, but this one he knows. It is a mixture of fear and sadness. A certain sort of anxiety, the herald of impending loss. He suddenly remembers you telling him something once– the difference between jealousy and envy.
It had come about in an uneventful way– you’d cast dirty looks at him all afternoon, once. It had been the sunniest day, and you’d been dappled like a fawn in the leaf-filtered light. Something inside of Xiao had been desperate to enjoy today, to remember it well– and so he’d finally asked what made you so furious. You’d laughed then, frown dissolving into playfulness, and told him you were jealous.
No, sorry, you’d said momentarily, looking thoughtful. He’d pulled the leaves off a strawberry and handed it absently to you. You’d held it up for him, and he’d declined, even as his lips brushed against it. You didn’t seem to notice– if you did, you didn’t seem to care. Somehow it had brought him both a sting of pain and immense relief when you’d tossed it carelessly into your own mouth and winced, then shrugged at the sourness, at the accidental kiss shared. I meant envious.
What is the difference? He’d asked, and sighed. What could possibly be the difference? Mortals and their million distinctions.
You’d smiled at him, knowing why he’d huffed. Jealousy is like, when you don’t want someone taking what’s yours, you’d explained. The way you don’t want me taking your food, so you jealously guard it. Envy is what I feel right now, which is wanting something someone else has. And what I want is your clear skin, because I’m breaking out and it looks kinda bad.
It looks fine, he’d said, handing you another fruit off the platter. The same occurred then– you held it up for him to eat, he shook his head, and you’d popped it into your mouth. A second kiss. You look the same, he’d insisted. Besides, you can have my food if you like.
I always look ugly?
You never look ugly.
Xiao yanks harshly on his sleeve. He first regrets lacing it with care, because all that happens is that he ends up roughly jostling his arm, then regrets it still more sorely a second time, when he recalls who made it.
What happens, he wonders, when you are afraid of someone taking what you do not have?
He’s hardly begun scolding himself for resenting some poor mortal sod before there is a knock on his door.
It is familiar– so familiar, that the moment he hears it, his shoulders soften and he calls out a gentle “enter!” before he knows it. He curses himself, then– his body responded sooner than his brain, when the embers of his temper still glow. (Not that it matters– they would never flare, not at you.)
Whatever twisted worm seethes in his rotten apple heart, though, stops thrashing as soon as you peek in through the door. You do nothing for a moment– just stare at him with narrowed eyes, and he wonders if you are as angry as he was, before he remembers you cannot see in the dark at all. A slim ray of amusement creeps into his heart, and makes itself known on his lips. You’re probably futilely searching for him still.
He draws his curtains open with a sharp flick of his wrist to let in the rapidly dimming light. You blink rapidly, then smile. So relieved and bright, eyes crinkling sweetly at the edges, that he feels something in his throat and turns away, pretending to fix the perfect laces of his sleeve.
He is determined to be angry, but nothing ever goes his way. And so he is unsurprised when his voice is soft as ever when he asks– “did you need something?”
“Woah,” you say, and he drops his sleeve and looks up, nonplussed. What sort of response is woah?
“Hm?”
Then you snort a little half-laugh, and it is like ice to a bruise. “You’re so cold today. Are you mad about something? Is this a bad time?”
Yes, he thinks, and shakes his head. (Then he remembers something you’d said to him once– you lie often– and puts it out of mind. After all, he tells himself, that is neither here nor there.)
“No,” he says, then reconsiders. “Perhaps. I fell asleep in the marsh for too long, and it did not rain again– and so I did not wake up.”
“Ah,” you say, and the familiar lilt in your voice whispers– how silly. He doesn’t mind– he knows it is an unconvincing lie, but you’re either too civil or too tactful to question it.
There is a lull in the conversation, then, and he feels something bitter creep onto the edges of his mind once more. This is not the first time he has killed an exchange.
He is about to apologise and turn you away when you start another.
“I bought some nice wines yesterday,” you say, snapping your fingers. He turns around. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Would you like to taste them with me?”
Xiao’s lashes flutter. Yes. No. “When?”
You grin. “Today! But dinner first, I think. I don’t think I should drink on an empty stomach– is it the same for the adepti?”
“A little,” he admits. Then– “When today?”
You tilt your head. “Now today, if you don’t mind. It’s dark out already.” You smile. “Shall we go?”
His heart lurches. He hums, and holds out a bare, clawed hand for you. You stare at it for a long moment before pressing your palm trustingly against his, and he jolts at the warmth– he’d forgotten he’d taken his gloves off.
His nails brush against your wrist as you pull quickly away. “Sorry,” you blurt, eyebrows furrowing in concern. He feels a flush creep up his neck and is suddenly glad for the dark. “Did I do something?”
“No,” comes his prompt answer, although he cannot tell if he lies now or speaks the truth. “A mere spasm. Shall we go?”
You nod, and cheerily grab onto his hand again. He draws the door shut behind you and locks it. In the next moment, he is with you on your balcony.
“It’s locked–” you start to say, and he waves his hand. The wind rustles, your door clicks, and Xiao slides it open. He throws you a glance, and you amusedly sigh.
“I had no clue it was that easy for you.”
“It is even easier if I do not care for the state of your carpet.” He nods at his muddy shoes as he slides them off and nudges them into a corner of the balcony with a foot. You carry yours to your perpetually full shoe-rack, eye it critically, then shrug and plop your footwear on the floor.
“You need a bigger rack,” he says. For some reason, you give the most mischievous little snigger, and he tilts his head. “What?”
“Don’t go around telling random women that, now.”
“Pardon?”
“Tsk tsk.”
He huffs, and chuckles despite himself. He cannot help it, not when you look so gleeful.
“What have I done now?” He asks, with the air of someone that knows they’ve lost.
You laugh in response, and he steps inside, stepping carefully around your carpet. Once he reaches you, you flick his forehead, so gently it is barely a tap.
“Rack can sometimes refer to boobs,” you explain, and his face burns at your nonchalance. He’s unsure of what to say in answer– he simply crosses his arms and attempts a look of disappointment. Whether he succeeds or fails is a mystery– what he does know is that you laugh again, and that something pleasant bubbles in his chest when you do.
“Well,” you finally say, saving him the trouble of responding. “You should put the polearm away and freshen up. I bought some new soap yesteday– it smells really nice. Kind of resin-y.” You hold up your arm for him to smell, then withdraw it, embarrassed. “It’s made of pine amber from Nod Krai.”
“That is a resin,” he murmurs. So that was what he smelled at the Inn before– it is indeed quite pleasant. It is unlike most mortal fragrances; he absently leans a little closer to catch more of the gently lingering scent. As he does so, he notices something– a little red mark on the side of your neck– and brushes his clawed fingers gently against it before he can quite register his actions.
“What is this?” he murmurs.
“Huh?” You clamp a hand over your neck but misjudge the motion, and Xiao’s nails catch against your throat for a moment before he draws them away, alarmed.
“Is there a scratch?” A love-bite?
“No, it’s nothing.” You snort, oblivious. “You didn’t scratch me. Sorry.” You exhale, and your breath brushes his cheek.
And you are suddenly too close– he is too close. Vision or no vision, he never ought to cross the distance between you, this thick yet invisible line– and particularly not in this listless way, inching nearer and nearer as roots to water, as devastation to unsuspecting innocents.
He lowers his lashes and parts his lips, an apology on his tongue–
You speak first. (And, he notices, you do not step away.)
“Anyway, the mark on my neck is from some sort of bug bite.” You wince. “I kept scratching it in my sleep the more it itched and it kind of drew blood– don’t be too mad.”
“Alright,” Xiao says, because he helplessly feels both guilt and anger slip from his fingers like sand the longer he speaks with you, and because he cannot remain angry with you for long regardless, and because he is eager to believe you.
He’s ashamed of the relief he feels.
He exhales. His heart aches a little as it beats, and he clenches his fist to feel his pulse jump about in his palm. Unclenches it. Blinks at his still-throbbing fingers. You hum to yourself, a refrain from some mortal song he has not heard in full, and suddenly you feel as though you are so far away.
You sound as though you are very, very near.
Xiao looks up to see you in the kitchen (when did you get there?), lit by a single lamp in the dark as you tip a large pot over a bucket. He wishes to hurry over and do it for you– scalding water is deadly to mortals, isn’t it? – but instead finds himself simply staring at your back as you slide the pot back into its place over the woodstove.
“Go wash up,” you say, cheery and guileless in the face of his bewilderment, and he nods. You do not notice it– do not notice him– and he suddenly feels a pang of the keenest agony. Words race through his throat, to the tip of his tongue– he opens his mouth to tell you, tell you everything, then shuts it. Tell you what? What is there to say? That he is stil possessed by his earlier feelings?
I don’t even know.
But then you speak, and even through the steam from the bucket, the air becomes just a little clearer.
“There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.” You turn to him with a smile, and he remembers again that you cannot see him well at all. If you could, you would note his unhappiness– he hopes.
“I’ve lit the lamps in there as well, don’t worry,” you continue, “and I’ll light the rest while you freshen up. Oh–” you snap your fingers– “and heat up dinner. I got us food from Liuli Pavilion, so although it was a bit pricey, it's bound to be good.” You grin.
There is a lull in the conversation, then, because he simply does not know how to respond. It all feels like too much– spare clothes and a towel, and lit lamps that he does not need. Now that he’s singled out the smell of pine resin, it just won’t leave his nostrils. He finds that he likes it, because you smell of it. He decides he dislikes it, because it smothers your scent. In the end he decides he is simply a fool, and turns his back on your mentions of food and fine wine. His chest constricts when he suddenly recalls Huai’an’s teasing–
Do you even love him?
He feels lightheaded, then foolish for feeling so.
In the end, he decides on– “spare clothes?”
“Yes, from last time,” you say, now in the careful fashion of someone attempting to deduce something– someone who will perhaps ask questions later. He pretends not to notice. What use is wanting you to know he’s upset when he runs from your questions anyway?
(You lie often.)
“Are my visits truly that frequent?” He asks instead.
“Not as frequent as I’d like, certainly,” You respond, smiling ruefully, and he wonders if you ever stop. He hopes you do not.
You put the bucket of hot water by his feet then, and pat his shoulder. Then you dart off– presumably to freshen up as well– and he takes the chance to bury his face in his hands and rub it hard.
As he makes his way over to the bathroom, he sees your shoes by the door, and his in the balcony.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The clothes you’d laid out for him are clean and soft and ironed.
Xiao usually does not bother– adeptal commodities do not need the same care as mortal ones. He is used to carelessly scrubbing his garments and tossing them out in the sun to dry– they do not sustain the same damage, nor do they constrict him in any manner, and that is all that matters. Finding a wrinkle or two does not bother him– nearly all that sees him is fated to die by his hand anyhow.
But you’ve taken the care to iron them carefully. Hang them up prettily. He stands in your humid bathroom, nude as a child, and ruefully thinks– he feels like one, too. This is how it must have been, although he cannot (does not) recall his youth.
He reaches for the towel and pats himself dry. He does not need to– anemo is a most useful element– but there is something grounding in the ritual of doing things the manual way– something tender about walking you home instead of teleporting you, of taking the stairs at the inn instead of the lift, of getting to linger a little longer in the cooling shade of your adoring smiles, of your little laughs and mistakes.
He brings the towel to his hair and rubs. Gathers the longer strands in his cloth covered fingers to squeeze the water out of them. The towel feels heavier and limper than before when he hangs it up to tug his clothes on, and once he’s done he turns to the mirror to see someone he knows all too well.
And yet he looks so… out of place. His downy hair is mussed in the way mortal strands never are. His skin is porcelain, features too perfect. The lamplight catches on his gold eyes.
He looks like no one save for himself.
Xiao blows out the lamps.
Are my visits truly that frequent?
Not as frequent as I’d like.
He wonders if you lie.
(Do you even love him?)
A throb ghosts its ache-filled lips over the base of his skull, and Xiao weakly wills it away. His shoes are still on your balcony.
He presses his face into his palms, and the scent of pine amber fills his nostrils.
There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.
He inhales, then softly exhales, suddenly conscious of his breathing.
He is in your house, is he not? He thinks back to your enquiring tone, your gentle expression. Scented steam wafts around the bath area still, and Xiao watches it catch the moonlight that just barely creeps in through the tinted window.
You cannot have lied, he hesitantly decides, and something eases in his chest. You cannot have, if you took the time to care for his clothes, making them look as new as when they first came into his possession. When you lit the lamps despite knowing there is no need– when you come to the inn in person whenever you can, despite not having to.
(Perhaps this is all that love is sometimes– a series of unnecessary actions.)
He thinks about his shoes still on the balcony and feels sick to his stomach. He presumes too much.
Xiao steps quietly outside, towel in hand, and pads soundlessly over to where he can hear you. You’re occupied with laying everything out on the coffee table in your living room. When he makes an enquiring hum, you glance back with a smile.
“The dinner table’s a mess right now– I hope you don’t mind us eating here?”
“No,” he affirms, absently surveying the spread. A few expensive dishes to his taste and a few to yours. In the very center you’ve placed the Tianshu meat, and he truly does not know how you’ll finish it all.
“Can you truly finish all this?” he can’t help but ask, and you whip your head around with an exaggerated frown. And somehow, suddenly, he finds himself biting back an abrupt, tiny smile.
“This is in no way a you situation,” you huff. “This is a we situation. You’re going to finish the things I got for you, alright? Or I’m keeping dessert hostage.”
“Dessert?”
“Your favourite,” you easily supply, taking the towel out of his hands. “What else?” Saying so, you walk over to your balcony to drape the towel over your drying rack.
“I did not think–” he starts to say, then trails off when he notices– his shoes are nowhere to be seen.
“Oh yeah, they don’t have almond tofu,” you say. He barely hears. Where are his shoes?
He turns sharply to the door.
There, wiped clean and nestled against yours–
“–so I made it myself,” you finish, sliding the door shut behind you. The sound of rattling glass panes shakes him out of his reverie, and his lashes flutter rapidly as he looks towards you.
“You did?”
“I did,” you say, looking really quite pleased with yourself. (It is adorable, he thinks, then erases the thought. It’s useless, however– he simply ends up thinking it a second time.)
“I actually…” you sigh, and plop heavily onto the couch. “I tried making the cake too, but I think I’ll have to stick to unbaked cheesecakes. It’s alright, though.” You shrug. “The baker did a much better job than I could have. And oh!” You exclaim, eyes widening a little, and he hopes he does not look as soft as he feels.
“Yes?” he prompts, and blushes at his own voice. He hopes you do not notice in the lamplight.
“Miss Xianyun offered to bake you a cake, too.” You smile warmly at the thought, and unbeknownst to him, he smiles a little too. “I had no clue she knew you, though! How odd. She offered when we both got caught in the rain when I was on my way to the bakery. It stopped raining soon after, so I was able to go ahead and place my order.”
“I see,” he says. How odd indeed, for her to show you such sudden kindness. But ah, it is likely an apology for having caused trouble for you before. He knows you must have your suspicions, but is glad when you don’t probe further.
“Oh, and–” you instead say– “my new coworker– do you remember him? The guy who got everyone cake a couple weeks back. He offered to come along to pick a gift, but I said no. I wanted to pick something myself.”
Xiao wonders when he’d begun smiling, because his lips are suddenly keen on settling themselves into a flat line. He forces them to stay as they are and hopes it does not look too maniacal. “I see,” he mutters, and congratulates himself on not sounding too curt. “For whom?”
There is a long pause, and you blink at him slowly, in the stupidest, sweetest way. He blinks stupidly back into the still air, and an owl screeches outside in the distance somewhere.
You make a sound in the back of your throat then, eyes widening in the loveliest manner. You look so sincerely astonished that he flushes in confusion. Clearly this is a most catastrophic social blunder. There is an obvious answer that he does not yet know.
Is it your birthday? Was this a treat to yourself? For a wretched moment, he racks his mind for an answer, but blanks horrifically.
He is about to resign himself to embarrassment when you laugh, so bright and soft and warm, and say–
“For you, of course!” And it is now Xiao’s turn to be baffled. You giggle helplessly at his expression as you continue. “Huai’an was right, you really– you seriously forgot? Xiao, it’s your birthday tomorrow.” You shake your head, still smiling, eyes aglow with mirth. “Happy birthday eve! Or something like that.”
Not even! rings in his head, louder and louder. I can’t bother him on his special day.
Do you even love him?
Xiao’s face burns.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Dinner is a cheery affair.
After being the fortunate victim of your endless laughter and affectionate teasing, he finds himself seated beside you on your couch. You’re seated knee to knee at first, thighs brushing as you laugh, as you lean over to pile more food onto his plate and as he does the same for you. You seem to eventually get a bit tired of continually glancing to the side, though, and soon you’re shin to shin, facing one another as you eat with the dishes in hand. This way, when you cover your mouth adorably with your fingers and erupt into laughter, he sees your pretty eyes up close as they crinkle at the ends and sparkle with amusement.
When you pretend to make a grab at his food, he simply puts it on your plate. You protest– of course you do– and he finally agrees to take half. The conversation soon resumes its usual chatter, and Xiao is first amused when he sees you prop the couch cushions behind yourself for more comfort, then flustered when you lean over him to do the same for him.
And as frivolous as mortal conversations may get, he cannot chide them– cannot chide you. In the wake of his realisation, there is renewed hope within him that presents itself as curiosity– he asks a dozen little questions about the things you tell him, prods at length about your thoughts on Xianyun (he hopes he is subtle, and suspects he is not) and smiles when you click your tongue as you recall Xingqiu’s newest prank.
“At least he switched up his targets.” You sigh, but there is affection in your voice and your lips curve into the prettiest smile. His heart hurts. “It was Xiangling this time.”
He hums in response, and you continue.
“Although I think he’ll regret that soon enough. I heard she doesn’t want to cook for him for a while. Poor Xingqiu.”
“Shenhe would deem him richly deserving,” Xiao murmurs, and feels his ears turn warm as you laugh.
“She does! She looked so smug when she told me!” You snicker. “She also wanted to wish you an early happy birthday, by the way. And Xiangling wants to know if you mind a little vanilla in your almond tofu.”
“I do,” he answers truthfully. “Almond tofu ought to taste like itself.”
You snort. “I'd say you remind me of a coffee purist, but vanilla can get pretty overpowering at times. Did you know I drank a spoonful once?”
He grimaces, and you laugh again, and although it is dewy moonlight that creeps in through the tall windows to settle on your skin– so subtle in the lamplight that no mortal would ever see– it feels as though through you, it is the sun that has come out. He watches through his lashes– some things cannot be stared straight at, after all.
You soon bring out the liquor.
“This one’s just rice wine,” you say, holding up a bottle. “This–” you say, pulling another out of the cabinet, “is dandelion wine– this is what I bought the other day. And here’s some mead– made from zaytun peaches, I think? It was a gift, so I can’t remember where it was purchased,” you muse. “I also have sparkling wine and… uh, some bard gave me this extra sparkling wine, whatever that means. So I don’t really trust it.”
Xiao tilts his head enquiringly. “Some bard?” He echoes.
You nod innocently. “Yes, from Mondstadt. We met at the wineshop– he saw me looking around and told me this is the best, strongest wine Mondstadt has to offer. The staff escorted him out though.” You snort. “I wonder where he is now. Prison, do you think? For just a little while? Since I doubt he’s licensed.”
“Unlikely,” Xiao says, before he can stop himself. When you blink at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity, he sighs. “I may know this bard,” Xiao admits. “He is a little eccentric at times, but ultimately harmless… although his wines may be entirely too strong for your tastes.”
You look up, startled. “Truly?”
He hums. You regard the bottles before you, and he wonders what you are thinking, in the slow, easy way he always does with you. He knows there is no rush– your thoughts will be laid before him soon enough. You’re not in the habit of making him guess, after all.
“Well,” you muse. “In that case– do you want to give his wine a try?”
Xiao hesitates. Barbatos’ wines are potent– dangerously so. Were he to become intoxicated and lose himself… his stomach roils at the thought. He ought to decline.
A glance at you, however, weakens his resolve ever so slightly. The merest splinter. He realises then that declining a drink would mean explaining why– and piqueing your curiosity in a way that pertains to the incognito archon of Mondstadt of all people would be… undesirable at the very least. His resolve begins to crumble.
Perhaps a cup, then. Surely it cannot be enough to intoxicate him so soon– what could, after all? – and particularly not on a full stomach. Besides, Barbatos would not have given you the wine intending for you to drink it– he is well acquainted with mortals and is familiar with their caution. This is, in all likelihood, a present meant for him. And would it not be rude to decline a favour from an archon?
His resolve dissolves like a block of salt in water.
A cup won’t hurt, he reluctantly decides, and nods.
Mere minutes and just some sips later, Xiao feels himself beginning to sway.
It hits him all at once. Apparently, it can hurt. He has no time to panic, though– one moment he thinks only of how the wine smells a little unusual, and burns his throat with an unexpected ferocity– in the next, his vision narrows, and the inside of the glass is all he sees. The lamplight arcs into it, then through the transparent, wispy wine. The light dashes along the rim and flings itself into his eyes. His lashes are all aflutter, and one falls off. It is suspended in the air one moment– a single dark line against a sparkling background– and suddenly it is inside the glass.
It is overwhelming.
“I do not want it now,” he says automatically, and sets it down harder than he meant to. When he attempts to recline, his neck slams into the backrest sooner than he expects with a thump.
You sit up in alarm. He watches through slow, thick blinks as you hurriedly set your glass of harmless zaytun mead aside.
“Xiao?” Your fingers grasp at his shoulder and he shoves them off, feeling too much and too little. The whispers that had lain subdued all evening come awake, and he clutches his head with a soft groan, attempting to muffle the cacophony within.
“Xiao!” Your eyes widen, and suddenly your palms are on his cheek. One cradles his jaw and brings his head up to rest against your chest– the other brushes his bangs out of his face. He sighs– somehow it is a relief to have you so close. He feels as though he's a little bird that has flown for hours in the heat, and finally found a pond full of the coolest water.
You do not seem to feel the same. “Fuck,” you hiss, and he hears your voice in your throat, your chest. He catches a hint of your heartbeat then, and snuggles curiously closer. There it is. Steady as a drum. Fast as one too. He doesn’t think it normal, then remembers drums can be played slow too, and hums to himself. You’ll be fine, like a drum. Flawless logic. He’s a general, after all. He’s supposed to be clever. Strong too, and skilled. And he… he yawns, and slips lower.
His head flops onto your lap and you cry out again in alarm. Belatedly, he realises you keep telling him to let go. Let go of what? He’s grasping your shirt with one hand and has an arm around your waist. Which is he supposed to let go of?
“Be specific,” he grumbles.
“Huh?!”
He sighs. “Mortals… it is neither here nor here.”
“You–!”
And he’s strong too, he thinks, because he doesn’t like when you are afraid, and right now you sound truly worried. He hates it. Being strong means he can quell your anxiety, yes? Eliminate all that hurts you. He shuts his eyes and presses his nose into your thigh. When he inhales, a pleasant smell fills his nostrils– pine sap, or whatever. He huffs. He’s strong. He’s not good for much else, and he is a receptacle for all that is wrong with this world, but he’s– he’s the one with the Primordial Jade Winged Spear, bequeathed to him by the Geo Archon himself. He is Morax’s general, the Vigilant Yaksha. And sure, he’s not as good as Cake Man. He scoffs derisively.
But he’s– he’s. Surely. No, perhaps– perhaps there is something to him that Cake Man lacks. Yes, he remembers, a little smug now. Yes, there is. He can hear all that happens in Liyue. If you need him, you can always call for him, yes?
He realises you’ve stopped moving, stopped talking. It’s late at night, which is when mortals sleep. Good. You’re resting with a hand on his back and the other in his hair. He hates to confess– but that is also good.
There are several seconds of hushedness, then. He hears raucous laughter in the distance. Perhaps a neighbour’s party, or someone all the way across Liyue. The owls grow shriller outside, and he knows a parent has brought the owlets a meal. His fingers twitch. He finds he cannot move them as finely as he ought.
Into the silence, he whispers– “I may be drunk.” He’s confused, then, because that felt like a thought.
He starts again, louder. “I think–”
“Why does my coworker bother you?” You quietly ask.
Xiao stiffens. Stupidly, he wonders– when did you wake up? Did you read his mind?
“I…” he starts. He cannot think of a lie fast enough, but a million questions occur to him, chief among them being how did you know? And who told you? And weren’t you asleep? Don’t mortals sleep at night?
Soon after, he wonders– did he spew all his thoughts aloud?
Xiao suspects the answer is yes. He swallows, and tries for a lie anyway. His mind grasps desperately for anything within reach, but it is as drunk as its keeper and just as clumsy. And so all he ends up saying is–
“I lie often.”
I, he thinks, as soon as the words leave him, have scarce sounded more foolish before.
You laugh then, and he smiles, and you continue to laugh, even though it is a wobbly sort of laugh. An almond tofu of a laugh. As though it could turn to mush with one squish. And just as sweet. Perhaps sweeter. Surely sweeter.
He realises then that the voices in his head have fallen silent.
“I know,” you whisper. Your fingers tremble slightly as they comb through his hair, nails dragging gently against his scalp. He purrs, in the way some birds do, with a soft chirp at the start and at last a little click.
“I…” you start, then sniffle. He wonders if you’re crying, but cannot find the strength to glance up. “I want to ask you so many questions,” you whisper, in that still-shaking voice. Your chest brushes against his hair as you lean lower, and he exhales softly.
“But you’re drunk,” you say gently, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “You’re buzzed out of your mind.”
“Then now is a good time,” he answers, deciding to be truthful. His heart soars. It just feels so much nicer, to simply be laid bare before you. “Now is when I will be honest. It will be diffi– difficult later.”
“I know,” you murmur, and with some difficulty, he finally manages to look at you. Your eyes are huge, and gold, like his.
No, he realises. Those eyes are mine.
“But,” you murmur, so close to him he can see iridescence on your every eyelash, smell the zaytun mead on your lips. “When you’ll be honest later, you’ll have chosen it.” You press a kiss to your fingertips, and bring them to his forehead. His eyes sting.
“Let’s head to bed for now,” you say, gentler than gentle. In this moment, you are the very vision of softness, of all that is right in this world. He feels terribly selfish, for bringing his wrongs to you, even though your kindness cannot undo the cruelty he inflicted upon others, the cruelty inflicted upon him in the annals of a nearly forgotten time.
You do not know what you are doing, he wants to whisper. You seem to see the desperate warning in his eyes; gently, firmly, you shake your head.
“Drink some water first,” you softly say. Your hands are warm against his cheeks. “We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.”
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
When Xiao awakens, it is with your hair in his mouth.
There is a steady ache at the base of his skull. It throbs in beat with his pulse. This is not new; this he barely notices.
What he does notice with the force of a thousand suns however, is that it is early morning and he is in a bed that smells entirely of you– overwhelmingly so. Your scent permeates deep into every fiber of every fabric– the duvet that covers him, the pillow beneath his head.
Your clothes.
And mine, he realises. His racing heart soon outstrips the throb in his head– all else seems to fade in his perception. His senses register only you.
There’s your hair in his mouth, your head directly on his chest. He swallows and hopes you don’t wake up to the beat of his heart against his ribs– not when your legs are wrapped around one of his, and when you have an arm draped comfortably over him. He cannot see it– it is hidden by his duvet– but it is solid against his belly and your fingers nestle by his side. A couple have crept under him. They are warm– as warm as him. You are the same, balmy temperature, twined into one being beneath the blankets.
Worse still– when he attempts to shift away, he realises just where his hands are. One of them is beside his torso, warm and comfortable beneath a mess of pillows and old clothes you forgot to toss into the laundry. The other– the other is wrapped firmly round your waist, keeping you snug against him. You’re warm against him– overwarm– and he threatens to grow still warmer with the unyielding flush that smears carelessly across his features.
He shifts a foot up and tries to move the other to no avail. Your thighs resist– they lock tightly around one of his, and his face now feels as though it is truly alight when you hum in annoyance, breath huffing over his neck and collarbones. Your knees tighten round his leg warningly. Even in your sleep you are as firm as a bull, and he gives a shaky exhale along with a prayer to his lord, to extricate him from this position.
Although… he confesses, if only to himself, that he is extremely comfortable. Your steady breaths and warmth… the soft pillows that cradle him carefully. His lashes flutter. His wakefulness is fading softly alongside his surprise– sleep is beginning to tighten round him the way you have.
He brushes your hair aside with his free hand, and falls asleep.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
When he awakens a second time, it is with his hair in your mouth.
He wonders if it is an incorrigible habit of yours, to creep towards the nearest source of warmth. When he blinks, his long lashes brush your neck. You're braced against him, sprawled on your belly, arms spread wide on either side. One tugs him absently closer and for a moment, his mouth lies flush to your collarbones.
He is forcibly reminded of a cormorant seated spread on a rock, damp wings facing the sun. You look a bit like it right now, he decides– eager for warmth, arms wide enough to embrace all the world.
He's unsure of what to think when he realises that includes him, too.
Your breaths tickle his scalp. Your legs are entangled in his, still, and he grimaces when he realises he fell asleep all over in spite of you being so close. He wriggles away, then, ignoring the crack that widens slowly in his chest. Tugs your arm off of him and slips away, then gently shoves your legs off with his hands.
When he pulls the duvet off himself, though, you sense the sudden movement in your sleep and tug it immediately back up, wrapping an arm tight round his waist. His breath catches in his throat.
He tugs at your elbow. You refuse to let go, and he buries his face in his hands. He can feel his pulse in his head, in the tips of his fingers. If all this were to amount to nothing– as selfish as it would be, he might have to keep his distance from you for a while.
He is not kind, however– not buoyant like you, not firm enough to brace himself sternly against the tides of his nature. Murmurs mount in his mind again, begging him to lend his mouth to them, his throat. His hands.
He clenches his fist– these feelings are too much. An old excuse comes along to shield him, then– you'll hurt them if you stay.
The wind cards your curtains aside, and your vision gleams in the morning light.
His breaths still.
How– how is this little thing meant to protect you? He exhales. Inhales. Exhales again. Your shield, he can't help but think, is softer and feebler than the freshest of leaves.
He's suddenly reminded of Wangshu Inn. Then, as he traces your soft cheek with a single, clawed finger, he remembers– he didn’t even get to try any dessert last night.
And it's because– because. He pauses, then runs his fingers through his hair. His nails dig into his scalp. That wine.
Curse that trickster. Very clever of Barbatos, to give him something that hits all at once. Xiao would never ordinarily drink enough to be even a little tipsy– he must have expected this, wily fiend.
What did he say? What did he reveal? Xiao racks his mind, but most of his recollections are of your soft lap and the too-bright light glinting gaudily off of his glass and– and. He feels his blood turn to ice.
Something about him lying, always. And– he grimaces. Morax. Did he tell you he felt–?
Envious, he tells himself.
You lie often.
You rouse beside him, and he recoils like a flame from water.
Your fingers twitch first– you shuffle a bit beside him and open your bleary eyes. Blink them slowly at his waist. Xiao observes your clumsy motions, your puffy face. He wonders if it is as puffy every day.
Let’s head to bed for now.
We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.
He hopes you've forgotten.
“Good morning,” you mumble. Your breath is warm against his hip. “Awake already?”
“It is well into the morning,” he answers quietly. As though you won't remember if he speaks softly and makes no sudden movements. “Around ten.”
“Oh.” You yawn. There's silence as you play a bit with the fabric of his shirt, then–
“Are you hungover?”
“Hm? No.”
“Oh,” you say again, and draw yourself up to sit on your knees. You're just a bit taller than him like this. Seated this way, with the light streaming in from behind, you look more divine than he is.
You tower over him, a bit. He feels himself quail ever so slightly.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” he murmurs. Suddenly, he does not wish to meet your eyes. “And I apologize for the inconvenience. It should never have been your responsibility; I will take my leave now.”
“No! I mean–” You blink, and put the hand you'd brought to his shoulder back down. “Won't you stay for breakfast?”
Xiao's answer is far more curt than he wished for it to be. “I do not need sustenance.”
In the silence that follows, Xiao finds amazement in how well your sheets are made. The careful embroidery and the sturdy cotton– linen? he cannot tell– is superb in a way that would have pleased his brother, were he here.
(He wonders if his siblings would have liked you. The thought is quick to vanish– they are not here, and you will be gone before long, and so ruminating on either is foolish when he knows he ought to think instead of the monsters that must crawl all over Mt. Xuanlian at this very moment– although then again, Mt. Aocang is close by.
Perhaps Chiwang Terrace– unless Lingyuan has taken care of it already.
As distress rises inside of him, clinging desperately to his sternum, he inhales and exhales and shushes it. There will be something to do– there is always something to be done.)
He is thinking of what, precisely, when you speak.
“That's fine,” you say, and his lashes lower further when he notes that your voice has lost its usual inflection. It is flatter, controlled. “That's alright. I need to eat though,” you chirp, and his chest aches at the faux cheer, the performance you put forth. Do you always do this? Put on a smile and coax all those around you into something right? He is ashamed to realise he does not know. After all, in every moment of your sadness to which he has borne witness, you have been honest with him. There was no guesswork, no complicated etiquette– he has held you close, and you have cried.
You jump out of bed. “I'll freshen up. You do so, too. And then could you check what fruit I have in the pantry? Or–” you snap your fingers– “we could have last night's leftovers. And dessert!”
Xiao blinks up at you, nonplussed, as you smile. Privately, he wonders why a smile is always deemed an expression of joy. As it rests on your lips now, it bleeds only rue.
“I–” he begins, then stops when he sees your fingers twitch. He nods. “Very well. But I will leave soon after.”
Your eyes widen for the briefest of moments, and then you are all sad smiles once more. “Sure.”
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦—————————————✦໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Xiao does not know how the minutes pass, but he soon hears your door creak open. Your kitchen window is open, and so Xiao absently predicts what happens next– the way your home is ventilated lets the wind rustle into the hallway and slam your door shut behind you. It gives a soft, dismayed roar, and the house stills once more.
He hears you click your tongue. Some moments pass before you emerge, and he shuffles aside to let you lean against your counter and reach over for whatever it is that you’d like. You brace yourself against it, fingers gripping the granite. As you survey your kitchen, Xiao surveys you.
You freshened up rather quickly today. He can see a damp spot of perfume on your shoulder from your unusually clumsy fingers, and the strands of hair that frame your face are a little damp still. You do not look as composed as before. It is a bit ironic– you’ve had more time to steel yourself, and yet.
“I’m not really hungry right now,” you say, after a pause. “Last night’s dinner was pretty heavy.”
“Mhm.”
A beat again. Then–
“Did you enjoy it?” You ask.
“The dinner?” he returns, and stiffens when your lashes lower. The question has left you with an opening to direct the conversation elsewhere, into territories that worry him more than they should.
It ought to matter little to Xiao– in fact, a mortal's lost company ought not matter at all. But he has softened more than he'd realised– something gentle has worn away at his hardness, and he feels a little ashamed, and then a bit defiant, for wanting something tender to lean against, for once.
His heart speeds in his chest, purrs against his ribs like a cat attempting to soothe itself. It is not your fault that Xiao is quick to cling– quick to latch onto any softness offered, naively press his palms to warmth and let it creep up his arms to his chest. He has done it before– many times, in truth.
And, he reassures himself, those losses shall prove to be far heftier in time.
Something quiet and reasonable asks– what is there to lose today? It is squashed by his fear that says– something, something. Something.
He watches through unwittingly narrowed eyes as you part your lips, then lick them. You do not meet his gaze. Yours strays lower instead, to his waist.
My hands, he registers, when you sidle closer to take one of them into both yours, your callouses brushing against his. You squeeze. Gentle at first, then tighter.
“If you teleport away,” you whisper, “I'll scream. Really loud, okay?”
He's not sure what to do with that. When he tells you this, you meet his eyes and smile, and his heart slows ever so slightly, more drum than cat.
Yours, he remembers, had sounded a little like that too.
“Last night,” you say, looking earnestly at his face, “you said some things. You don't have to tell me about them again if you want, but if you would, it would– it would be nice.”
“Nice?” Xiao echoes. You nod.
“You said something about hating my coworker. And you mumbled a bit when I took you to my bedroom.” His face ears turn pink, but you plow on.
“And– and. I'm starting to realise I'll have to do this myself.” Your lips part round a nervous little laugh, and your breath fans against his cheek. Your eyes glimmer in a way that suggests they wish to sorely turn away– to look anywhere but at him– and for the first time, Xiao feels a sense of camaraderie with you. “And… it should be fine as long as you don't run off. We'll be fine. Yes? Yes.” You let out a shaky exhale.
His voice splinters when he starts to speak, burdened by the hope it bears. It would embarrass him, but only if anything could draw attention away from your anxious, eager expression. Your eyes crinkle in worry but a small smile plays shyly on your lips, and Xiao suddenly wishes words did not exist, so he could simply kiss you and be done with it.
“What?” He breathes, and you huff and dig your nails into his gloves, fingers trembling.
Something seems to thrum inside of him and inside you, and resonate impatiently into the room. The kitchen seems a little brighter when you shake your head and steel yourself.
“Okay,” you say, breathless. “At least I'll be the first to go. I'm going to tell everyone you're a coward, mind you.”
“You won't,” he replies. “You don’t.” You never do, and you never leave him hanging, or make him guess, and he frees his fingers then to wrap his hands round yours instead.
His heart soars. This is assurance– this is a guarantee. And if you intend to bear him, to let him be your ruin–
Xiao does not know whether to first apologise or confess. It matters not, though, because you resolve even this trouble.
“Yes,” you say, and he swears he feels his chest giddily expand like a balloon. When a gust of wind billows round him, he lets his buoyant heart be pushed closer to yours. When your smile turns bolder, warmer, he knows he's lost whatever game he didn't know he was playing. And– it's alright if you win always, so long as he gets to see your smiles.
“Yes,” you say, and he brings his fingers up to your cheek, because you are real, and you are here. His breath hitches. “Because I love you. And I said it first.”
There is no stopping his smiles now. He huffs a laugh, first relieved, then joyous (perhaps a bit triumphant, too) and stops suddenly, when he sees you've drawn even closer. His palm fits snugly against your cheek as his claws settle in your hair.
Would that he could halt this moment, to look at you carefully. Engrave this instant into his lungs so he can feel it with every breath. For the first time in a long time, things have gone his way without the slightest price to pay– without even the slightest fear of all going to ruin. Things are just easier with you, he realises.
Time is her own master, though, and does not deign to even slow for him (and he is half amused and half irked by the fact that he can find something to rue even now). Perhaps, he muses, this is the small price she demands in exchange for the years of comfort to come. She makes no compromises– she is difficult that way– and disagreeable often.
What is most agreeable, though, is the first brush of your lips against his.
"Is this okay?" You whisper, right against his mouth. And oh, now time slows, somewhere deep in your eyes. It is no wonder that it stops for you and not him– you are so lovely that the morning sun itself seems to bend its rays as it casts them, so they twist and squirm to engulf you. You are so bright, and so warm against his hand, and your body is flush against his.
"Yes," he breathes. There was nothing else to say. And because he is impatient, and a little afraid of waking up– and because, he reasons, you have asked him in the past to let himself be selfish– he kisses you.
(And if he smiles when he does so, you do not point it out. When his eyes are slow to open once it is over– once you have drawn away from his insistent lips and turned warm at the brushes of his fingers against your hips– a look at him is all it takes to reassure you. He is going to stay.)
hello hello!! thank you to everyone who read this + has reached this far!! here is a smooch for your troubles (˵˘ ³˘˵) <33 !!
happy xiao day everyone!!
reblogs are vv appreciated !! they help a lot w circulating a fic you see (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡♡
hello hello !!! this is mila (@millurie) . well apparently i got T^T shadowbanned from said blog so i unfortunately can't send an ask from there, but there is a notice about it that was just posted !! i'm just requesting if it'd be okay to change the blog that is tagged in the members list + the nickname set for me in the discord server? i'm truly sorry for the inconvenience T^T
hi mila! no worries, so sorry to hear about that. we've updated the members list and your discord nickname. thank you for informing us!
Hi there! this is a rather abrupt inquiry, but if a member who willingly left the network were to apply again, would I still go through the normal application process?
there’s no need!! we would happily welcome you back without an application <3 just send an ask or dm a staff member!!
CUDDLE HCs. — The cuddling habits of some Genshin Impact characters.
( various & reader )
1.5k-ish words ノ fluff, platonic
part 2 of this post!
author's thoughts ✧ third post of 2026 💪 slay! i'm super busy these days so i unfortunately can't post as much as i did back when i was @.idyllicaffections. i was in high school then, but now i'm working and in college... isn't that crazy? time flies. still a genshin fan though. unfortunately. /silly anyways. it's all women in the post this time. not what i intended but... LMAO. loveeeee genshin women sm <3 heart divider is by @.cafekitsune!
Mavuika is, naturally, very busy—she doesn't get much time to herself, let alone time to spend with her loved ones. She does her best to make time. It helps that Mavuika is still human; she still needs to rest. Thus, she came up with a solution to never having much time to spend with you: sharing a bed at night. She always has a space next to her designated for none other than you, and it's well known by everyone that you are permitted to come and go from her space as you please. With that said, Mavuika is among the best cuddlers on Teyvat. Her skin emanates a permanent warmth as a consequence of her role as the Pyro Archon and her arms are secure as a consequence of her long term claymore usage. Sometimes she'll talk to you until you fall asleep against her side, the rumbling of her voice resonating from within her ribs and echoing within yours. Other times, she'll still be doing something into the late hours of the night—finishing off a painting, solving the newest puzzle on the market, et cetera. In these instances, she ensures she's sitting somewhere comfortable, and lets you fall asleep with your head in her lap. It's the safest place in the world, really.
Xilonen is a chronic napper. Despite how busy she always is, she would never pass up the opportunity to take a good nap under the afternoon sun. This much, everyone is well aware of. That said, she is more than happy to let you join her… so long as you don't kick or thrash in your sleep. Much like Mavuika, Xilonen is incredibly warm, and she is oddly soft save for the pieces of her outfit that might poke you in the side if you lay wrong. Overall, cuddling with Xilonen is hardly any different than sleeping in a comfortable bed despite the fact that she tends to fall asleep anywhere, be that in a tree or on a sunny patch of grass. The two of you are quite likely to end up with your limbs all tangled, pressed against one another securely with little intention of separating. If you so much as try to leave, Xilonen will usually just clutch you tighter in her unconsciousness. Additionally, her tail tends to sneak its way around your waist or leg, even though Xilonen seems entirely unaware of the fact that it happens. Her chest also, strangely, seems to rumble a soothing hum when she's curled up asleep with you…
Lauma is never opposed to holding you. She enjoys her time to herself, of course, but… Well. She's a woman known for her strength and guiding kindness, both as fierce and as gentle as a ray of moonlight—naturally, if someone dear to her wants to be held or just wants to be close in their most vulnerable state, why would she ever say no? It's simply beyond her to deny you something so simple and so sweet. Her hands are always gentle (though, they are a little rough due to the abundance of scars littering her palms) when they hold you, calmly stroking the hair out of your face and rubbing your back until you drift off in her arms. She'll listen intently if you want to talk until you nod off. Of course she will. However, she typically won't talk much herself, especially if you're inquiring about the things that trouble her in hushed whispers when the two of you are curled up together. She'll open up slowly, but it takes time and patience. Aside from that, she's always extremely conscious of herself to ensure that she doesn't bump you with her antlers. The last thing she wants is to hurt you, even if it's only a little bit. That said, she might bump you a bit when she begins to drift off herself, but it's easy to ignore when she looks so at peace next to you.
Columbina thinks the idea is endearing. You want to be that close to her in your most vulnerable of states? The inherent trust required for such a thing is… sweet. It's the sort of intimacy she never really got with the Fatui or with the Frostmoon Scions way back when she left Nod-Krai in the first place. She herself is one to sleep when she needs to regain energy, so she doesn't mind too much if you'd like to join her once the two of you are closer. She'll lay her head on your shoulder and drift off to the sound of your breathing or your voice. She likes to hear you talk, whether it's about your experiences or simply your day. She wants to hear your thoughts and opinions and ideas… which really isn't very conducive to sleep, but it's alright. She doesn't mind if it turns into an engaged conversation instead of a nap like it was originally meant to be. Sometimes, she prefers to simply sit under the cool moonlight and guide your head into her lap, singing you to sleep as she threads her nimble fingers through your hair and pulls the tangles apart gently. She might tell you stories upon occasion, too. She's interestingly vocal, for such a mysterious person.
Dehya is more used to guarding you in your sleep than she is actually cuddling with you. It's her job, after all. That said, Dehya definitely isn't opposed. She's merely a bit more on edge than the average person since her entire career revolves around protecting her clients. You aren't a client, however. Perhaps that just makes her want to protect you even more. You're one of her loved ones—not someone who hired her as a bodyguard. Your bond with her extends so far beyond the simple "bond" between a guard and that which they are meant to protect. Dehya compromises to the best of her ability: she lets you curl up against her side while she stays alert, precise gaze piercing the night so that you may rest undisturbed. She's very warm, so the frigid cold of the night doesn't so much as graze your skin, and one of her arms is always secured over or around you. She tends to subconsciously but gently nevertheless drag her nails across your back.
Sandrone scoffs when you bring up the idea. She actually scoffs. Why would she—ugh—cuddle with you?! Gross. She doesn't even need to sleep, so why would she waste her time doing something like that? She has so many better things to do! What a ridiculous idea. Of course, she doesn't address the fact that she lets you stay in her general vicinity as long as you'd like and as often as you'd like. Naturally, she doesn't address the fact that she's recently added a small, very comfortable and quite expensive sofa in her offices and labs for you to lounge and nap upon whenever you'd like. She certainly will not be addressing the fact that she's taken to making soothing blends of tea when you show up looking tired, either… but the fact of the matter remains that she has indeed done all of these things. She still won't cuddle with you, but she's created a soothing and safe space for you to fall asleep in. She tends to quietly observe you when you sleep, watching the rise and fall of your chest with such intention and dedication that she must not get caught under any circumstance, lest one of her subordinates think that she's gone soft. Every now and then, she'll even sit next to you, letting her fingertips ghost over your temple before withdrawing. It's almost like you're the most precious thing on Teyvat to Sandrone, but that's… ridiculous. Obviously. Don't let the fact that you have a Fatui Harbinger on your side go to your head.
Xianyun, otherwise known as Cloud Retainer, is actually quite used to the idea. She has raised and nurtured many different disciples, after all. Some were clingy while others were less so. Therefore, it wouldn't be the first time someone has made such a request of her. She'll gladly indulge you. That said, be mindful—Xianyun is a talker. She'll speak to you about anything and everything, and usually it'll be about mechanics or something different that you have little grasp upon. Her voice is quite calming, however, and after so many years, she's learned to keep her voice a little soft and quiet as to not disturb you in your rest. In her adeptus form, she likes to tuck you under her wing while you rest, curled into her feathers. In her more human form, she doesn't mind keeping you pressed against her chest or her side. Whatever you prefer. Sometimes she'll meditate while you sleep. Other times, she'll fiddle with her newest project as long as her hands are free, sparing the occasional glance at your sleeping face. Other sorts of worldly attachments, as she calls them, are not her greatest concern… but her bonds are special. Sacred. You, her daughters, her disciples—she would spare no effort to guarantee the joy and peace of those she loves. If sleeping against her brings you comfort, so be it. She doesn't mind.
( please consider reblogging & leaving a kind comment, it helps me out quite a lot! do not plagiarize, copy, ai train, or otherwise use my work. )
SYNOPSIS: after numerous failed arranged marriages set up by your parents, you thought the one with the vice-captain would follow the same pattern. you're proven wrong when he subverts what an expected greeting should be given.
𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3.3k (pls give it a chance...) ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @millurie @axolotsofluv @tragedy-of-commons @al97649 @bisouyuo @aritsukemo -> come join the taglist here!
𖥔 WARNINGS: mentions of beer and drinking, reader is from snezhnaya and has a dendro vision, reader also has lowkey/implied mommy issues, mentions blood and a wound, arrange marriages obv, cameo for varka, ragbros, jean, lisa, and albedo; not fully proofread; expect mistakes!
♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ this one is for my fav lohen kissers ari and yuomi 🤍🤍i genuinely didn't expect for this to b this long but oh well. art credits: @.su3ka_ on x!
"you are to be wedded to the vice-captain of the fifth company."
that's how it all began — a simple dinner with your parents as they dropped the bomb of your new marriage candidate. you tried your best not to appear vexed. keyword: tried. but unlike you're ever admirable cousin, jean, your face gave away more than your words ever could.
your brow twitched, the small fork in your hand clattered to the porcelain plate. your mother threw a disapproving glare, while your father coughed into his fist. "now, [name], my dear—"
"don't "my dear" me, father." you bark out, "what happened to giving up on setting me up for another failing marriage."
"you haven't even met the vice-captain," he argued.
you rolled your eyes in bemusement, "and you have? what happened to not involving yourself with 'pitiful, mongering barbarian?""
"your marriage has been decided," he stated sternly. he set his utensils with force enough to rattle the entire table as he raised his head like he always did when someone challenged his authority as a duke. "you are to be wed to vice-captain lohen." a tired sigh escaped him, a gloved hand pinched between his brows as he heard you stand from your seat and dash out the dining room. "arranged marriages aren't all so bad, [name]!"
"not all bad, you say?!" you shouted from across the corridor. "take a look at your relationship with mother before you say that!"
your family arrived in mondstadt at dawn. the trip to dorman port was as you expected—humid, and all too bright in comparison to the snow of snezhnaya. the people smiled often, too, you noticed. well, you supposed this was the land of freedom after all. you're quite tempted to see where the winds would take you when all you've grown up with are the blizzards and snowstorms that knock at your windows like an incessant friend who can't take no for an answer.
still, despite your curiosity about what the wild berries in the bushes would taste like, you willed your feet to stay rooted at the docks. your father greeted everyone as usual; your mother hid half her face in disdain behind her fan. like you, she had a lot to say about the weather, but you doubt she'd sugarcoat any unpleasant comments she had. people have told you that you took after her the most — too straightforward, too quippy, too wild to be a duke's heir.
"and you must be the duke's heir," a voice commented. you snapped your head up to the noise and realized, in mortification, that you had to crane your neck to even meet his eyes. you grip the silk of your apparel in alarm. "i'm varka. knight of boreas, grandmaster of the knight of favonious!"
the grandmaster pressed a closed fist to his chest, a grin plastered on his face as he bowed his head. "from now on, you will be in our care. if you encounter any problems, please don't hesitate to inform me. or lohen."
lohen.
you wondered what he's like.
as varka stood back to his full height, he offered you a hand to guide you to the horse you'll be riding to the city. "the roads are treacherous here, your grace. using a carriage will only lengthen the time to get to the city." he had explained earlier when your mother had complained at the lack of proper transportation. you sighed in dismay when she threw another hissy fit, your father right behind her as he guided her onto the horse, gathering the many layers of her gown. he was probably chastising her for not heeding his warnings. you turned around and let varka lift you to the saddle (and when i say lift, i mean lift. the man even had the audacity to laugh and ask if you were eating properly.)
you tuned out the rest of mother's tantrum in favor of soaking in the sights of your new home. it was… starkly different. you could actually see the path, albeit it was… unrecognizable; wild flowers bloomed from the soil, and small critters would gather atop rock formations to tilt their heads at you. when you thought no one was looking, you gave them a small wave. a smile bloomed on your face when the small squirrel jumped in delight before scurrying away with its friend.
"you're quite the charmer, your highness." you turned to your left and watched as varka reign his horse slow it's pace and match yours. his sky-lit eyes eventually fell on the mount you had been riding, a low whistle escaping his lips. "that horse you're riding is infamous for throwing off any rider that touches his saddle."
you feel your anxiety spike, quickly looked down to your horse before you calmed down. "you should've said that earlier, grandmaster…"
he laughed, hearty and whole. like the feeling of joy existed in the air that wafted in the surroundings and encompassed the space of his lungs. "ha, ha, ha! i heard rumors about you being blessed by mother nature herself, your highness! ah, forgive me. i know i shouldn't indulge in such rumors but the moment you had stepped off that boat, i had a feeling you were special."
you blinked up at him (cursing the very obvious gap in your heights in your mind) and couldn't stop yourself from asking, "why is vice-captain lohen here?"
there's a shift in the air. subtle, almost as if it never happened to begin with. but you saw it. the way varka's eyes widened for just a fraction, how they looked at anything but you, and how he changed the subject faster than any warning of an avalanche you've heard.
the trip to the main gates was spent in silence after that. you didn't dare to ask the question again, or even bring up your fiancé's name. afraid of the suffocation the knights would have to endure as the words fell from your lips.
lohen. you trialed in your mind. it was short enough to remember, but unique in a way you've only ever heard it once. lohen. you looked up to the sky, the day had barely passed despite it feeling like you've travelled through half of teyvat already. when the sun peeked around it's shield of clouds, you wondered where your fiancé was.
mondstadt was welcoming. welcoming enough for your father — all up-tight, and no funny business — to indulge in a few rounds of beer in a quaint bar in a corner. "it's angel's share," you're mother informed, already half-way through her glass of champagne when she found you in a dark corner on the second floor. "owned by the most sought after bachelor in mondstadt — diluc ragnvindr."
"if he's so sought after, why wasn't he a candidate?" you asked, swirling the apple cider in your glass.
"naive child, i've told you numerous times already. he could have been, if you hadn't burned his letter in the fireplace like a fool."
ah, now you remembered. you were high on emotions that night and the thought of leaving home with a man you didn't know sent you into a spiralling tantrum that ended with you burning the stacks of marriage proposals on your father's desk. you distinctively remembered a burgundy envelope and an owl seal amongst them.
you took a careful peek at your mother who had dropped herself on the seat in front of you, much to your disdain. when she clicked her tongue, you took it as your cue to let your gaze fall like it always had in her presence.
"because of your foolish mistake, you're stuck with this half-witted, war-mongering vice-captain."
"'warn mongering'?" you asked.
she rolled her eyes at you, drinking the remaining champagne and slammed the delicate glass in front of you. "the boy is a monster, [name]." she said, "that lohen is unbecoming. i can't wrap my mind around how he, of all people was accepted into the knights."
the way she said lohen's name — as if the very letters seared her tongue and offended her existence — made something churn in your stomach. you didn't know him, you reminded yourself, there's no point in defending him. in fact, with varka's prior reaction to you questioning his whereabouts, you're left with little but too much all the same; lohen was someone distasteful to be around.
"are you even listening to me, [name]?!" your mother rattled, "listen to me, dear archons above what have i done to deserve such a disobedient child—"
you stood from your seat, the legs of your chair dragging across the floors before it dropped with a painfully loud thud. chatter paused, songs finished abruptly, and you simply smiled. "i'm tired, i'll be retiring for the day." you excused yourself from the others, bolting to the stairs, only to be stopped when the grandmaster weaved himself between you and the exit.
"now, your highness, you can't leave yet!" he said, one hand still holding a wooden mug of beer.
you raised a brow at him, your patience growing thin when he continues to block your path regardless of what step you took. "grandmaster," you warned. "please, step aside."
but he only shook his head, a finger scratched his chin while his eyes darted across the many faces in the bar. "y-you can't!"
"and why not?"
"because… um… you see, we were, um…"
while he was busy thinking fo an excuse, you sent out a silent prayer to the tsaritsa that barbatos doesn't smite you for landing a blow on one of his knights (though calling it a blow would be an exaggeration when the grandmaster was double, if not triple your body mass). at best, you had landed a strong enough blow to his side to tickle, tickle, him to drop his guard and wheeze out of your way.
finally! you thought. you were almost free from this stuffy, beer-stinking room!
but as you opened the door, a force from the other side pulled it forward, taking you along with it. everyone gasped, and you shut your eyes to brace for the impact, already imagining the scolding you were about to receive if even a single scratch were to grace your face. but it never came.
instead, heavy and dirtied hands caught you by the forearms as your face planted into someone's uniform stained with blood. you stayed there for a moment longer than what would be considered necessary.
"well, ain't this a lovely first meeting, your highness!"
you felt the blood drain from your face as you realized who you had just fallen into. with a heavy sigh and grumbled curses, you lift your head enough to catch a glimpse of a face that did not match the tone of his voice. his eyes were something straight out of a fairytale, but it's not what you'd describe as "princely" or even a "knight" — they had no light, like never-ending, encompassing pool of carmine that bleeds into the sky.
your mother was right, lohen was a monster.
"what? do i have something on my face?" he asked, and you're mortified to realize that you had been caught staring right into a rabbit hole of his gaze. the pads of his gloves dragged from your forearms down to cup your palms — gentle, sure. you think you can feel the callouses from how he uses his weapons, and yet… "you okay there? i'm starting to think i'm not the only delusional one here." he joked with a chuckle under his breath.
"excuse me?"
"just a joke! no need to be offended, your highness," he assured you, but it did little to quell the somersaults that your stomach continued to perform. his skin was pale, maybe as pale as the snow back at home, and there's a single guiding star beneath the right of his eye. his mouth moved, and you thought what he said was funny when the other patrons laughed. but you didn't hear it. not when your hand, the one your father swore would never know the feeling of blood, dragged a thumb over the bleeding scratch that etched his cheekbone down to the side of his chin.
"what a wound. it must be painful," you muttered before a familiar condensation of dendro energy pooled at where the blood continued to stain his cheeks. "hold still," you asked, and against everyone's expectations, lohen did as you asked. he stood still, very still. when half of the wound had closed, you began to wonder if he was even breathing.
when his cheek was fully healed, only then did you finally breathe out a sigh of relief. noticing how the room had gone quiet, you became acutely aware how little distance was left between you and the vice-captain. with reddening cheeks, you let out a cough into your first, and stepped back. the warmth of his hold left a scalding trail on your skin that raised the hairs yet left you wanting for more, all the same.
lohen stumbled back, too. a hand clumsily tugging at the collar of his uniform, before both hands dusted down his shirt, cursing when he realized blood had managed to stain the spot you had planted your face in. when your eyes met again, you noticed the obvious flustering of his cheeks. it contrasted nicely against his pale, snow-stricken complexion. and it made the blush that crept up his ears all the more obvious.
your staring context was broken when you hear a snort from behind you. your head whipped to see the culprit, only to find varka ducking his head down just as you glared at him. he waved a hand in apology, setting his cup of beer down the counter, and going past you just to stand besides lohen.
"your highness, allow me to introduce to you the vice-captain of the knight's fifth company." a heavy hand was placed on his shoulders, and your eyes met again. this time, he didn't look away, nor did you think he cared much for the obvious red on his cheeks. "lohen, this is their highness, [name]. proud heir to snezhnaya's dukedom, who also happens to be your fiancé."
lohen rolled his eyes, shrugged off varka's hand on his shoulder before reaching for something behind him. "can you tell me something i don't know, grandmaster? i do more than just fighting, you know."
"that's rather hard to believe, but sure! whatever you say!"
annoyed by his superior, lohen swiftly delivered an undamaging kick to the grandmaster's shin. the latter only laughed at his attempt, before shoving him forward, nearly sending you both toppling over if you had not caught him by the shoulders as he did with you.
"stupid grandmaster, i don't need your help," he grumbled under his breath.
you tilted your head curiously, slotting you perfectly in his visage that he stumbles over the next few words. "help with what?"
you heard the other knights holler and whistle, the grandmaster behind him laughed even harder as he passed you both, taking up his previous station by the bar and watching with amused eyes. "the same reason why he wasn't there to greet you when you arrived, your highness!" varka explained. "come on lohen, don't get all shy on us now! you we're all fire and spirit when you proposed the idea, where's that spirit gone?"
"drowned by your noise if you don't shut the hell up!" lohen shouted amidst the sea of laughter and cheering. "damned nosy assholes. who even said you were in on the plan in the first place?!"
"i'm… a little lost."
as he finally remembered who he was in proximity with, the blush on his face worsened, and the cheering grew louder. he slipped from your hold, taking a deep breath and continuing his grumbling, throwing a glare at the head that belonged to the grandmaster as he finally fixed his posture.
couhing into his fist, lohen did one final lookover his appearance — fixing the collar of his shirt, dusting down his cape, and brushing the bangs over his eyes. he took one step, then another, until he was only an arm's length away and you had to stop the squeek that nearly slipped from your throat when he took your hand in his, while the hand behind his back revealed a bouquet of local flowers in mondstadt.
"i apologize, for not greeting you first. i know it's not exactly very "knightly" of me," lohen paused, his thumb rubbing mindless circles on your knuckles as his gaze flickered from your face to the flowers in his hold. "and appearing all battered and with a wound on my face is… unbecoming. but i promise, it was for a good cause. that being this." he motioned for you to take the bouquet. when you gingerly accepted them in your hands, he straightened his back again. "welcome to mondstadt, my fiancée. i hope you'll like it here."
"'welcome to mondstadt, my fiance.' now where, pray tell, did you learn to smooth-talk like that, lohen?"
the vice-captain only rolled his eyes. he continued wiping down his spear in jean's office (why it had to be here, lohen didn't know. and fankly, he was too tired to know.). "it was a formal welcome. since all you wanted to act like a stick had stuck up your ass, i decided to be… more me."
"more you, as in revealing your year-long crush on the duke's heir?"
"when have i said that?!"
albedo and kaeya shrugged, but the all-knowing and teasing smiles on their faces had lohen's heart hammering in his chest. when lisa chuckled and closed her book, only then did he realize that he had abruptly stood from his seat, his polearm lay forgotten on the floor along with the cloth he was using to clean it.
"now, now, don't tease him you two. it must have been hard to gather all those flowers in starsnatch cliff with the activity of the abyss."
"thank you—"
"and confessing isn't exactly an easy thing to prepare for! the fact he even showed up is a miracle in and of itself."
"lisa?!"
"enough, you three."
when jean arrived, only then could lohen relax and sit back down on his seat. he picked up his polearm and glared at kaeya when the man snickered at him.
"now that we're all here, we will be discussing the appropriate accomodations to the duke and his family," jean's eyes landed on lohen first. "thankfully, master diluc had agreed to house them for a while until we finish the deal with northland bank." then, she nodded towards lisa and albedo's direction, "the duke's only request is that their highness's studies in alchemy to be continued, so i'll be trusting you both in that regard."
"thank you for trusting us, dear jean."
"yes, we'll do our utmost best."
jean smiled, shoulders finally relaxing, "that leaves kaeya and me with managing their transportation when the duke and duchess return. now lohen," the vice-captain stiffened. a shiver ran down his spine when he met jean's eyes and watched in horror as even her lips tugged into a teasing smile. "it'll be your job to assist them in any and every field. you are their hand-picked knight, ensure that they remain safe until the weeding."
"it offends me that you think i can't even do something as simple as that," lohen complained.
"ah, ah. i'm not finished.
"huh?"
jean smiled, in fact, everyone in the room smiled. and lohen felt cold, ice water was dumped over his head when the next words followed.
"as their fiancé, be sure to woo them now and then. it took a lot of effort from master diluc to get your name on their candidate's list after all."
wherein a boy whose lifelong dream was put to rest for the greater good of the world, yet you remind the man he has become today that dreams never do die, nor are they forgotten, for you will make his dream a reality.
(well, minus the “slaying a dragon” part, that is.)
CONTAINS : gn!reader, 2.2k wc, fluff, emotional hurt/comfort if you squint, childhood friends to implied lovers, references to his animated short, have not read his character story/done his quest yet so inaccuracies for childhood might occur...
A/N : in honour of me getting varka in 70 pulls and his + flins weapon in a double 5* pull at 20 pity this supposed-to-be one para fic blurb that spiralled into an actual fic is forcibly being posted :] HAPPY VARKA RELEASE DAY OURGH MY LOVE MY BELOVED -1HP -1HP -1HP TAT
The boy who is sunshine incarnate and all the warmth and ambition in the world wrapped into a single person continues chattering away. He weaves the stems of the flowers with clumsy hands; a cecilia a little too crooked, a windwheel aster’s petals a little too crumpled, a sweet flower’s stem a little too torn. He still works at it with all the confidence in the world, fingers moving in the way you taught him to albeit a little… differently.
You admire his tenacity, at the very least.
“…and then, I’ll wave my sword all like, “Listen here, O’ Mighty Dragon! Today I have come to slay you!” And then I’ll charge in like ‘whoosh!’ and hit it like ‘ka-pow!’ and it’ll let out this loud ‘ROOAAARRRR!!’ as it falls down like ‘ka-splat!’ and I’ll be standing on top of it with my sword up high and you next to me as my sidekick! Or, uh, right hand, I think they call it?”
You blink, suddenly aware of the one-sided conversation he is having with you. With slightly furrowed brows, you shift your focus onto his beaming expression. “But I don’t want that.”
“Huh? Why not?” he asks, tilting his head with an expression replicating his sheer confusion at the denial.
“Because dragons are boring.”
Varka stares as if you just announced you murdered his entire family without an ounce of guilt.
“…WHAT—?!”
He proceeds to spend the next three hours giving you an entire lecture on how, “Dragons are the coolest, most powerful creatures out there! Don’t you know how strong you have to be to match a dragon? SUPER strong!! And I will become so strong I knock 'em out in one hit— hey, are you listening?”
You are listening. Honestly, you don’t think it was possible to not listen to him with how loud he speaks, practically forcing you to listen to his far-fetched ramblings of how big and strong a dragon is, and how he will be even stronger than that.
Well, not entirely far-fetched. If anyone could achieve the impossible, it would be Varka. You have no doubt about it; even if his big talk of slaying a dragon makes you wonder if he hit his head somewhere amid his training. You’re pretty sure you saw him trip over a rock mid-swing earlier, so maybe that is what made him declare such a thing to you now.
Still, with the lopsided flower crown of cecilia, sweet flowers, and windwheel asters perched atop your head and the boy as free as the dandelion seeds flying in the gentle breeze still continuing his rant about how cool and awesome and powerful dragons are, you think seeing him become a hero would be pretty cool, even if he already is one in your eyes.
And a hero to others he becomes.
You have witnessed his ascension in the knights’ ranks from Knight to Captain to Grand Master, watched as he made a name for himself with his eager attitude and indomitable spirit, spectated the impact he has had on those around him as a mere bystander of the one meant for the spotlight.
He deserves it, you think. He deserves the praise and showers of compliments — deserves the respect and reputation he has spent his life cultivating.
He was born to be a hero, even if he himself no longer thinks of himself as such.
“Y’know, I saw something funny earlier.”
His voice is low; a deeper lull stark to the usual jovial tone he pertains. His expression is set — furrowed brows, lips pulled taut into a thin line as he mulls over what to say, his typical confident stature reduced to a slump against the tree.
You wondered why he asked to meet you here, in this field you once frequented in your youth. Taking a gander at his sombre expression, however, something prickles at your conscience — like a tucked-away memory being dusted off and brought into the light once more.
Varka still hasn’t looked at you. Instead, he wets his lips as he prepares to speak once again.
“I saw… a vision, so to speak. I brushed shoulders with our god, felled a dragon by my own strength, and returned back home victorious. I was… celebrated. There was a statue in my honour, the people cheered my name and passed down my legacy wherever they went, the knights’ abilities were no longer questioned, and you…”
He pauses, expression shifting imperceptibly.
You aren’t given the chance to ask what that meant — what the you in his so-called vision did to warrant such a complicated expression — before he speaks again, voice strained in a way that betrays the hold he has on his emotions.
“You welcomed me back and called me a hero. You looked at me with such unwavering trust I almost believed it was real— that I was a hero who slayed a dragon. But then I saw another vision, and I realised I could never be one. That I could never live up to your expectations of me.”
Unlike his prior conflict, there is an unmistakable air of acceptance. His posture becomes even more slouched, shoulders hunched in as his lifelong dream remains within reach yet still manages to slip through his fingers.
It’s uncanny, the way this Varka looks. How defeated his mannerism reflects, how withdrawn he appears after having his everything dangled before his very eyes only for it to slip through his grasp… How, behind his down-turned, faraway gaze, there is a quiet grievance for what could have been — for what almost was his future.
You don’t think as such; not when you are the closest person to Varka, having seen him through all his highs and lows and still thinks of him to be such a blindingly beautiful person both inside and out.
The air shifts. a warm breeze flutters between you, dandelion seeds drifting along the sot currents in the distance.
“Did you know, Varka? You’re a hero to many. To all the people you have saved during your expeditions and travels thus far and the many to come in the future. To the citizens of Mond who have received your selfless help where you don’t expect anything in return. To the knights who all look up to and respect you in everything you embody and willingly choose to follow you. To the kids who believe you’re about as cool as anyone or anything can get. And…” A smile appears naturally on your lips before you can even stop it, the next words escaping the part of your lips with ease. “You’re my hero. Ever since you declared I would be your right hand in slaying a dragon, and even since before then, too.”
You were always a rather timid child. Easily startled, barely went out and played with others, opting to stay inside where it was quiet and peaceful. Sometimes you would watch them run around and wonder it would be like to be out there— to have the confidence to step out of your comfort zone and try something new.
Your parents were always of the worried sort. They worried if you were sick. They worried if you felt any discomfort. They worried if you were unhappy. They worried if you felt alone. They worried whether you would get along with the other kids when the time eventually came. They worried—
They worried. A lot. Perhaps more than parents typically would.
And maybe their heartfelt concern is what spurred you to be a little braver that day, to help quell their worries if even by a little. To step out of your comfort zone and feel the grass beneath your feet, the wind in your hair, the sun in your skin.
“Do you remember that time a baby rabbit came from out of nowhere and scared me? You chased it away and I thought you were the coolest boy ever.” Laughter spills from your lips at the thought; fond, undeniably so. “Your confidence was something I'd always admired, and I always knew if anyone were to achieve the impossible, it would be you. I still think so, even if you, yourself, might not right now.”
Looking back, it was a rather silly memory. Silly, yet life-changing. Sometimes it’s the small, seemingly insignificant things in life which have the most impact and inevitably snowball into something much larger than you could begin to imagine.
(And really, if it meant reliving that moment again and again, you would do so in a heartbeat.)
Varka merely stares at you. Not like how he did back then when you decided dragons were boring and acted as if you cursed his entire bloodline without a shred of regret, but in a different way. In a way which beheld trembling glassy eyes, quivering lips attempting to form words bound to remain unsaid, and something entirely incomprehensible flitting through his expression.
Something all too reminiscent of a boy with big dreams and an even bigger heart.
“I'm going on an expedition,” he blurts. It’s out of the blue, yet still tinged with the careful deliberation of a man with too many responsibilities than he knows what to do with. He seems to realise the odd shift, features faltering slightly at the abruptness yet not entirely shocked, as though this topic is something he has rehearsed to himself many a time leading up to this moment.
“That other vision I mentioned… I was shown something else.” His lips press together into a thin line. Varka takes in a breath, and something tells you there won't be much of a breather when he resumes talking. “The Abyss' influence is taking root up north, destroying everything in its path, and it'll eventually spread all the way down here to Mondstadt. Knowing how many innocent people will be harmed, I can't just— sit back and do nothing. How can I be a hero when everyone will eventually be facing a greater danger? What use would momentary glory be if I can’t even protect anyone? If I can't protect the ones I love most? If I can’t protect you?”
His words come out in a rapid fire. His thoughts are consumed wholly by the impending doom; a tragedy he has already vowed and committed to preventing to the best of his abilities despite the limited information he currently has. But something like that has never stopped him. Nothing really can once his mind has been set, his goal all that occupies the forefront of his mind and influencing every lingering thought thereafter.
Varka’s voice continues once more. It comes out rushed, like he’s trying to say everything he can in one go before it is too late. Too late for what? You have no clue. But he speaks as though he is running out of time, and you’re unsure whether that’s for the looming expedition departure or for something else which has been consuming him.
“I can’t say how long it will take. Months— years, maybe. Honestly, with how much is at stake, I'm not even sure if I'll make it back alive, let alone make it there with all this uncertainty, or what might happen in the other nations—”
“Varka—”
When he looks at you, it is almost as if the air was knocked out of your lungs.
“And I know this is selfish of me to ask, but even despite all the uncertainty this expedition entails... Will you wait for me?”
An expression so fragile it threatens to shatter at the slightest hint of rejection, he looks at you as though his heart is in your hands. It’s a rare vulnerability, a concept wholly implausible to many citizens of Mondstadt who know of him as their strong and reliable Grand Master.
Yet your gaze sinks into his, because you know. Because you see the boy who would swing his sword a thousand times even as his muscles would scream for relief. Because you see the lingering uncertainty hidden within the clear sky-blue of his eyes akin to the moments where he would question whether he deserved the title of Grand Master. Because you see that thing he does with his leg, where it bounces slightly without his knowledge when his mood gets a tad too agitated.
Because you know Varka, and so you see his rare displays of anxiousness clear as day. And because you know Varka, you believe in him; in the boy who showed you what it meant to be strong, and in the man who burned brighter than ever yet still made room for you to not get burned beside him.
And so your answer comes easy. It’s obvious from your perspective, but you suppose every now and then he tends to not be the sharpest tool in the shed.
Raising your hand, you reach out and cup his cheek, fingertips brushing gently against his warm skin. “I'll wait for you, regardless of how long it takes.”
The tension in his body melts within an instant. His hand reaches up to cradle your one against his cheek, pushing the contact closer. Ever so slightly does his head turn, until his lips touch the palm of your hand as he litters an endless sea of soft kisses against the skin.
“I'll come back to you,” he whispers amid what you now recognise to be his silent promises.
And you merely smile, because you know Varka. And you know he keeps to his word.
“I'll be waiting for your return.”
if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33
SUMMARY — an injury on your foot that caused you to miss your dinner reservation for valentine's wasn't the only thing that as on alhaitham's mind. ( 1.2k word count ) this is my district99 event post!! regular, prompt 5!
CONTENT — some jealousy, reader has a foot injury, alhaitham might be ooc, not proofread, some bits for the kaveh kissers.
“...Stop looking at me like that, Alhaitham.” You muttered weakly as your lover’s piercing stare bored into you. That look, that seemed to unravel each of your every thoughts, and yet did nothing to decipher the flittings of your eyes — down at the floor, way past him, and then, momentarily, right into his turquoise eyes.
Truthfully, Alhaitham didn’t blame you for your bandaged up foot, not at all. It wasn’t quite your fault that Kaveh had shattered a vase on accident (?) and you’d went and stepped on the glass, was it? Nor, by extension, was it your fault that you were currently lying on your bed, too; although the usual restlessness that he’d eventually associated with you was all but present now as you tried to get up.
He had no difficulties stopping you.
“It’s fine, Haitham! I’m fine. A little injury won’t stop us from going on our dinner reservation, will it?” Alhaitham was strong, and very much so. You huffed as his arm, already wrapped around you in a protective hold, tightened again, as if telling you you are not leaving your bed today.
And honestly, he thought he was going out of his depth at some fancy restaurant one of his friends told him to go to with you for Valentine’s. Shame this had to happen, huh? “...You’re injured. It would be quite inconvenient to spend the day out and about. So it’s best if we just spend the day at home.”
He knew how badly you wanted to go. And he didn’t care. For someone as emotionally reserved and closed off as he was, that didn’t mean he prioritized that book he’s always into above you all the time. Joke.
And yet, as you grumbled about bad timing or what not, his gaze was fixed on the minor cut on your forearm. Less damaging than the stitches you needed to get on your foot, but the memory of the incident clouded his eyes with something unreadable all the same.
He still remembered how as he strolled towards the kitchen as soon as he heard the glass break, he didn’t think much of it, not even as he heard Kaveh’s mumbles laced with worry, and then he heard a wince. As the kitchen came into view, his gaze immediately zeroed in on the two of you crouching on the floor.
Alhaitham observed in silence as Kaveh attended to the small cut on your arm. It was a simple gesture of care and concern, and yet; he couldn't shake the tight coil of tension that had settled in his chest. Perhaps it was the way the two of you leaned into each other. The way your faces were closer than necessary for such a mundane task, albeit Kaveh spoke to you gently, clearly apologising. He didn’t understand.
The two of you looked at each other as he tied one of his handkerchiefs around your cut as a makeshift bandage. “Thanks, Kaveh.” Alhaitham didn’t miss that look — that look of warmth that passed, as if they were sharing an intimate moment with each other. Intimacy that didn’t include him. He even imagined Kaveh’s hands lingering a little longer than necessary. At last, he made his presence known.
“Ahem, we actually have bandages here.” The two of you looked up at each other simultaneously. “It’s more hygienic than a handkerchief. …we don’t have plasters.”
You stared up at your lover, eyes blank. It was a small wound, so you didn’t really think a bandage was needed. It didn’t matter, you said, and something about your indirect push to keep his handkerchief left him feeling a little odd.
And after a surprisingly brief shouting match with Kaveh for being so careless that he caused you a few cuts (and later, stitches on your foot), he decided to take you to get patched up, and then back to your place to rest.
After a minute’s silent recollection, Alhaitham’s gaze dropped towards a neatly folded up and cleaned handkerchief sitting tidily on your bedside as his thoughts dissipated and was replaced by a question he realized he didn’t know how to ask. He bit his cheek, unsure of what to say. Odd. The handkerchief burned in his peripheral like a glaring accusation.
Is there something between you two? burned in his throat. And yet he knew some way, somehow, he was yours. At least outwardly. Jealousy was not, he felt, an emotion he had any use of, but who knew what was going on inwardly? Why, to him, did it feel like you two were closer than you and himself would ever be?
“...You kept it. His handkerchief.”
The accusation clung to his curt words, if you caught it at all. It wasn’t like himself. He prided himself on being the rational, level-headed and logical one. So why… why did you still have it? He shook his head. Ridiculous. You looked at him with genuine surprise, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your gaze going to and from himself and the handkerchief., as if trying to draw a conclusion. “I didn’t get a chance to give it to him…?”
“Really? That’s all?”
“...That’s all? Of course, what else? What, did you think I kept it ‘cause— Oh.” Now it was your gaze that seemed to shoot down any defenses he put up. He stared down at you too. Causing you to tilt your head. He deigned to look away, somehow, before you sighed heavily.
“I knew it had to be something like that. Well, you don’t usually get this annoyed at me when i get myself sick or injured or something. …Sorry.”
Surprise coloured his face. “What are you apologizing for?”
“What do you think?”
“It isn’t my fault that I… I…” Thought there was something going on? Felt like you and Kaveh shared a bond he would never be able to form with you? Silently believed you finally saw someone who was better for you?
Of course, you hit the nail on the head. Simple. “Got jealous of Kaveh?”
And Alhaitham, unused to such conversations, didn’t know how else to explain it that didn’t make him feel more illogical. “...I suppose.”
“...You know I really love you, right?” You forced him to stare back into your eyes. “Yes, Kaveh and I are close… So what? I love you. I chose you.” Those last few words were all it took for Alhaitham to regret his… insecurity, he supposed. Moments of intimacy with him were seldom, but right then, he pressed a delicate kiss to your lips, one that you graciously accepted. This was why he loved you, he thought.
After a moment’s silence, he spoke, somewhat tentatively. “So...What would you like to do today? Provided we stay at home for our date activities.”
“My choice??” You beamed.
“Your choice.” He smiled, if even slightly, at the enthusiasm of your tone as you started listing off all the ways you could spend the rest of the day with him. After all, he’d went ahead and cleared his schedule, just for today.
Just for you.
Xiao x Gn!Reader, 5.9k words. A little something for Valentine’s day, which is today, I promise <33
At the end of it all, Xiao wonders– what makes a date a date, exactly? Flowers? A kiss? He thinks he might have gone on one just now. He’s not sure.
What he is sure of, though, is that time spent with you is at least, decidedly, time well spent.
“Did you know,” you say, taking a bite of the flan that Yanxiao made at your request, “that it’s Valentine’s Day today?”
You’re pleased when Xiao answers with a thoughtful nod– another bet won. Paimon owes you and the Traveller now. After all, with how lovely he is– how could she possibly think he’d not know one of the many days he ought to be showered with gifts on?
(Of course– you’ll keep that to yourself.)
“Huai’an and Goldet have given one another little presents throughout the day,” he explains. In the past, your silence would have made him chatter to simply fill it– or even have caused offence had he taken it as surprise– but time has since worn away at such differences of understanding and replaced them with familiarity.
“And,” he continues, “most of the staff have exchanged presents as well.” You tilt your head at that, noticing the slight emphasis on most, and glance to where he casts a slightly pitying gaze– a young new worker scrubbing a spot on the floor of a lower balcony with practiced nonchalance. Turning his attention back to you, he frowns.
“I do confess, however– I am a little intrigued by something.”
You blink. “What is it? Can I help?”
Xiao shakes his head. “This is not something I need assistance with,” he explains, piquing your curiosity further. “This is just a question I have– I wonder what quality Chef Yanxiao possesses that has landed him the most gifts so far? More so than even Goldet?”
You blink. “More than Goldet?”
He nods. “More than Goldet.”
You frown. More than Goldet? She’s beautiful, charismatic (and you’re biased, biased, biased) and amasses the most presents every year. So what–?
You’re frowning still as you scoop another spoonful of the flan into your mouth. Ah, it’s delicious. Yanxiao had pleasantly surprised both you and Xiao when he’d brought it unexpectedly over, up at the topmost balcony where you were seated. A delight of the mortal world, you’d said to Xiao with a flourish. He’d almost smiled, and Yanxiao had seemed as pleased as you’d wanted him to be.
You’re touched, after all– he really does care for Xiao, and he even paid heed to the little figurative nudges you gave him in your quest to make Xiao sample more dishes. The sweet custard falls in line with Xiao’s preferred textures, whilst still being something new. Enrichment for the lovely Yaksha (and free dessert for you).
It’s just as you’re contemplating this– and as you’re busy wondering whether Xiao prefers the milder almond tofu to the much sweeter caramel custard– that it finally occurs to you.
“Ah!” You snap your fingers in delight. They make not a single modicum of sound. For a fleeting, embarrassing moment, Xiao smiles, before turning toward you neutrally once more.
“Yes?”
“Don’t laugh at me– actually, do laugh.” You shake your head. “You have a lovely smile.”
Xiao blinks again, in a way that is reminiscent of the kites you see by the harbour sometimes. “I’ve been told by Paimon to be weary of… people that tell me I look better when I smile.”
“That’s–” you sputter. What in the world, Paimon?
“That’s not the same– whatever.” You huff, then lean closer. You doubt Xiao would be too familiar with the dreadfully unwanted advances of mortal men anyhow. “I just realised why Yanxiao gets the most presents. The answer is glorious.”
Xiao mimics the motion– he rests an elbow on the table and leans the slightest bit forward
“And what is the answer?”
“The answer is that men that cook well are very, very attractive.”
Xiao blinks and settles back in his chair. You wish he hadn’t.
“I see.”
You nod sagely.
There’s some moments of silence as you finish off the snacks and tea. A pair of finches flutter up to the little nest they’ve made among the shingles, noisily fussing about it before settling down. Xiao pays them no heed. You can’t help but smile a little at the slight crease between his eyes as he sips– in some odd way, he seems more used to Yelan’s more unconventional tastes. You make a mental note to ask Yelan what she puts in her teas the next time you bump into one another.
Although… you suspect that isn’t quite the reason for his displeasure. You look carefully toward where his eyes stray once more. The same boy, now stubbornly scrubbing a different spot. A woman reading a book while an affectionate couple ostensibly laughs at the table adjacent to hers. Soraya is alone too, but you quickly see Xiao’s gaze shift away from her with– almost relief?
What esoteric reason has him worried now? You frown. Breaching the subject so boldly might make him turn away. But– perhaps you could lighten the mood a little at first.
“By the way,” you say, and he faces you immediately, looking almost apologetic at having turned away. When you smile in reassurance, however, his lips seem to loosen with relief, the dispersed tension making them look suddenly pinker and plusher than before.
Oh no.
You hurriedly bring your gaze up to meet his– another mistake. You can’t believe you forgot you’re not supposed to look at the Vigilant Yaksha as the sun sets– his eyes glow.
“Yes?”
“Ah…” Crap. Where were you again? You rack your mind, flustered. Food, Yanxiao– right.
“Uh, can you… cook?”
Xiao’s eyes widen, and his lips part. For a moment you see a flash of his teeth– pristine, sharp– before he speaks.
“Er… very little.”
You brighten. “Oh, that’s great! We can cook together sometime– although no, never mind.” Your fingers tap your chin in mock embarrassment. “I forgot you hated cooking.”
Never in your life have you seen a man more mortified.
“I…” he trails off, throwing Soraya a restless glance. She continues contentedly poring over the papers on her table, chin propped on a hand. Xiao looks very much as though he wishes he could snatch the peace from underneath her to drape himself in instead.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Paimon.” Your answer is prompt. “She said you hated preparing it and that you don’t like wasting time waiting for it to cook.”
Xiao crosses his arms. “She exaggerates. I– forget it.”
Oh dear. You bite back a smile. You seem to have succeeded only to chagrin him. You’d regret it more, though, if he didn’t look the way he does now– pursed lips, one pinned slightly beneath the other. Awash in the warm light. All of Teyvat seems to exist solely to adorn him.
Even as he looks now– pensive, a bit perturbed– he looks lovelier than anyone in the harbour you’ve seen today, posturing and beautifying themselves– be it for friends, or a lover, or their own satisfaction.
Even the very wind seems to want to put him to an advantage– it plays with his hair, sending it tumbling into his eyes and he jerks his chin absently, an eye shutting to keep the strands out. His nose scrunches in the sweetest way.
Heavens. For a foolish moment, you truly believe– that this is Barbatos playing tricks on you.
You’re brought out of your thoughts when he hesitantly parts his lips, then shuts them again.
“What is it?” You instantly ask, now remembering why you teased him to begin with, in real embarrassment.
“It’s no matter,” he murmurs, then sighs, casting his gaze onto the empty dishes. “No matter at all. Shall I escort you home?”
“Oh, no.” You beam. “I’m staying the night.”
“Oh?”
You hum, and wonder if he truly looks as pleased at that as you want him to.
“So you’ll be subject to my questions a little longer, I fear.” You laugh. “Tell me what it is you wanted to before– please?”
Xiao sighs. There’s a lull as you wait for a moment, before he quickly asks, with the air of someone that doesn’t want to back out at the final second–
“Is it upsetting for mortals to not receive presents on this day?”
Huh?
You think you have a sneaking suspicion as to what this is about.
“Is this about Soraya?”
“No.” He sounds almost relieved. “If anything, she looks quite content.”
You glance towards her again– and indeed, she does. She’s lit a quaint looking lamp to quell the gathering dark, and the bright, dappled light looks truly romantic– a dinner date for Soraya and Mx Research.
You hum. “Definitely.”
Xiao turns to you and prompts– “well?”
“Well,” you muse. “Yes, for some people. Not so much for others. Why do you ask?”
He ignores your question, instead presenting yet another his own. “And what do you think would be a suitable present for any sort of mor– person on this day?”
You blink, chest suddenly warm. Does he mean to–? No, that’s silly. Surely he can’t mean to…
“Um, chocolate?” You hesitantly list. “Flowers… jewellery or charms? Cards. Sweets… flowers?”
Xiao leans back. “Two options reoccur.”
You grimace. “Sorry, I can’t think of more things. Cute mugs–?”
Xiao rises to his feet.
✦—————————————✦
“That’ll be forty thousand.”
“What?” Your palm lands on the counter with a loud smack of disbelief. “That’s crazy! I’m not buying wilted flowers for forty thousand!”
“You need twenty sprays–”
“Twenty thousand is fine!”
It’s now the vendor’s turn to gape, but one look at your resolute eyes is enough to make him quickly turn to Xiao instead.
“Sir–”
“We’re talking,” you huff, shifting so he’s hidden behind you. “Don’t turn to him! I know you sell them for a thousand, and sprays for a thousand fifty– please don’t think you can rob me by daylight just because he looks rich.” You jerk a finger in Xiao’s direction as the shopkeeper purses his lips.
“It’s nighttime, dear customer,” he hedges, “and I need to close up soon.”
“The gall– fine. Fine!” You turn to Xiao, eyes ablaze. You are sick of running amok all over Liyue and even sicker of attempting to negotiate for a fair price with this fellow. Perhaps you’d be fine with this otherwise, but really? On the one day Xiao accompanies you to the harbour?
“Xiao, it’s fine,” you quietly grumble, pulling him aside. “We already bought the chocolates– and besides, do you want to know why this guy’s the last to close? Because no one buys from him! The second he thinks–”
Xiao puts a hand on your arm, eyes wide in alarm. “I think– it is alright. I can more than afford it.”
“Exactly!” the vendor barks, overhearing. “Being stingy on Valentine’s–”
You whirl. “Being an ass on Valentine’s–”
“Dear Custo–”
“Stop.”
Xiao’s voice is soft, and yet it somehow rings through the air, stilling it. Shopping bags in one arm or no– he somehow looks so austere, narrowed eyes and lifted chin, eyes somehow catching every flicker of the lamplight– that the both of you quail immediately, wilting somehow more than the flowers themselves.
As soon as you do, Xiao turns to you with a quickly murmured apology, and you shake your head with a smile. You’ll cause a thousand more scenes if that’s what it takes to have another peek at General Alatus.
(Heavens, what you wouldn’t give to– no. No.)
There’s a pause as the shopkeeper silently wraps the posies and sets them begrudgingly in your arms. He frigidly tells Xiao– that’ll be twenty thousand. Xiao gives him thirty, and you bite your tongue.
You hold your peace in embarrassed silence until you’ve passed through the harbour. Xiao makes you wait at the bridge, telling you he’ll return soon in his quiet voice. He strolls quickly off, in a gait that would be almost comically quick were it not accompanied by his gravitas– you cannot laugh at Shenhe, and you cannot laugh at Xiao.
Deciding to take advantage of the solitude, you step onto the bridge, determined to cool off. The encounter with the vendor was bitter, just as it is month after month, year after year– but, you remind yourself, the reason for its occurrence at all is decidedly sweet. It has you smiling to yourself as you set the bag of sweets by your feet and lean against the railing to peer down at the water below.
You expect a dull sight– with Lantern Rite having passed, most of the bright lights and lively decor have been carefully put away for another year. From where you stand, there is little the water can reflect in the dark– the shifting waves do not allow still images to form.
Even so… you reach out absently with a hand. The moon and stars have long since come out. Although high above in truth, they get to step off the dais of the sky via the waters’ reflection, and descend to make merry in the waves below. They throw gentle glimmers of light to you amidst their soiree, lighting up your fingers and weaving through them to drape the rest of you in a cascade of bright dapples.
A breeze whisks around, tousling the waves and your hair further. The heavens pick up the pace for their dance. From the corner of your eye, you see something flutter barely an arm’s length away and jump.
Oh– you bring a hand up to your chest with a soft laugh of relief. It gets swallowed by the waves, but from the way his eyes soften, you think Xiao heard it anyway.
“Archons, you scared me.” You smile. Noticing the bag in his arms, you continue– “no matter. Do you have everything you need? Shall we get going?”
Xiao does not answer.
Spoken language has made itself comfortable in his throat– try as he might, he cannot coax a word out, and he belatedly realises he cannot even think of a single thing to say.
Why, he wonders, have you whiled away your time with him? When you could be seated across from a lover at Liuli Pavilion in warm candlelight instead of standing out here in the cold, helping him run an errand no one might appreciate? He feels a pang of guilt for having basked in your smiles all evening, when you could have just as sunnily bestowed them on a more deserving suitor.
You are so lovely– so patient, and kind, and fierce, and beautiful. Watching you reach for the stars reflected in the water when more luminescent than anything the heavens could birth, had sent a pang through his chest– how miserable, to reach for the moon when he cannot even readily bring you what these lands have to offer.
Perhaps this outing was… a mistake.
There is only so much to be done to familiarise himself with the mortal world. He nods at you pensively and hurts again when you smile, waiting for him to fall into step next to you before walking with him. Side by side, whispers his mind.
The voices that follow are louder– There are a thousand little things to know. The mundane life his siblings had wished for him feels more out of reach the longer he tries to indulge in it.
“Hey, what are you thinking?”
He glances at you, startled out of his thoughts. Staring too long hurts. At this hour, you’re draped in the same grays the night brushes everything with. Like this, you seem made of the same silver that all of Liyue is. He tries not to think of what he told Yelan once– All of Liyue is a fine location.
“Nothing in particular.”
As the two of you step out of the harbour, you grant him another smile, and it feels like a second moon has peeked out from behind the clouds,
“You lie a lot,” you lightly say and he feels both scolded and soothed all at once. “You don’t have to answer or tell me, but I’m sure it’s not nothing.”
He’s unsure of how to respond.
You seem to sense this– you always do. “We can talk about it if you’d like.” You let it hang in the air for several moments; a promise. When he finally nods, your smile widens, and the sun comes out.
The breath is knocked out of him in both wonder and confusion when he realises– you just walked underneath a lamp, is all.
Morax, take me.
“Oh, by the way,” you continue, oblivious as he struggles to find a rhythm for his strides once more. “How will you know where to drop–” you lift up the bags momentarily– “these off?”
His eyes widen. “Hand them to me.” When he reaches for them, you turn away and his fingers brush against your warm back. He recoils.
“Absolutely not. Anyway, the presents?”
He glares, then yields, eyes softening as he sighs. You’ll never relent– it’s best to slip out of sight of the Millelith Guards quickly so you can teleport back.
“The presents… some of the recipients reside at Qingce; the rest, at the Inn itself.”
“Oh. Should I ask Verr for the addresses of the ones at Qingce?”
“No need. I know of their residences already,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t imagine the way your eyes soften in turn.
He doesn’t quite need to imagine the curve of your lips, though. The way you futilely try to squash your smiles. He can’t help but find your failures beautiful, and opens his mouth to almost tell it to you– just a compliment paid on Valentine’s, nothing more– when you notice him about to speak and turn to him attentively. He fumbles.
“You…” he tries, then admits defeat. “Seem to have enjoyed yourself today.”
It was a bluff– but to his surprise, it strikes him as the truth the moment it leaves his lips.
“I have,” comes your cheery answer. “How did you know?”
“You have smiled an inordinate amount today,” he easily says.
If his bluff came to him as a surprise, your next words come as astonishment.
“Yes,” you say. “Since I got to spend time with you.”
The remainder of the journey is both quick and silent. Once you’ve turned around the corner and out of sight, he makes you appear near Wangshu Inn once more.
As you walk along, he sees you glance at the silk flowers lining your path and pause. You hand him one of the bags, apologetic, and he gently snatches both before you can protest, easily bringing his arm behind his back despite the weight.
You ask to hold the other bag in his hands instead, then. The purchase he made all alone. He declines. When you finally ask what’s in it, unable to deny your curiosity any longer, you are met with rejection once more.
“Whatever,” you huff, then crouch to pick the flowers that caught your eye.
He waits by the lamps as you slowly make your way over and watches the sun come out once more. Once you’re done, you fall into step with one another. Together, you make your way to the lift. When a passing stranger smiles at you, you wave back. Xiao watches the stranger’s smile widen and feels a strange sense of kinship.
The lift ascends just as you reach it. You glance at one another with frustration that neither of you really feels.
“I trust you’ll be alright the rest of the way?” He enquires as the lift descends several seconds later. You shake your head.
“Absolutely not. I’m prone to throwing myself off heights, you see.”
His heart stops. “This is no laughing matter.”
Even so, you laugh, and he can’t find it in himself to be angry when his chest now restricts uncomfortably against his stuttering, speeding heart instead.
“Sorry, sorry. Good luck on your quest!” You wave, and the lift carries you up, and Xiao is suddenly glad to be alone.
✦—————————————✦
The task is simple, and over before he knows it. He’s slipped nearly all of his recipients’ gifts in already, through open windows and ajar doors when he realises the present he bought you is yet in his arms.
His fingers tighten around the last of the sweets and flowers before he comes to his senses– to his relief, there was no real harm done. Hopefully the shock of having received something in this ridiculous fashion will serve to make this poor mortal look past his slightly squashed and bent presents.
He tries not to think of you as he delivers the rest. He fails, and realises he finds his failures less beautiful than yours.
✦—————————————✦
Wangshu Inn is a fine location, Xiao absently thinks as he reappears home, hours later. Taking his bloodied gloves off, he surveys the lands below.
The marsh sprawls beautifully around, reflecting the skies with far more clarity than the seas. It is made still more beautiful by the lack of any monsters in the vicinity. He’s suddenly saddened when he realises mortal sight disallows them from seeing what he can– stars in the air and stars on the ground, as though heaven and earth were one, interchangeable. From this height, he doesn’t need to spread his wings again to feel as though he were flying.
To a mortal, however, it is only a beautiful marsh.
What a pity. He should describe it to you sometime. If he trusted his fingers, he would perhaps try to paint it… but. He shakes his head. He mustn’t waste his time on such frivolities.
Guilt prods at him, for returning so late. Xiao tells it– it was for the best. With him gone, you can spend your time in mortal company with a good meal, and have some well deserved rest.
Even so, his feet make him step toward the doorway. Enter it, walk down the stairs. He struggles to find an excuse for it– should he tell Goldet he’s simply here to inform her of his return? No, he’s never really bothered to before. Perhaps he’ll ask if there’s any almond tofu left for him. As he absently turns sideways to allow a pair of women to carry a table upstairs, he muses– yes, that would make for a good excuse.
Another woman apologetically asks him to move to the side again, as a couple of men heft two chairs up to the uppermost balcony. He’s about to tell them to use the other stairway when he notices the pair of women hurrying up it with trays of food in their hands.
Finally perceiving his surroundings and encounters, he turns about in confusion, only to find that he’s reached the lower floor already, and that the staff have already raced off ahead to set a table of two in his balcony.
“What–?”
“Xiao!”
He turns in time to see Goldet give him a relieved nod.
“Ah, you’ve finally returned.” She puts a hand to her chest. The cat, (her cat?) Wei leaps off her desk and coils round his legs, then trots toward Huai’an as he sees the man coming.
“Xiao!” Huai’an looks equally relieved, and dread coils round his feet where Wei had a moment ago. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived– our guest insisted on waiting for your return before they ate. I shall send them upstairs immediately–”
“What?” Xiao exclaims, as Wei meows insistently. Huai’an nudges him aside with a foot, grimacing at the heat in Xiao’s voice. “Whatever do you mean?”
“They said they wanted to wait for you,” Verr explains. “Do not worry, they would have dined soon had you not come. Shall we send someone to fetch them?”
Xiao clicks a tongue as the cat flops over his feet. He gently steps back, and Wei swats angrily at his shoes. “No need,” he huffs. You deserve to be scolded within an inch of your life, and that is one thing he trusts himself to deliver. “I shall go myself.”
For all his fondness, he miserably thinks, he is determined to berate you and make you dine alone. Or perhaps he should sit right across you as you eat– he cannot decide what would be more punishing.
If only he hadn’t foolishly wallowed in his anxiety, and if only his anxiety were not birthed by his affection. He shudders at the word and runs a hand through his hair. He could have been here hours earlier, and you would already be in bed.
He raps on your door just as a table in the distance erupts into laughter so loud it swallows the sound of his hummingbird-heart. Beyond the door, all movement comes to a halt as you hear him. Then there’s the hurried sound of rustling cloth, an opening latch, and the door swings open to reveal you tugging on a jacket.
You begin scolding before he can.
“What took you so long?” You demand. Before he can answer, your eyes drop from his face to his shoulders, then his hands. They soften when they see the muck on his shoes. “Oh.”
His lips part, then shut again. You frown.
“No, no,” you soothe. “Say it. Did something happen?”
Xiao shakes his head. Although you do not speak, your voice rings in his ears– you lie a lot.
And lie he does. “I saw some monsters on the way.” He doesn’t face you as he says it, instead turning to the present in his hands. He places it absently on a sideboard inside, by the door. He’s prepared to embarrassedly dodge your curiosity about its contents, but it’s him your mind seems occupied with.
“Oh. I hope clearing them out wasn’t too difficult?”
“Mere hilichurls.” he scoffs, and you smile.
“I see. Wanna come inside and freshen up?”
He’s about to nod and take his shoes off when he remembers– oh heavens.
“No.” He crosses his arms, turned austere again, and you laugh in understanding as you push him gently out of the way to lock your door.
“Ah, so someone snitched.” You glance at him over your shoulder, fumbling with the rusty lock. He makes a mental note to remind Huai’an to have it oiled. “Who was it?”
“Wei,” comes his answer, and you shake your head.
“Liar.”
There’s a moment of peace as you step towards the stairs, before Xiao remembers he’s supposed to scold you.
“You should have eaten,” he says, with real heat in his voice, for once. “How long would you have waited had I not arrived, anyhow? And besides– why did you not call for me when you wished to dine with me? Even that aside, you should have dined the moment we returned.” You blink rapidly as his diatribe continues.
“It was late already and it is even later now. Do mortals not need sustenance at steady intervals? This is an incredibly irregular time for a meal. Swear to me to not do this henceforth.”
“Huh? No, sorry.” You shake your head, and much to his misery, he feels his anger dismantling at the very suggestion of what you’ll say next. He allows himself one moment of foolish hope– just one singular moment before it is crushed– and falls into stunned silence when it isn’t.
“I like eating with you,” you say, and nothing more. As though the reason were so simple– as though that was all there was to it.
He looks away.
Something scratches weakly at his ribs, at his throat. He swallows it firmly. He will not– cannot– give name to his emotions, not yet. He will save that for later, when he is too tired to fight and too unwilling to sleep.
But– for your sake– he’ll stay without complaint.
I like eating with you.
Yes, since I got to spend time with you.
You say something just then, and he is grateful to your voice. It is an excuse to turn away from his thoughts. How frustrating– if he were to forcibly turn away from them, it would mean they were significant enough to force away to begin with. And ruminating over them… means ruminating over you.
This accursed day. He sighs just as you’re midway through your sentence and turns warm with embarrassment.
“My ap–”
“It’s okay.” You tip your head, amused. He wishes he were skilled enough to paint your smiles, then wills the thought away. “But anyway, I just wanted to ask if you needed some time to freshen up? I can eat alone, since you won’t let me wait any longer. And– wait, oh.” You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with horror. Unbidden, he thinks– adorable. He is charmed instantly by the sight, and so his voice is impossibly soft when he speaks.
“Yes?”
Your face contorts ever so slightly, in a way he doesn’t think he’s seen before. Embarrassment? Shyness? He regrettably has no more time to puzzle over it– you make it vanish in a way that denotes practice.
“I’m sorry,” you say, sounding so sincerely repentant he wonders who died, or who has to. He cannot take a mortal life– but Yelan could.
“Why?” He frowns.
“I didn’t even ask if you wanted to eat with me.”
Huh? The word is right on the tip of his tongue, ready to jump– ridiculous– when he swallows it. He may think your consideration a bit foolish, he knows, but the reason is that he is always looking for excuses to linger longer around you anyway. How could he not want to eat with you?
You, on the other hand, jump to defend him from himself. Just as he knew you would.
“Hey, come on!” You protest. “It’s not silly to ask when you’re free! It’s uncouth to call you whenever, you know.”
He wishes he were better at concealing his laughter from you.
He finds it childish, perhaps a little ugly– with its little huffs and wheezes, it sounds more like a series of rasps than a laugh. He simply cannot help it, because he knows why you hesitate, and perhaps it makes his amusement still more childish.
Imagine I call you away while you’re in the middle of something, you’d said the first time he told you his name was yours to call. ‘Anytime?’ ‘Anywhere?’ Seriously? What if you’re on the toilet, or asleep, or on a date. You’re in someone’s arms and all of a sudden you– whatever. Or you need to clean up but I need an impromptu dance partner so I call you and you show up all muddy and covered in blood, and all my friends go–
“What?” You say, now chuckling too as he places a hand on the railing, shutting his eyes. His throat hurts. “Why are you–” you burst into laughter as you say it, and for a fierce, burning moment, he wants to tug you closer and kiss you. Taste your mirth on his lips, right here where everyone can see.
“Why are you laughing?” You ask, curved lips and light breaths. He stills himself for reasons he doesn’t understand, but finds that the last remnants of his joy refuse to be wiped off, smudging across his lips. You look at him intently, as though committing the sight to memory. As though it is something worth remembering with care.
“It’s nothing.” He shakes his head and begins his ascent up the stairs once more. Your arm brushes his and he imagines for a moment, what it would look like if you linked them the way he’s seen couples do across millennia.
You don’t push it. “Okay,” you sigh. “Would you at least tell me what you left in my room back there?”
His steps come to a halt.
“A gift,” he says, deliberately vague. “I… selected something I thought you might prefer.”
“Oh?” Your eyes sparkle. He hopes they’ll sparkle the same once you unwrap it. “What did you get?”
“I cannot say.”
“Huh? Why?”
“I…” he hedges, “am told surprises make for better presents?”
“What?” You huff. “Who told you that?”
“Paimon.” His answer is prompt. You shake your head and gesture for him to go on ahead. He waits instead for you to fall into step with him once more. Privately, he decides– walking side by side is much pleasanter than storming on ahead, or lurking behind.
Reaching the balcony reveals quite the feast– Yanxiao has outdone himself, and Xiao is torn between guilt at him having prepared this all for him, and gratefulness for having prepared this all for you. He takes a seat before he remembers something about tugging out a chair for you, but dismisses the thought. How puerile. Surely you’d only take offence at him insinuating you couldn’t take a seat on your own.
“Well,” you say, petulance morphing quickly into delight at the sight of the feast before you, “Paimon isn’t all wrong. And, besides.” You beam, and he prepares his heart for the nonsense you’ll spout next. “With how caring you are, it’s probably something I’ll love.” His chest hurts, but you spout still more sweet nonsense– “and anyway, if it’s a gift from you? I’ll cherish it to the utmost.”
How, he wonders, quietly nodding and serving himself some fish, does one respond to that?
Thankfully, you seem to need no answer. You cheerily serve yourself a bit of everything– Yanxiao took both your tastes into consideration, after all– and chatter on about your day, about recent events, about the annoying mosquitoes that keep you up at night. He answers when you ask questions, and talks on without meeting your gaze when the subjects meander. In his periphery, he sees you look on keenly when he does.
Dessert comes too soon.
Xiao feels sincere dismay when someone comes up to clear the table and set dessert before you both– two bowls of almond tofu, comforting and familiar, with a small pot of honey on the side in case you need it. He worries for a moment that you’d prefer something different, but is relieved to see your eyes widen in delight.
“A sweet ending to an even sweeter day,” you say, once you’ve thanked the staff. “Ah, forget I said that,” you continue with a laugh. “That was corny. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
Xiao starts to smile, then realises he’s doing so already. He bites back his startlement. “Alright.”
You eat in pleasant silence. When he reaches for the pot of honey, you swat his hand away and drizzle it over the dessert yourself.
“I’m glad we’re ending this with almond tofu,” you say, finishing the last of it just as he does. His smile turns smaller at ending. “Yanxiao kind of made the flan earlier mostly because I asked… sorry. I hope you didn’t mind too much.”
“Of course not,” comes his insistent answer. “It was a pleasant change.”
“Ah, good.” Your shoulders relax and the incessant smile turns just a bit brighter. “I thought it might’ve been too sweet.”
He stands, and holds out a hand to you. His fingers warm when they hold yours, the coolness dispelled by your touch.
“I’ve contended with many a sweeter thing today,” he murmurs. He regrets it as soon as he says it– he needs a firmer hold on that tongue of his. Foolish, inconsiderate, selfish. To think he could stoop low enough– to nearly invite a mortal into his affairs.
He shakes his head firmly and is about to bid you a firm good night when you gently squeeze his hand. The words die on his tongue.
“Isn’t that funny?” You say, softly. There’s cheek there, and joy– and something tender that he refuses to place.
amidst an apocalyptic world where the sun burns humans alive and entities called "visitors" knock on doors during nighttime, not even those closest to you can be trusted.
✩ CONTENT : short fics of them in the "no i'm not a human" au ; established relationship ; character death(s) ; gn reader ; probably part 1/? ; cliffhanger :3 (who knows if they're visitors or not...)
✩ NOTES : HELLO TO MY NINAH PILLED PEOPLE !!! (probably like 3 of you/j) there is honestly WAY too many things to note so i'll make a separate author's note post for that! for now, just know this is a little eerie + sorrowful, and it contains non-explicit death scenes (usage of gun) so please beware of that if you're sensitive !! that is all nod nod, enjoyy <3
with his work, blade is away from home most of the time.
so obviously, it would come as a surprise when he is back on the front porch of your semi shared house, eyes looking up at the peephole.
all while an apocalypse is happening.
"[name]? are you there?"
the other side of the door stands you, slightly sniffling due to the irony of the situation — under any other circumstance, you would be delighted to have him in your arms once more.
yet now, you are not even certain if this is still the man you love. or if he has transformed into a ravenous beast that has little sanity to hold onto and only hunger to blind him.
"[name]?"
you snap away from the horrifying thoughts, trembling voice uttering a short "i'm here" in response.
"listen", blade starts, palm reaching just above the knob before he pauses, "it's no longer safe here. you must come with me."
where else is safe?
"but…"
the silence becomes deafening as your lover realizes something.
you have your suspicions — of course you do. this is mankind's new way to stay alive for those whom, despite not being used to it yet, are trying desperately to survive in it.
he freezes, a tight knot forming around his throat which the hunter tries to swallow down. even you have turned to fear him, thinking of him as a monster.
a sigh louder than the crickets outside, he merely knows to reason with you. never about his shelter, rather for your safety.
"you may do those tests on me. i just need to make sure you're alright."
a sentence. out of character enough for him to be shot dead if it were anyone else occupying the home.
you are not "anyone else" though. not to blade.
because of you, he still finds the will to live in this wretched earth, still scouring his way through the city crawling with visitors to arrive at a once warm home that death has taken her liking to.
with each pounding heartbeat causing a sense of dizziness, your breath gets more uneven. it really is difficult to ever imagine: this is real life.
taking the huffs as you demanding him to test, blade checks for any dirt stuck in his fingernails. after ensuring so, he widens his eyes and bares his teeth — both the same as you remember them.
but the problem doesn't lie in the possibility of him infected with deliration.
there is an equally dangerous third party claiming to help survivors… yet are not much different from the beasts themselves.
fema, the government agency experimenting on people. most guests in your home were taken because of their cruel actions, never to be seen again.
who can say he is not one of them? though a horrible idea to your brain, humanity would extend that far.
"let me in, won't you?"
you squint at his change of tone. despite instinct screaming to not follow whatever he says, your palm is already on the door handle.
one swift turn.
the gentlest smile of relief along with a nod. something you cover up as "maybe he has improved his communication skills, especially at hospitality."
blade scurries you to bed like he always does, planning to save all those tests for next day when the scorching sun continues to burn bright through the windows.
albeit… whether you actually will be there for it — whether you will be in his embrace, death's one or both, is for a you of the flaming tomorrow to find out.
you can not help it.
the signs are one too clear: his palm does not feel right in yours, like he dug up from underground to crawl his way here; his teeth that once held the most hearty smile he tried to hide now too… perfect to be true; fungus grows on his underarms as if he is made of dead soil, wearing another person's skin to escape the blazing sun; his voicebox sounds stolen. masked, you were well fooled.
you spot it all.
"so death has come for me… and by your hands?" your fingers sweat against the trigger, eyes locked on the target in front. which unfortunately, is your blade out of everyone else.
he would be relieved for HER to come take him away, yet his eyes twitch with vulnerability. a slow acceptance that you are standing across and not in his arms.
you do not trust him anymore.
"[name], proceed cautiously. do not make a choice you will regret."
…even when facing death, he still worries over you first. the fact alone loosens your grip a bit, maybe stop this act of "self defense" in its entirety. a bullet is not worth aiming at your lover, right?
you cannot shake off how his final sentence seems pitiful, like growling at the floor for mercy. a soul conflicting between humanity and monstrosity. a battle the latter is winning.
this will be a guilt for you to bear only.
you pull the trigger.
this is brought upon by yourself.
a loud thud.
this man has fallen because of you.
dropping the gun, three words barely formed in audible tone.
"i'm sorry, dear."
───── SUNDAY : the immortal man of ending five.
golden eyes. feathered wings.
anyone human would think he is a savior to this falling world, a prophet sent from heavens above to sew happier ends through divine guidance. those who are not and instead choose to follow death's path would believe he is a threat, an active roadblock against their idea of a peaceful rest.
you wanted to reside with the theory, engrave it in your mind that if you are in danger, sunday could find a way.
because he is an angel, is he not?
so why is he at your doorstep, mumbling about sweet dreams?
"[name]… we are all in need of a sweet dream, especially during such times like these. allow me back into the warmth of our home."
you wonder if the cult peons who recently visited would be delighted to see "a supposed saint" act this way — anything but what remaining survivors hope for.
noting your speechlessness as refusing his request, sunday's eyebrows visibly knit together, which doesn't help the hesitance buried deep inside your heart.
"[name]." quite harsh, then quickly covered up by a desperate "please" to not scare you away. to make you recognize him. mentally nod to yourself how he has yet to be tainted by the horrors from underground.
mentally hope, more like.
still, having sunday here would really ease your mind, whether it is spiritually or for the theories he surely has drawn out about this calamity.
not to mention… he is your lover. your fates are intertwined. you are standing on the floorboard of your shared house. it would be diabolical if you decide to abandon him in the burning daylight and shivering nighttime.
unless he is one of them. even so, your heart would shatter into pieces not guaranteed to be repairable.
"show me your hands." trying to keep a firm voice toward the halovian always fail you horribly. he complies though. good enough.
scarred, rough palms from endless document stacks as workload, yet fit so perfectly against the comfort of yours. something you both have agreed that fate has a hand in.
the sight alone evoke the most precious memories inside you.
"my dove, i merely wish to see you alright. thinking of you being alone with strangers in our home does not sit right with me. their whispers are… rather loud."
no one is standing in the hall. how can he hear them?
then again, do not underestimate the power an "angel" holds.
you look deep into the pair of eyes you love, both to spot signs and relish in their beauty. gleamingly magnificent. thankfully, no red spots, only a deep hue of fear.
is it from knowing you possibly will not let him in? or because you might catch him instead?
maybe for you have turned your back on him. soft gaze now a calculated glare, head speculating multiple reasons on why he might be one of them. a monster whose heart no longer has love for life, let alone you.
although everything seems wrong about him, your instincts screaming at him to get lost… is it not way too cruel to shut your door on the man whom has loved you for what feels like forever?
your throat closes before it could proceed any further, hand already on the door knob.
"thank you, dear."
it appears no one else is coming tonight.
sunday strides quietly down the hallway, careful not to alert other guests. he waits at the end for you, offering a hand as invitation to go into that sweet dream together.
a solitary aura soon dreads the house to a point where it becomes hard to breathe. many prophets and cult leaders have stood before the peephole to inform you of your strayed path.
your "angel" himself has also been acting worse for wear. words sweet yet scripted, gaze lovely yet dead, hands familiar yet rough.
you have to do what you have to do. THEY have told you.
"…do you wish to see the worshippers of death rejoice, my love?"
perhaps in another life, you would not have to worry about constant survival. so much so that you are willing to aim a gun at him, that you are willing to throw away everything you had as a couple just from a few measly signs the news announced.
you do sound insanely like a hypocrite now, do you?
no matter. you are already this far down the road. sunday being here have done more harm than good to the people around you.
finger on the trigger.
or you could still stop, have it all in your control again.
target an area that deals the least amount of pain.
"stay safe then, [name]."
yet enough to deliver him to the gates of death, where SHE welcomes him.
"i shall be in the sweet dream."
calm yourself.
"…awaiting you."
there it is. the loud bang.
the world freezes.
what have you done?
he was so composed during his final words. has he been expecting this? has he been waiting for you to deliver eternal rest ever since he stepped foot into the house?
…no matter.
because tonight, you will have to greet the people who were waiting. they can congratulate you, praise you, name you as their salvation… it will never be enough to sink the guilt in your heart.
───── FLINS : the fairytale enjoyer of ending four.
being a lightkeeper means to banish evil, to guide those who are lost back onto their path — that is the meaning you have painted based off of flins.
so why is the man himself acting nothing like it at your doorstep?
a piece of your heart insists he is tired. with clear exhaustion on his face, not just from being constantly relied on but also worry for the fate of the world, he cannot keep up his reserved composure all the time.
your mind though, suspects something is amiss.
the number of times he has gone on extended leave, his sweet words growing more distant day by day, golden eyes suddenly bearing a coldness to them… no, he would not be unfaithful to you.
rather, his duty to protect is the one being affected instead.
looking through the peephole, you can only register flins' bright lantern held a little too close, his face illuminated by the neon purple hued flame.
"my light, i have come back."
him? or a creature making itself comfortable in his soul? even worse, an impersonator stealing his skin and behavior?
"[name]?"
maybe you are spiraling.
on instinct, you squint your eyes to avoid getting blinded, before a short hum escapes as letting him know you stand on the other side.
"there you are. it is dangerous, so i've decided to return early for the night."
your hand pauses its journey to the door knob, droplets of sweat collecting in your palm when hesitation hits.
then blurts out, "show me your eyes."
a soft, almost uncanny chuckle lets out as the man obliges. those orbs that hold so much love and gentleness for you…
or well, held.
he does nothing to hide the slightest red tint surrounding his scleras — you doubt he knows, really. plus, it should be from lack of sleep and the increase in stress.
nothing else.
yet the inspection continues, "fingernails?"
flins swiftly takes off his glove to reveal his slender digits, delicately taken care of despite being a cemetery's lone guardian.
obviously. he would not have any business digging up soil near people's graves, unless it is to free his figure, to knock on doors like what certain creatures roaming around have been doing.
you take a selfish moment to yourself, as if etching his appearance into your mind in case anything happens for the last time: ragged, anxious, burdened. the fae can hide these expressions all he wants, but you can read them oh so clearly.
one can imagine the relief flooding him upon hearing your voice again. the knowledge of you still being alive after he was away, living with certain individuals you have to accept into the isolated house.
…no use for melancholy. at least you are safe.
"i need to see you, [name]."
so do you.
that hovering fist finally finds its place on the door hinge, your skin meeting the cold material — much in contrast to flins' eyes. a quick delay of a second passes as you swing the border between you and your lover open, welcoming him back home.
his ungloved palm extends, patiently waiting for you to place yours on top. exactly how you used to.
you will be heading for the night together, free from worry of what will occur when the sun rises; of obstacles, harm.
even if the person will be flins.
who knows what will happen anyway?
perhaps this is a bad idea.
pointing a gun at someone who has been protecting you silently.
it does not seem like he would do so any longer, with inhabitants in your house slowly dissipating one by one, until clues all point to the lightkeeper.
"[name]. please. be careful."
now he is pleading. for what? who knows.
are you in the right state of mind?
would the death cult say something? would the visitors filled with bloodlust and powered by hunger to take over the world be proud? to see humanity so willingly unleashing their wrath against their loved ones?
probably.
what are you doing?
as you have made up your mind, flins has come to acceptance: you feel a need to survive, even if it means without him, causing him pain.
it is human instinct. whil he is a fae.
on the brink of death, and he still has such softness in his eyes — a pair so golden, you might get hypnotized into pulling your finger away from the trigger.
the man stands cornered in the empty room, gaze set everywhere but you.
he cannot get himself to look at his beloved this moment. the moment where everything ends by your hands.
he will miss this house. miss you, as much as a knife twists in his heart to admit that.
the whispering voices in your head stop when you get it over with.
what have you done?
your hands seem out of place. like they were never yours in the first place.
the once lively house, full of chatter falls silent.
is this your doing?
…they are all in peace now. in the same place as HER.
maybe you helped them, not yourself though.
that is good enough.
WOW i sure took my time with this <//3 anyhow !!! i'm pretty proud of it hehe ^3^ i'll make the author's note post later i am oughhh tired . but do tell me your thoughts !! other parts soon maybe ?!? 👁️ thank you for readingg ! comments/reblogs are much appreciated <3
It’s late enough that the world feels hollowed out rather than quiet, the kind of hour where sound still exists but seems distant and softened, like the city itself is running on low power while most of its people have folded themselves into sleep. From the couch, you can hear the faint rush of cars far below, tires whispering against asphalt, the occasional murmur of voices drifting up from the street, and somewhere in the distance, the brief wail of a siren that rises and falls like a warning meant for someone else. The TV screen glows in front of you, paused mid-scene, colors frozen over the darkened room, but you haven’t processed a single second of the movie in the last twenty minutes because your attention keeps snagging on the same thought, looping back over and over.
Dan Heng is late.
Not officially, not in the way that comes with a text or a heads-up, because he hadn’t given you a time to expect him home in the first place. He’d just said, in that calm, even voice of his, that he had something to take care of and would be back later, which normally wouldn’t bother you at all because you both value your space and independence, because your relationship has never been the suffocating kind, but lately “later” has started to feel less like a time frame and more like a wall you keep running into. You’ve noticed how often he’s been coming home like this—quiet, exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t seem to touch, carrying something heavy behind his eyes that he never quite puts into words.
You check the time again, even though you know it won’t have changed enough to matter.
12:47 AM.
Your phone screen goes dark in your hand, and your chest tightens with that familiar, unwelcome spiral of thoughts you try not to give in to, the ones that start with he’s probably fine and end somewhere much worse, somewhere your mind has no business going without proof. You tell yourself you’re overthinking, that he’s capable, careful, stronger than he looks, but worry doesn’t listen to logic once it’s taken root.
The soft click of the lock turning cuts through the room, quiet but unmistakable, and your entire body reacts before your mind does, your head snapping toward the door as relief and tension collide so sharply it almost makes you dizzy.
The door opens slowly, cautiously, like whoever’s coming in is trying not to disturb the air too much, and you’re already on your feet, crossing the room before you can stop yourself.
“Dan Heng?”
There’s the briefest pause before he answers, his voice steady but thinner than usual. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” you say, and you’re almost at the entryway when the hall light falls across him, illuminating him in a pale gold wash that makes every detail impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops.
His hoodie sleeve is torn near the shoulder, threads frayed like the fabric caught on something sharp and didn’t come away clean, and there’s dirt smeared along one side, darkened patches that look like he hit the ground harder than he’s willing to admit. His hair is damp, not from rain but from sweat, strands clinging slightly to his forehead, and when he shifts his weight just enough to close the door behind him, a tightness flashes across his expression before he smooths it away.
“You’re hurt,” you say, the words leaving you softer than you meant, edged with something that feels too close to fear.
“I’m fine,” he replies immediately, like he had the answer ready.
“You’re not.”
He doesn’t meet your eyes, and that’s what does it, more than the torn fabric or the dirt, because Dan Heng doesn’t avoid eye contact unless he’s thinking too hard or deliberately keeping something behind his teeth.
“It’s nothing,” he says, voice level. “I was clumsy.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Clumsy.”
“Yes.”
“You.”
“I tripped.”
The look you give him is flat enough that, for a second, the corner of his mouth twitches like he almost finds this funny, like the excuse makes sense in his head even if it falls apart the second it leaves his lips.
“Sit,” you say, already moving toward him.
“I really don’t—”
“Dan Heng,” you interrupt gently, but there’s a tremor under your voice you can’t quite hide, a please you don’t say out loud.
That’s what makes him stop, not the command but the worry underneath it, and after a small exhale, he lets you guide him to the couch without further argument. You kneel in front of him, the familiarity of the motion making your chest ache because this is becoming a pattern you never agreed to, your hands already reaching for his sleeve, careful as you push the fabric up.
The scrape along his forearm is long and shallow, skin reddened and raw where it must have dragged against rough ground, dried blood marking where it had bled earlier before clotting on its own. There’s a bruise forming near his wrist, the skin there already darkening under the surface, and you feel your jaw tighten as you take it in.
“Tripped,” you repeat quietly.
“Yes.”
“Did the ground also decide to fight back?”
“I don’t recall,” he says, and this time you hear the faint thread of humor, the attempt to make it lighter.
You don’t smile.
You grab the first-aid kit and come back, your movements efficient but gentle, and he watches you the whole time in that quiet way of his, eyes following your hands as you clean the scrape. He doesn’t flinch when the antiseptic touches it, but his shoulders tense, a subtle reaction that tells you he’s used to ignoring pain instead of acknowledging it, and something about that settles heavy in your chest.
“You could call me,” you say after a moment, your voice softer now, steadier. “If something happens.”
“I handled it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretches between you, filled with everything neither of you is saying, and you wrap the gauze carefully around his arm, fingers brushing his skin. He’s warm under your touch, too warm, like adrenaline hasn’t fully left his system yet, like part of him is still out there somewhere instead of here on the couch with you.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” you murmur, almost to yourself.
His gaze shifts then, settling on you with a look that’s hard to read, something distant flickering behind his eyes as if your words brushed against a door he keeps locked.
“I know,” he says, but it sounds practiced, like a line he’s learned rather than a truth he feels.
When you finish with his arm and move to stand, your eyes catch on his wrist, and you pause, noticing the faint red mark circling it, thin lines pressed into his skin like friction burns that don’t quite match the story he’s given you.
Your fingers hover over it. “What’s this?”
He pulls his hand back just a little too quickly. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s from the fall.”
“You fell with your wrists out?”
He doesn’t answer, and the silence says more than words would.
You want to push, to ask the questions stacking up in your chest, to demand something real and solid that you can hold onto, but when you look at him, you see how tired he is in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, and the fight drains out of you before it can start.
“Okay,” you say quietly instead.
Relief flickers across his face so fast you almost miss it, and you hate that there are parts of his life he feels like he has to keep out of reach, but you help him out of the hoodie anyway, your heart sinking at the faint bruising along his side beneath his shirt. He notices you see it and says it looks worse than it is, which is not comforting in the slightest, and you tell him so, and he actually concedes that he might not be the best judge of his own pain.
When you finally sit beside him, your shoulders touching, the room settles into a softer quiet, the city humming outside like a distant heartbeat. After a while, he tilts his head just enough that it rests against yours, a small, wordless gesture that feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to voice, and you lean into him carefully, mindful of every place you’ve just patched up.
“I worry,” you admit into the dim space between you.
“I know.”
“You’re not invincible.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like you are.”
A breath leaves him that’s almost a laugh, quiet and tired. “I’ll try.”
It isn’t a promise, but it’s what he can give, and you accept it because you love him, because love sometimes means holding what’s offered even when you know it isn’t the whole truth.
Your gaze drifts eventually toward the door, toward his bag resting half-zipped on the floor, and you notice something metallic glinting faintly from inside, something unfamiliar that doesn’t belong to the life you know he leads. Your eyes linger on it, then slide back to him, to the steady rise and fall of his breathing, to the warmth of his hand when you reach for it.
He laces his fingers with yours instantly, like he was waiting for you to, and you sit there in the low light, holding onto the person you love while the uneasy feeling grows quietly in your chest, the sense that there’s a whole other world brushing up against your life—close enough to leave marks, but still just out of sight.
.
.
.
You don’t mean to start noticing patterns, but once your brain learns the shape of something, it refuses to unsee it.
At first, it’s small enough to brush off, the kind of thing that could still fall under coincidence if you squint hard enough and don’t look too closely. Dan Heng has always been a little hard to pin down, always carried that air of quiet self-containment like there are entire oceans under the surface he never feels the need to explain, and you’ve never tried to pry those open before because loving him has always meant respecting the spaces he doesn’t offer freely. Still, over the next few days, your mind keeps circling back to the same details, turning them over like stones in your palm, feeling the weight of them grow heavier each time.
It starts with a date that never quite happens.
You’re sitting across from each other at a small noodle shop you both like, the kind of place that stays open late and smells permanently of broth and fried garlic, warm and comforting in a way that makes it easy to relax. He looks more like himself tonight, posture straighter, bruises hidden beneath long sleeves, the faint scrape on his jaw nearly faded, and for a little while it feels normal again, like the worry you’ve been carrying might finally loosen its grip.
You’re in the middle of telling him about something dumb that happened earlier that day, something that had annoyed you at the time but now feels funny enough to share, and he’s listening in that focused, quiet way of his, eyes on you like you’re the only moving thing in the room.
Then his phone buzzes.
It’s subtle, just a small vibration against the table, but you see the shift immediately, the way his shoulders stiffen before he even looks down, the way his attention fractures in an instant. He checks the screen, and for a split second, something sharp crosses his face—not fear, not exactly, but alertness, like a switch flipping somewhere deep inside him.
“I have to go,” he says, already reaching for his jacket.
You blink. “Right now?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He hesitates, just long enough for it to feel strange. “Something came up.”
You stare at him, waiting for more, for any detail that makes the sentence feel less hollow, but that’s all he gives you. Something came up. Like that explains the way he’s already half out of his seat, like that justifies the untouched food cooling between you.
“Okay,” you say finally, because you don’t want to be the kind of person who makes him feel trapped, who demands explanations he clearly doesn’t want to give. “Be careful.”
His eyes flick back to you then, and something softens, guilt maybe, or gratitude, and he reaches out, brushing his fingers against your wrist in a fleeting touch that feels more like an apology than his words ever do.
“I will,” he says, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night like he was never fully here to begin with.
You sit there for a long moment after he leaves, staring at the door, the sounds of the restaurant rushing back in around you like a wave receding and crashing again. You tell yourself not to read into it, that emergencies happen, that life is messy and unpredictable, but when you leave the shop and start the walk home alone, the air feels colder than it did before.
That night, as you change into pajamas and sink into your bed with your phone in hand, you make the mistake of opening the news app.
You don’t even know why you do, maybe out of habit, maybe out of that restless need to fill the quiet, but the headline catches your eye instantly.
Spider-Man Stops Armed Robbery Downtown.
Your stomach twists.
The time stamp matches almost perfectly with when he left the restaurant.
You stare at the article longer than you mean to, reading through the details you barely absorb, your brain snagging on the description of the scene, the chaos, the narrow escape, and the masked figure swinging away before authorities could question him.
You toss the phone onto the bed like it burned you.
It’s just a coincidence, you tell yourself, even as your heart refuses to settle. This city is huge. Things happen all the time. Dan Heng has his own life, his own responsibilities, things he doesn’t talk about, and that doesn’t automatically make him a secret vigilante.
Still, the thought lingers, quiet and persistent.
A few days later, you’re walking together through a crowded street market, shoulder to shoulder as people flow around you in a constant stream of noise and color, vendors calling out deals, music drifting from somewhere you can’t pinpoint. You’re in the middle of pointing out a stall with handmade jewelry when someone bumps into you from the side, hard enough that you stumble.
You don’t even have time to react before Dan Heng’s hand is on your waist, steadying you, pulling you back upright with reflexes so fast it almost makes your head spin.
“Careful,” he murmurs, already positioning himself slightly in front of you, his body angled in a way that shields you from the press of the crowd without looking obvious about it.
You look up at him, something twisting low in your chest.
“You moved fast,” you say lightly, trying to make it a joke.
He blinks, like he didn’t realize he’d done anything unusual. “You were going to fall.”
“Yeah, but most people don’t have superhero reflexes.”
You laugh a little when you say it, expecting him to brush it off.
Instead, he stills.
It’s brief, just a fraction of a second where his expression goes carefully blank, like a curtain dropping over a window, but you see it.
Then he looks away. “I just pay attention.”
You don’t push, but the moment lodges itself somewhere deep, settling beside all the others you’ve been collecting without meaning to.
The more you watch, the more you see it—the way he always chooses seats with a clear view of exits, the way his gaze tracks movement automatically, the way loud, sudden noises don’t make him jump so much as turn sharply toward the source. It’s not paranoia. It’s readiness.
And then there’s the news.
You don’t mean to start keeping track, but you do, your brain making connections before you can stop it. Every time there’s a report about Spider-Man intervening somewhere in the city, you think back to your day, to where Dan Heng was, to whether he’d been oddly quiet, or distant, or suddenly unavailable.
The overlap happens too often to ignore.
One evening, you’re both sprawled on the couch, his arm resting along the back behind you while you scroll aimlessly on your phone, half-listening to the TV. A breaking news banner slides across the bottom of the screen, showing shaky footage of red and blue blurring across rooftops.
“Spider-Man spotted near the financial district—”
You don’t even think before you glance at him.
He’s already looking at you.
For a second, neither of you speak.
You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth as you say, “What, are you secretly a superhero or something?”
You expect an eye roll, maybe a dry comment about your imagination.
Instead, he goes still.
Not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice, but you know him well enough to see the shift, the way his breathing pauses just slightly before he forces it back into rhythm.
“…No,” he says.
It’s the hesitation before the word that gets you.
You hold his gaze a second longer, then let it go with a soft huff of laughter, like you didn’t just feel something click into place inside your head.
“Shame,” you say. “Would explain a lot.”
He doesn’t answer.
Later that night, after he falls asleep beside you, you lie awake staring at the ceiling, your thoughts moving in slow, restless circles. You think about the injuries, the late nights, the reflexes, the way he’s always right where trouble happens and nowhere to be found when it’s over.
You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like he’s memorizing you, like he’s afraid of something he won’t name.
Your chest aches with it.
You don’t want to believe he’s lying to you, not really, but there’s a difference between lying and protecting, and you’re starting to realize he might think they’re the same thing.
You turn your head, watching him sleep in the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains, his face relaxed in a way it never is when he’s awake, and you reach out, brushing your fingers lightly against his hand.
He curls his fingers around yours instinctively, even in his sleep.
And you lie there in the dark, holding onto him, wondering how long you can pretend not to see the mask he never takes off around you, even when his face is bare.
.
.
.
It’s raining, the kind of rain that doesn’t fall so much as exist, thick in the air, soaking through fabric slowly and thoroughly until everything smells like wet pavement and metal and the faint electric tang of a storm that never quite breaks. The rooftop is slick beneath your shoes, the concrete reflecting the city lights in blurred streaks of gold and red, and you wonder briefly if coming up here was a bad idea, if maybe the slippery ground is a little too on-the-nose for how unsteady things have felt lately.
You wrap your arms around yourself, not because you’re cold, but because it gives your hands somewhere to be, something to hold onto that isn’t the tight knot forming in your chest.
He was supposed to meet you an hour ago.
You hadn’t made it a big thing, just a quiet plan to watch the skyline from the roof like you’ve done before, to share takeout and sit shoulder to shoulder while the city moved beneath you like a living thing, but as the minutes stretched and your texts went unanswered, that familiar hollow feeling started creeping back in. You almost left. You almost told yourself you were being dramatic, that he probably got caught up in something, that he’d explain later in that soft, distant voice that always makes it hard to stay upset.
But you stayed.
You’re still not sure if that was stubbornness or hope.
The door to the stairwell creaks open behind you, the sound nearly swallowed by the rain, and your heart jumps so hard it almost hurts. You turn, and there he is, framed in the dim yellow light from inside, his silhouette unmistakable even before he steps out fully into the night.
He’s breathing a little heavier than usual.
His hair is damp again.
Your stomach twists.
“Sorry,” he says, like always, like that one word can stretch wide enough to cover the distance that’s been growing between you.
You nod, but the motion feels stiff. “You’re late.”
“I know.”
The rain beads along his jacket, darkening the fabric, and for a moment you just stand there looking at each other across a few feet of rooftop, the space between you feeling wider than it should.
You don’t greet him with a hug this time.
You don’t move closer.
Something flickers in his expression when he notices.
“You’re upset,” he says quietly.
You huff out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, except there’s no humor in it. “You think?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“I know you did.” You look out over the city instead of at him, watching headlights smear along the streets below. “You always are.”
Silence stretches, filled with the steady hiss of rain against concrete.
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say finally, your voice softer now, but more fragile for it. “I don’t need you to show up every second I ask. I just… I need you to be honest, Dan Heng.”
The words hang there between you, heavier than you meant them to be.
When you glance back at him, he’s watching you like you’ve just stepped onto the edge of something high, like one wrong move could send everything tipping.
“I’m not lying,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly. “Not telling the truth and lying aren’t that different.”
That lands.
You see it in the way his shoulders go tight, the way his gaze drops to the rain-slick ground between you. For a moment, he looks younger somehow, less composed, like the careful balance he keeps inside himself is starting to slip.
“If I told you something,” he starts, then stops.
Your heart stutters.
“What?” you ask gently.
He swallows, and when he looks up again, there’s something raw in his eyes that makes your chest ache. “If I told you something that could put you in danger just by knowing it… would you still want to hear it?”
Your breath catches.
“Yes,” you say immediately, because the idea of being shut out hurts more than any risk ever could. “I don’t want to be protected from your life. I want to be part of it.”
The rain seems louder suddenly, like the world is holding its breath with you.
He steps closer then, slow, hesitant, like he’s approaching something fragile. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, the pull between instinct and trust, between fear and the desperate need to stop carrying everything alone.
“I—” His voice falters. He tries again. “There are things I do… that aren’t safe. People I can’t always avoid. Situations that—”
He breaks off, jaw tightening.
You wait.
You don’t interrupt.
You don’t fill the silence.
You just stand there in the rain, letting him have the space to cross whatever line he’s been standing behind.
His hand lifts slightly, like he’s about to reach for you, then curls into a fist instead.
“I can’t lose you,” he says instead, the words quiet but fierce in a way that startles you. “That’s the only part of this that matters.”
Something inside you cracks.
“You won’t,” you whisper, stepping closer now despite yourself, closing the distance he couldn’t. “But you might lose me anyway if you keep shutting me out.”
That hits harder than you mean it to, and regret flickers through you, but it’s too late to pull it back.
For a second, you think he might retreat, might fold back into himself the way he always does when something gets too close, but instead he reaches for you, both hands coming up to your arms, gripping just tight enough to ground himself.
“I’m trying,” he says, and there’s no defense in it, no excuse, just a simple, strained truth. “You think I don’t want to tell you? You think I don’t hate this?”
“Then why—”
“Because knowing makes you a target,” he cuts in, voice low. “Because if someone wanted to hurt me, they’d go through you. Because I can handle things aimed at me, but I—” His voice breaks off, breath hitching just slightly. “I don’t know if I could handle that.”
The pieces slide together in your mind, not fully, not cleanly, but enough that the outline is unmistakable.
Danger.
Enemies.
A life he fights in.
Your hands come up to his wrists, gentle but firm. “You don’t get to decide what risks I’m allowed to take,” you say softly. “Loving you is already a choice.”
The rain runs down both of you, soaking through layers, plastering fabric to skin, but neither of you moves.
For a moment, you think he’s going to say it, that the words are right there on his tongue, ready to fall, that this is the point where the wall finally comes down.
Instead, he pulls you into him.
It’s sudden, tight, almost desperate, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough. Your face presses against his chest, and you can feel how fast his heart is beating, how uneven his breathing has gone.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, and this time it doesn’t sound like an easy reflex. It sounds like a confession of a different kind. “I just… need a little more time.”
Your arms slide around his back, holding him just as tightly, even though a part of you aches with the understanding that you were so close, that the truth brushed your fingertips and slipped away again.
“Okay,” you whisper, because you love him, because you see how scared he is, even if you don’t fully understand of what.
But as you stand there on the rooftop, rain washing over both of you, city lights blurring below, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever he’s holding back isn’t just a secret.
It’s a whole other life.
And you’re still standing at the door, waiting to be let in.
.
.
.
The day doesn’t feel important while you’re living it, which is almost insulting in hindsight, because if you had known how sharply the night would split your life into before and after, you might have paid more attention to the small things, the ordinary details that felt so harmless at the time. You would have noticed the way the sky stayed an uneasy shade of gray long after the sun had technically set, the air heavy and unmoving like the city itself was holding its breath, the strange restlessness humming under your skin that you kept brushing off as nothing more than leftover thoughts from your last conversation with Dan Heng. He’d texted earlier, short and simple, saying he’d be busy again, and you’d told yourself you were getting used to that hollow feeling, that you could handle it, that loving someone like him meant learning how to sit with uncertainty without letting it swallow you whole.
So you go out.
Nothing reckless, nothing dramatic, just a late trip to pick up something you needed, headphones in, music low enough that you can still hear the world around you, the sidewalks busy with the after-work crowd thinning into people heading home. The city feels normal, alive in that familiar, layered way, conversations overlapping, traffic lights blinking from red to green in endless cycles, the distant thrum of life continuing without pause.
You’re halfway down the block when the first shout cuts through the air.
It’s not the playful kind, not laughter, but sharp and startled, the sound of something going wrong faster than anyone expected. Your music fades into the background as your attention snaps up, and ahead of you, people are already turning, some freezing, others moving instinctively away from something you can’t quite see yet.
Then there’s a crash.
Metal against concrete, loud enough to rattle through your bones, and suddenly the neat lines of the street fracture into chaos as a vehicle—driverless, rolling at the wrong angle—skids sideways into a row of barriers with a grinding screech that makes your ears ring. People scatter, voices rising, feet pounding against pavement as instinct overrides curiosity.
Your heart jumps into your throat.
You step back automatically, trying to put distance between yourself and the noise, but the crowd moves unpredictably, bodies jostling, someone slamming into your shoulder hard enough that you stumble off balance. You catch yourself on a street sign pole, pulse hammering, breath coming faster now as the situation unravels too quickly to process.
Another impact echoes from somewhere you can’t see, followed by a shower of sparks and the sharp crack of something structural giving way.
“Move! Move!”
The shout comes from your left, urgent and panicked, and suddenly the flow of people shifts direction all at once, a wave of bodies surging down the sidewalk. You try to move with them, but your foot catches on uneven pavement, and before you can recover, something slams into the building beside you hard enough to shake the ground.
A section of metal scaffolding shudders overhead.
You look up at the worst possible moment.
The supports groan, bolts snapping loose with small, terrible sounds that get swallowed by the larger noise of everything else, and your brain lags just enough that your body doesn’t react in time. The structure tilts, slow and inevitable, shadow falling over you as the world narrows down to the impossible weight of what’s about to happen.
You don’t even remember making a sound.
One second you’re staring up, frozen, and the next there’s an arm around your waist and the world yanks sideways so fast the street becomes a blur of light and motion. Air rushes past your ears, your stomach dropping like you’ve stepped off something high, and instinctively your hands grab onto the nearest solid thing—fabric, firm muscle beneath it—while your mind struggles to catch up.
You don’t hit the ground.
Instead, you’re pressed against something solid and upright, your back against a brick wall a second later, the impact absorbed by the person holding you rather than the pavement.
“I’ve got you,” a voice says above you, low, steady, threaded tight with urgency. “Don’t look down.”
Your breath stutters.
You know that voice.
Not just the sound of it, but the cadence, the way the words shape themselves, the subtle calm under pressure, like he’s forcing control over something wild inside him.
You look up.
The mask is the first thing you register, red and dark, lenses reflecting the fractured lights of the street, and for half a second your brain refuses to bridge the gap between what you’re seeing and what you’re feeling.
But the way he’s holding you—
Careful.
Protective.
One hand braced above your head against the wall, the other firm at your waist, like letting go isn’t even an option.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, and even through the mask, you can hear it—the edge in his voice, the strain he can’t quite hide.
You shake your head, still breathless. “I—I don’t think so.”
His grip tightens briefly, like he needs the confirmation more than you do, and then his head tilts slightly, scanning the street over your shoulder with quick, sharp movements. Somewhere behind him, something else crashes, and he flinches toward the sound automatically before forcing his attention back to you.
“You need to get inside,” he says. “Now.”
Your heart is pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else, but all you can focus on is him, on the familiarity that’s crawling up your spine in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
The way he stands between you and the street.
The way his thumb shifts slightly against your side, a grounding gesture you’ve felt a hundred times before.
The way he says your name next, quiet but firm, like he’s anchoring you to him.
That’s what does it.
Not the suit. Not the chaos. Not the impossible fact of Spider-Man being inches away.
It’s the way he says your name.
Your breath catches.
He must see something change in your expression, because he stills, just for a fraction of a second, like he realizes what he’s done.
But there’s no time.
Something heavy slams into the street at the far end, people shouting again, and he pulls you closer instinctively, turning his body to shield yours as debris skitters across the pavement.
“You’ll be okay,” he says, softer now, like the words are meant for both of you. “I promise.”
You’ve heard that promise before.
Different nights. Different injuries. Same voice.
Your fingers tighten in the fabric at his shoulder. “Dan—”
You don’t even mean to say it.
It just slips out.
His breath stops.
Even through the mask, you feel it, the way his entire body goes still, the way the world seems to narrow to just the two of you in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
Then, gently, almost reluctantly, he loosens his hold just enough to look at you properly.
You can’t see his face.
But you don’t need to.
And in that suspended, breathless moment, with the city in chaos around you and the truth standing right in front of you, the last piece falls into place—not with drama, not with shock, but with the quiet, aching certainty of something you’ve known in your bones for a long time.
You were right.
And somehow, that hurts almost as much as it relieves you.
.
.
.
The city never feels quite real after something like that. It’s as if the world is still trying to remember how to breathe, the air itself humming with leftover panic, vibrating faintly with the memory of sirens that linger long after the actual sound has faded. People gather in uneven clusters along the sidewalks, clinging to one another with trembling voices, retelling the same fragments of the incident like the repetition might help them stitch the night back together in a shape they recognize. Every laugh is shaky, too thin to be genuine, the kind that slips out only when the body is desperate to reassure itself that the threat has passed. Emergency lights wash everything in looping pulses of red and blue, turning shop windows and car doors into blinking mirrors—flash, then gone, flash, then gone—like even the darkness can’t decide what it’s supposed to look like anymore.
You stand slightly apart from the crowd, arms wrapped around yourself not for warmth but because your body doesn’t quite know what else to do with the adrenaline still coursing beneath your skin. Your heart hasn’t settled back into a normal rhythm; it stutters at every shout, every shifting shadow, every motion that enters your peripheral vision before your brain has time to reassure you it’s harmless. The night feels too loud and too quiet at the same time, stretched thin in a way that makes every passing moment feel strangely distant, like the world is happening a few seconds ahead of you.
He had left.
He always leaves the same way—quiet, purposeful, without ceremony. Not abruptly, not coldly, but with the kind of practiced certainty that comes from knowing the city will always need him more than any one person does. One moment he had been in front of you, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating through the suit, close enough that you could still smell something like smoke and rain clinging to him. The next, he was stepping back, offering you one last look—too soft, too lingering for someone with his responsibilities—before he disappeared upward into the tangle of fire escapes and rooftops, swallowed by the city he never stops running toward.
You hadn’t stopped him. You couldn’t. That’s the unwritten rule of loving someone like him—your hands stay open, even when your heart wants to close around him. But the way he kept his eyes on you before he went? That stayed with you long after he was gone.
You’re still replaying that moment, trying to steady the ache it left behind, when you hear your name.
Not through a mask this time. Not distorted by urgency or distance. Just your name, spoken breathlessly, shaped by a voice you know better than your own heartbeat—familiar, warm, threaded through with a worry so sharp it hits you straight in the chest.
You turn.
Dan Heng is pushing through the thinning crowd, weaving between people with single-minded focus. His hair is slightly damp, wind-tousled like he ran the whole way here. His jacket is thrown on unevenly, one sleeve half-twisted, as if he didn’t bother to fix it before sprinting out the door. His eyes scan until they find you, and when they finally lock onto yours, it’s like everything else—the noise, the lights, the city—blurs out around him.
He reaches you in seconds. “Are you hurt?” he asks, voice low but edged with fear he can’t quite hide.
His hands hover close to your arms, hesitant, like he’s afraid touching you too soon might reveal something badly broken. You can tell he wants to pull you into him, to check you for injuries, to make sure you’re really standing and breathing and okay—but he waits for your answer first.
“I’m okay,” you manage, though your voice sounds oddly far away, like it’s coming from someone else. “I’m fine.”
He exhales—one long, trembling breath that spills out of him like he’s been holding it since the moment he saw the news alert.
“I saw what happened,” he says softly. “I came as fast as I could.”
His words land gently, arranged with careful intent, like stepping stones laid across water so neither of you has to fall in.
You look at him—really look.
There’s a faint redness along the edge of his wrist where gloves must have been not long ago. A subtle scrape near his knuckles. His breathing hasn’t fully settled. And beneath the lingering panic in his eyes, you see the same worry that echoed in the voice that told you not to look down, the same warmth that pressed you behind him when debris started falling.
You nod. “I know.”
He hesitates, as if he expected fear from you, or confusion, or a barrage of questions he wouldn’t know how to answer. Instead, you offer him only quiet understanding.
“Let’s go home,” you say, voice low but steady. “We’ll talk there.”
Something flickers behind his eyes—relief and dread intertwining, hope and terror sharing the same breath—but he nods.
The walk back is quiet. Not tense, not heavy, but full. Like both of you are carrying words too delicate to lay out on an open street. Your shoulders brush now and then, the small touches grounding, tentative. Neither of you pulls away, but neither of you reaches for more either. There’s a fragile equilibrium between you, a charged silence that feels like the pause before a deep confession.
When you step into the apartment, closing the door behind you, the world shrinks. The familiar space feels oddly small, the air too still after the chaos outside. The hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking from somewhere near the outlet sound strangely loud, almost intrusive, as if the apartment is trying to remind you it’s safe here, even if your body hasn’t quite caught up to that truth.
Dan Heng turns toward you immediately.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asks again. His voice is softer this time, stripped of the edge fear had sharpened earlier. “You looked… shaken.”
“I was,” you admit, and the honesty settles between you like a fragile truth finally set down where it belongs.
Guilt flickers across his face, tightening his jaw. “I should’ve been there sooner.”
You meet his eyes.
There it is—the fork in the road. The version of this conversation where he pretends he was nowhere near the scene, where he offers half-truths wrapped in convenience, keeping you safely on the outside of a world he’s terrified to let you into.
He begins to speak, falling into the familiar script. “I was across the city when it happened. Traffic was—”
“Dan Heng.”
Your quiet voice cuts through the excuse instantly.
He falls silent, shoulders going still.
You step closer, not accusing, not angry, just steady. “You don’t have to protect me from the truth.”
The air shifts.
Not in a dramatic, earth-shattering way, but in that subtle, unmistakable way a locked door feels different once the key finally turns. Something opens between you—something long kept at a distance now inching closer.
His eyes search your face with a mixture of caution and fear. “What do you think the truth is?”
You don’t accuse. You don’t demand explanations.
You simply hold his gaze and say softly, “I know it was you.”
The silence that follows is profound—not empty, not tense, but full of all the unspoken things that led you both here. Late nights he came home slightly bruised. Half-answers wrapped in vague explanations. The way the masked vigilante knew your name, your voice, your fear. The way he steadied you against the wall earlier, arm braced in a protective arc that felt far too familiar.
His shoulders lower slightly, as if letting go of a weight he’s been carrying for far too long.
“I didn’t want you to find out,” he says quietly. No excuses now. No softened lies. His voice is bare in a way he rarely lets you hear.
“I know.”
He inhales, then looks away, guilt tightening the corners of his eyes. “I thought loving me meant putting you in danger. That the less you knew, the safer you’d be.”
Your chest aches, but not with fear—with tenderness.
You step closer until only inches separate you. “Loving you means standing beside you,” you say softly. “Not outside your life.”
Something inside him cracks—not dramatically, but gently, the way frost gives beneath steady warmth. He lifts one hand slightly, unconsciously touching the collar of his jacket, fingertips brushing the spot where the suit usually rests.
Then he reaches behind him.
When he straightens, the mask is in his hand.
He doesn’t offer some grand unveiling. There’s no theatrics, no attempt to soften the moment. He simply removes it—fully, openly—in front of you, like he’s placing something fragile and heavy at your feet because he can’t carry it alone anymore.
There’s no surprise in seeing the mask. You already knew.
But the trust—the act of choosing to let you see him, let you hold this part of him—that hits you so deeply your throat tightens.
Without the careful facade he puts on normally, he looks tired. Young. Human. The weight he carries is visible now, no longer hidden behind anonymity. He looks like someone who’s been scared for a long time, and only now realizes how much.
“I was scared,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
You reach up, hand brushing gently against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your palm, grounding him in a way that lets his shoulders finally loosen.
“You still are,” you say softly.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“But you don’t have to do this alone,” you tell him. “Not with me.”
He closes his eyes under your touch, drawing in a slow, steadying breath, as if allowing himself—for the first time—to exist without bracing for the next crisis.
When he opens them again, his hands rise to your waist, careful but certain, guiding you closer.
“Okay,” he whispers.
And this time, the word isn’t a retreat. It's a promise, instead.
.
.
.
The days that follow settle into a rhythm you hadn’t expected—not normal, not exactly, but something that feels like a new shape of life, one molded from honesty instead of half-truths. The city still hums with its usual chaos, sirens still cut through the night, but now the quiet moments between you and Dan Heng feel different. Lighter in some ways, heavier in others. Real.
The first time he comes home late after that night, you’re awake on the couch, a soft lamp glowing beside you. You don’t ask where he’s been. You don’t need to. His footsteps are uneven, careful, the kind that try not to disturb but can’t quite hide the exhaustion underneath. By the time he reaches the living room, you’re already sitting up.
He hesitates in the doorway, shoulders tense as if he isn’t sure how to step into the space anymore. The suit—sleek, familiar, unmistakably his—is torn along the shoulder, streaked with grime and smoke. There’s dried blood along his jawline and something like guilt in his eyes, the kind that settles there even when he says nothing.
You rise slowly. “Let me see.”
He doesn’t argue. Not like he used to. He lets you guide him closer, lets you turn his face gently so you can check the cut near his temple. It’s shallow, but ugly. His breath hitches, not from pain but from something else—something softer, something that looks dangerously close to vulnerability.
You brush your thumb lightly along the edge of the wound. “Sit,” you murmur.
He does.
And just like that, it becomes a habit.
You clean the wounds he doesn’t bother to hide away anymore. You fix the suit tears he used to patch sloppily or ignore entirely until they became liabilities. You pack extra bandages into a pouch he now clips onto his belt because you insisted.
He sits on the counter while you disinfect a cut across his ribs, wincing only when the cold antiseptic touches skin. His gaze stays on you the whole time, steady, strangely soft. He watches your hands like they’re doing something miraculous instead of something so ordinary.
“I’m supposed to be the one protecting you,” he mumbles once, voice quiet and a little hoarse.
“You are,” you reply without looking up. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t need someone to take care of you too.”
His breath stutters at that.
And then there are the nights he comes home early, when the city is calm enough that he can linger. Those nights carry a domestic sweetness that feels almost unreal. You sit cross-legged on the floor with his suit stretched across your knees, needle and thread in hand, sewing through a fresh tear. The fabric is tough, reinforced, and it takes concentration, but you don’t mind.
Dan Heng sits nearby, leaning against the wall, in his undershirt and baggy sweats, hair damp from a quick shower. His legs are stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, posture relaxed in a way he rarely allows himself. He traces the lines of the room absentmindedly, but his attention always circles back to you.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking up.
“I’m allowed,” he answers softly. There’s a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth, subtle but real. “You look focused. It’s nice.”
“You say that like I’m doing something impressive.”
“You are,” he replies immediately. “More than you realize.”
When you glance at him, he’s watching you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the breath out of you. For a moment, you think this might be what heroism looks like—not swinging between buildings or stopping disasters, but sitting in a warm room while someone threads a needle for you and makes sure you’ll be safe when you go back out there.
The domesticity scares him sometimes. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch, or how his gaze flicks toward the window whenever sirens pass faintly in the distance. He’s still learning how to let himself rest. Still learning that the world won’t fall apart in the hours he allows himself to sit beside you.
And slowly—slowly—he starts letting himself talk.
Not all at once. Not in full confessions. But in pieces.
“I thought it would be easier to disappear,” he admits one night while you patch a scrape on his arm. “Not because I wanted to. But because it felt safer if no one worried when I didn’t come home.”
You slow your movements, fingers brushing lightly against his skin. “But I do worry.”
“I know.” His voice cracks on the quiet admission. “That’s the part I’m still getting used to.”
Another night, he sits at the kitchen table while you reinforce the stitching around the knees of his suit. His elbow rests on the table, chin in his hand, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
“I always thought fear was something I had to swallow,” he murmurs. “Something I shouldn’t say aloud. Heroes don’t get to be afraid.”
You glance up at him. “Maybe the city’s hero doesn’t. But my Dan Heng is allowed to be scared whenever he needs.”
He goes still.
Then his expression softens in that slow, quiet way he does when emotion hits him deeper than he expects. “Your Dan Heng,” he repeats under his breath. “…I like how that sounds.”
He still worries. You can feel it in the way he hesitates before leaving at night, fingers lingering on your waist for a second longer, forehead resting against yours before he steps back. The fear doesn’t vanish—it never will—but now he shares it with you instead of hiding it behind distance and excuses.
Some nights, he comes home exhausted but whole, and you sit together on the couch, legs tangled, his head resting on your shoulder. He’ll fall asleep halfway through trying to tell you about something mundane, his voice drifting off as his body melts into yours, trusting you to keep the world still long enough for him to rest.
Other nights, you’re the one who falls asleep first, needle still threaded in your hand, suit folded neatly beside you. He’ll wake you gently, lifting you into his arms with more care than necessary even when he’s the one covered in bruises.
In these moments, you realize something simple: You’re adjusting to his double life, but he’s adjusting to being loved.
.
.
.
Life after the reveal settles into something unexpectedly gentle. Not easier—because loving someone who spends half their nights fighting the things the world would rather pretend don’t exist will never be easy—but gentler. There’s a quiet rhythm to your shared days now: mornings where he steals sleepy kisses before heading out, evenings where he comes home with a tired smile and a suit that’s increasingly held together by the seams you reinforced, nights where you sit cross-legged on the floor sewing a new tear while he watches you like you’re doing something heroic, something sacred.
For a while, you let yourself believe that the worst thing that could happen is another sleepless night waiting for him or another bruise you have to clean. He shares more, talks more, opens up in small moments that feel like unfolding pages of a book he used to keep locked. He lets you worry and lets you see the fear he carries, and you learn how to hold that weight together. The world feels fragile, yes, but it also feels shared — and that makes all the difference.
But danger doesn’t always announce itself with sirens or shouts. Sometimes it slips in so quietly that you barely feel the shift until it’s already too close.
In the weeks after that night—after the reveal, the trust, the new intimacy—you notice little things that feel off: the way someone seems to linger across the street when you leave for work, the unusually persistent feeling of being watched while walking home, the flicker of a shadow that disappears too quickly to be innocent. You brush it off at first. The city is full of strange moments, and your mind is learning to adjust to the new reality of loving someone who walks permanent tightropes between danger and duty. Still, something in your chest tightens, a pressure you try to ignore, because the last thing you want is to add to the weight Dan Heng already carries. So you keep going, keep sewing the tears in his suit, keep packing extra bandages, keep whispering soft reassurances when he comes home shaken from a close call. You don’t mention the shadows. You don’t mention the steps behind you. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
Until it isn’t.
It happens on a night that feels almost painfully normal. You’re on your way back from the store, groceries dangling at your side, mind wandering toward what leftovers you and Dan Heng might reheat when he gets home. The streets are calm, bathed in the warm hum of yellow streetlights, with the chatter of distant evening traffic drifting through the air. For a moment, it feels peaceful enough that you forget to be cautious. You forget the prickle at the nape of your neck. You forget the eyes you briefly thought you saw watching you two nights ago.
Then the rhythm of footsteps behind you shifts.
Slow at first—then deliberate. Close. Too close.
You don’t stop walking immediately. Instead, something instinctive and quiet unfurls inside you, a lesson sharpened through every bit of training he gave you in those quiet nights at home. Breathe. Don’t rush. Don’t reveal what you know. You let your steps slow naturally as you approach the next corner, fingers tightening around the plastic bag until it digs into your palm. When you finally turn around, the motion is calm, measured, exactly what Dan Heng taught you.
The man standing under the streetlight is not a stranger. Not to the city, not to Spider-Man, and not to the whispered fear that threads through late-night news reports. He isn’t masked, because he doesn’t need to be; the world already knows the kind of damage he leaves behind. His eyes sweep over you with a satisfaction that sends a cold shiver down your spine—like he’s been waiting to confirm something.
“So,” he says with a smile that never touches his eyes, “you’re the reason he rushes home after every fight.”
Your pulse jumps, but your expression stays steady. Panic doesn’t serve you here. Dan Heng drilled that truth into you—fear is fuel for the wrong person. Calm is the weapon you hold.
“I don’t know who you mean,” you reply evenly, voice controlled despite the tension crawling along your skin.
“Oh, but you do,” he says as he steps closer, his tone low and patient, like he’s humoring a child. “Spider-Man’s weak spot. His anchor. The thing that makes him hesitate.” His gaze narrows. “You.”
You lift your chin, the smallest act of defiance. “If you’re waiting for him, you’re wasting your time.”
“I’m not waiting for him,” he murmurs as he closes the distance between you, his presence cold and intrusive. “I’m observing you. I want to see what makes the city’s little hero break his patterns.”
He reaches for you then, fingers outstretched—not grabbing yet, but intending to.
And that’s when you move.
It’s not a dramatic spin or an acrobatic escape. It’s simple, efficient, the kind of maneuver Dan Heng showed you countless times in your living room when he thought trusting you with knowledge meant trusting you with safety. Your hand snaps to his wrist, twisting sharply to break his grip before it can form. The surprise on his face is its own small victory.
“Don’t touch me,” you say, voice still steady even as adrenaline surges like fire through your veins.
The man's smile vanishes.
He lunges.
But he never reaches you.
Because the air above you shatters into movement—an arc of speed and fury you barely register before it hits the asphalt with a force that cracks it.
Dan Heng lands between you and the threat like something out of a nightmare—not elegant, not gentle, not the warm presence you sew suits for and kiss goodnight. This is Spider-Man, but not the one the city sees. This version is cold, lethal, devastated and furious all at once. His breath comes in sharp bursts, every muscle coiled and ready to break something.
“You shouldn’t have come near them,” he says, and the voice that leaves his chest is nothing like the one you know. It’s low. Dangerous. Alive with a rage he almost never lets surface.
The villain laughs once, mocking. “Touched a nerve?”
Dan Heng doesn’t even respond. His body moves before words can form.
The fight is quick, brutal, and terrifying—not because you fear him, but because you’ve never seen him fight like someone with nothing left to lose. Every movement is sharpened by terror, fueled by the thought of arriving one second too late. He fights like he loves you. He fights like protecting you is the only law he answers to. And the man who cornered you realizes too late that he targeted the wrong person.
Within a minute, the villain is pinned to the ground, wrapped tight in webs that dig into the concrete. Immobilized. Defeated.
But Dan Heng barely looks at him.
His attention snaps to you.
And in that instant, the fury melts into something far more devastating. His steps toward you are frantic but hesitant, like he’s terrified of what he might find. His hands reach for your arms, your face, your shoulders—hovering, trembling, confirming you’re whole, unhurt, breathing.
“Are—are you okay?” he chokes out, and his voice fractures in the middle. “Did he—did he touch you? Did he hurt you? I— I should’ve been here faster—”
“I’m okay,” you whisper, because the sight of him unraveling hurts more than the threat itself.
But he doesn’t calm.
You notice then: he’s shaking. Hard. Harder than you are. His breaths come shallow, unsteady, his mask half-pulled up but forgotten, eyes bright with a fear he tries and fails to hide. He steps back like he’s ashamed of how violently it’s hitting him, as if worrying about you this much is something he should apologize for.
You reach forward and take his hand.
It’s cold.
You don’t say anything at first—you just pull him in, arms around him, grounding him, letting his forehead press into your shoulder as his whole body trembles with the force of what almost happened. His fingers clutch the back of your shirt like he’s anchoring himself to the world.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispers, barely audible. “I can’t— I can’t lose you.”
“You didn’t,” you murmur into his hair. “You came. You always come.”
Slowly—very slowly—his breathing evens out. The tremors ease. He still holds you too tightly, but not out of fear anymore. Out of relief.
You feel the warmth of him settling back into something like calm, the way his hands still cling to you, not as a lifeline, but as a quiet promise. Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the tension slowly give way, and he lets out a shaky sigh that sounds almost like a laugh.
“I hate that you were in danger,” he admits, voice low, almost ashamed. “I should've been here sooner.”
“I'm okay,” you repeat, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
He nods against you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the tightness in his chest softens. He doesn’t wait another second. With a swift motion, he scoops you up into his arms, cradling you like you’re weightless, like he’s holding the most fragile thing in the world—and maybe, in this moment, you are. You can feel the beat of his heart against yours, steady now, grounding, as he mutters softly, “Not letting anything happen to you again.”
Before you can even respond, you’re suspended in the air, the city blurring below as he swings on a web with effortless grace. The wind tugs at your hair, and the world spins in dizzying arcs, but being in his arms—being held—feels safer than standing on solid ground.
He navigates the streets with quiet precision, weaving around buildings and lampposts, calling out little jokes between gritted teeth. “You know, being a damsel in distress isn’t really your style, but you wear it well.” You laugh softly, clinging tighter, your voice muffled against his shoulder.
Finally, he lands on the familiar rooftop of your building, setting you down gently. Even as his web lines anchor and retract, he doesn’t let go, holding you close as though letting go might shatter the fragile peace you’ve found. “Home,” he whispers, and you realize—no matter how high you’ve swung, how far you’ve fallen, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be: safe, in his arms.
fin.
.
.
.
BONUS:
It happens on a night so still it feels like the city is holding its breath, the kind of quiet that settles between two people who have been through too much together and somehow keep choosing each other anyway. You’re walking home beneath the soft glow of streetlamps, replaying the memory of your date earlier in the day. Every few steps you find your gaze drifting upward, scanning rooftops out of instinct, because even when he promises he’s fine, he always ends up watching over you from somewhere just out of sight. Tonight is no different; you can feel him before you see him, that subtle prickle of awareness that means he’s near, close enough to intervene in a heartbeat.
When you finally stop under the familiar alleyway that leads toward your building, you tilt your head back and catch the faintest rustle of movement above. He’s perched there in the shadows, upside down, suspended effortlessly by a single thread of webbing like gravity is a suggestion he’s politely declining. His mask hides his expression, but his posture—relaxed shoulders, slow breathing, the way he lingers as if he’s waiting for you to invite him closer—tells you everything. You step toward him with a soft smile blooming across your face, and he descends just enough that your breaths mingle in the space between. He ghosts his gloved fingers along your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that makes the world shrink to the two of you alone.
“Thought you were heading home,” he murmurs, voice low and warm from behind the fabric. There’s a playful lilt to it, but underneath runs a deeper relief, that constant thread of gratitude he still doesn’t know how to express without touching you. You reach up instinctively, brushing your fingertips along the edge of his mask, feeling the slight hitch in his breath as your knuckles graze his skin. “I was,” you say softly, “but you were following me. Again.” Your words are teasing, but they make him exhale a quiet laugh, one that sounds like he’s finally letting some of that tension go. He shifts closer, hanging only inches from your lips, and the world around you blurs into warm lights and distant city noise.
You tug the mask up just enough to reveal the curve of his mouth, and for a moment he stays perfectly still, mesmerized by the sight of your hands adjusting something so sacred to him. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, as though he’s savoring the nearness before taking the final step. The first brush of his lips sends a warm flutter through your chest—gentle at first, reverent, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you all over again. The angle makes everything feel dreamy and unreal, like you’re sharing a secret stolen from some other world where nothing bad has ever touched you both. His hand cradles your cheek with tender certainty, thumb sweeping once, twice, as he deepens the kiss with a quiet sigh that melts fully into you.
When you finally part, his forehead rests against yours, upside down but somehow still fitting perfectly. He whispers your name like it’s something fragile he’s grateful to hold, and you feel him smile even before he lifts the mask back down. He lingers there a little longer, suspended above you like a star that decided to stay within reach, and when he finally pulls himself upward into the darkness again, you’re left with the warmth of his kiss—light, breathless, unforgettable—still blooming across your lips. And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that moments like this are the ones he fights for.
────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────
@dewberrydusk 2026 | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.
Request: Astra Yao x Celebrity F!reader!! She's a part of stars of lyra btw what if they're married? They're dubbed as "New eridu's celebrity power couple". They have a massive fanbase and many of them shipped themmm. Being both celebrities, they're really famous mainly because of their marriage. Bonus: They both sometimes run away from the industry or rehearsals to go on a secret undercover date in the city meanwhile Evelyn here has to drag their asses back and scolds them like little kids! Just some silly crack
Summary: A bunch of thoughts regarding Astra Yao with a wife that's just famous as her…♡
Content: fem! Reader, fluff, slightly bittersweet but it’s okay I swear.
Character: Astra Yao (Zenless Zone Zero)
Word count: 1.2k
Notes: Hello nonnie I hope I did ur ask justice! I haven’t been writing recently as of late, so my writing’s a little rusty. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this <33
Astra with a significant other that's super similar to her, being a famous figure in New Eridu… omg.
I feel that she'd be able to resonate with you so well. Not only are you in the same group as her, but you're very similar to her in the sense that the both of you are constantly in the spotlight, working towards your glamorous dreams together.
Assuming you're mainly a musician like her, you two definitely collab. Music is everything to Astra. To her, music is as important as the sun is to the earth. It's radiant, constantly shimmering, and brings lots of people joy. Though not present all the time, it still shines through, and it's essential to the superstar.
So why wouldn't she want to share such a beautiful thing with her spouse? She'd be able to create a truly wonderful and intimate piece of music with you. Or several pieces, really. Why don't you just create an entire album with her, hm? She'd certainly love that.
She also adores being married to you. Astra's love is so powerful and it shows through everything she does. She can easily show love to her fans, her close friends, and the things that've deeply impacted her life, like music. So she can and she absolutely will give you all of the love she possibly can!
Having your marriage out to the public is something that is nervewracking for the both of you, honestly. It takes away the pressure of having to keep everything secret and under wraps, and removes the possibilities of having to deal with heinous dating celebrity scandals, but it does open a whole new can of worms.
She's a capable lady, and she knows you're a capable as she is, but she just can't help but worry about the hate you might recieve for being in a public relationship with her! Parasocial fans, hungry reporters waiting for slip ups, there's quite a bit that worries her.
Of course, being New Eridu's superstar is a tiring job. She's constantly busy, she constantly wants to get away from the work and all the meetings with her label, and if you're around the same level of famous that she is (which you are), you'll understand how much work it is.
It brings her a sense of comfort that there's someone so close to her that understands exactly what it's like to be in such a troublesome position. It makes it a lot easier to express her emotions regarding the turmoils her label brings her at times.
She doesn't hate being a musician though. She never would, the same way she'd never hate being your spouse, and even with all her above worries, she's not worryingly bothered by how the less... favourable parts of the public may react to your marriage.
In fact, since your relationship is out to the citizens of New Eridu, it allows for her to get slightly sappy with you in public! She'll hold you close— she'll always have her hand or arm around some part of your body. Wether that's linked arms, hand holding, or maybe even an arm wrapped tight around your waist if she's feeling cheeky, whenever the two of you are out together, expect pda! Unless you're uncomfortable with it, of course. She'll always respect your wishes!
If the paparazzi or news reporters want to take photos of the two of you together, Astra will act super natural. It's expected, of course, she's been doing this for ages, as have you. Expect to giggle over some of the (unexpectedly cute) photos that're printed on the newspaper covers in the next couple of days!
Also, even though there are negative aspects to public celebrity relationships, especially ones as big as yours, that doesn't mean there aren't positives. For every hater, there's about a hundred fans that'll defend the two of you with everything they've got! There'll obviously be tons of positive press regarding the both of you.
You're both adored by the public, so best believe your own dedicated fans and the Astranauts'll be fawning over New Eridu's prettiest pair!
Imagine the conversations on the inter-knot… you best believe that your fans will fervently support you guys. Forum discussions regarding the two of you, fan edits, fan art, fan…fiction? …Right! Any type of post involving you and Astra is bound to go crazy viral.Yeah. there's definitely a ton of comments, ranging from sweet to eyebrow-raising, but Astra should let her worries go, as there's clearly a strong and supportive fanbase behind your guys' marriage. Everyone truly adores the pair of you.
Going back to the point of the two of you working in such similar jobs… It'd totally lead to you running away together! Even if you're more responsible than her, leave it to Astra's honey-smooth voice and extensive vocabulary —from all the songwriting she does— to persuade you into ditching that Odeum meeting, going M.I.A, and escaping away to some small, secret corner in New Eridu.
It's fun for both her and you. Though the reason she tends to do this is due to not wanting to deal with her music label, she also just wishes to spend more time with you. She's so busy that she doesn't really manage to do that.
She's truly fortunate that you're in the music industry with her, as it allows for the two of you to spend more time together, even if it's just for work. Even then, she wants to spend more of her free time with you, alongside you, straying away from the long, rocky road that reality forces her to face every day.
For a moment, she just gets to go out with you. Dates with her like this aren't extravagant, they're far from it— being impromptu and all— but they're memorable. She gets to briefly explore another path, one that's fun to travel down, one that brings her joy of what maybe one day could be— but she knows she'll have to return to that rocky path once again.
The two of you could rendezvous to reverb arena for a little bit, see some pretty sunsets at Lumina Square, and then go to a record store and discuss music tracks for (what she wishes could be) hours on end, but you both know that you'll have to go back to working when Evelyn shows up and gives you guys that knowing glance.
(She, of course, doesn't blame either of you. As your and Astra's personal bodyguard, and just as a trusted friend, she knows how strenuous work can get. But sometimes those annoying Odeum higher-ups nag a little too much, and desperately want you both back.)
She'll teasingly scold you both before having a lighthearted discussion when you're back in your shared limosuine.
You and Astra both know that you'll have to deal with the harsh world that this industry has to offer—the reality where snakey higher-ups and greedy vermin are trying to toy with her like a puppet— but she's got you and Evelyn by her side, and that's what brings her comfort: the fact that you're by her side, ready to deal with whatever's ahead alongside her.
SYNOPSIS: in which, varka drunkenly reveals the secret ingredient in getting you to forgive him.
𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 850 ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @millurie @axolotsofluv @tragedy-of-commons @al97649 -> come join the taglist here!
𖥔 WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, wine, and drinking, cameo for diluc, and kaeya, varka is highkey drunk and incredibly embarrassing, established relationships, not fully proofread; expect mistakes!
♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ i genuinely didn't expect to like writing him this much. SOMEONE RELEASE ME
varka is not above knowing he's done something wrong. arguably, during arguments with the love of his life (re: you), it's always him that notices that he's crossed a line or has done something that will upset you—if not at that moment, then later when it culminates like a sleeping volcano.
it's something you're eternally grateful for. it's not every day a man has enough braincells loitering in his head to actually realize his or your mistakes without undermining the feelings of both parties. on the other hand, you are deeply, unfathomably embarrassed in varka's way of apologizing.
"please my love, i'm really, really sorry," he says with tears threatening to spill from the edges of his eyes, voice slurring, shoulders hiccupping, and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. you push away varka's face before he can nuzzle at your stomach with a chagrined huff. "you're ignoring meee. m'really sorry, 'kay? i promise i didn't mean for it to happen! i swear, love, please believe meeee."
you've made a fatal mistake of getting mad at him before getting home. because for all of varka's bulging muscles and intimidating frame, he knows how to beg. and he begs, quite loudly, for that matter.
you throw a pleading glance at diluc from the counter as varka's fellow knights huddle and holler for you to forgive their grandmaster. when the redhead turns his back on you, you throw a spoon in his direction and watch in satisfaction when it hits him square in the nape.
'this is your fault.' you mouth to him, still trying to prevent varka from swallowing you in a hug that'll suffocate you.
'i plead innocent.' diluc mouths back and returns to wiping down his already shining wine glass.
your brows twitch in annoyance at the lack of assistance, your patience growing thin when kaeya has the nerve to egg on varka's begging by saying he's not saying sorry enough. you kick his leg from under the table as a warning, while varka, ever the idiot that he is when he has too much alcohol running in his system, begins barking out even more apologies that threaten to turn you deaf by the morning.
"yeah, you're right kaeya!" varka slurs, dropping his head on your shoulders and wrapping both arms around your waist in a tight hug. "maybe i should get on my knees. that usually works when you're mad at me."
kaeya nearly spits out his drink at varka's words.
"varka, enough!" you chide, pushing his face away from your ear and watching the way his lips jut out into a pathetic pout, tears collecting at the corner of his eyes once more. your resolve crumbles a little at his expression—if you squint hard enough or maybe down a few more cups of beer, you'd see a pair of flattened ears atop his head and a tail thumping dejectedly between his legs.
you take a deep breath, rising from your seat, and throw a tight smile at kaeya's direction. "we'll be retiring for the night. thank you for the lovely company, kaeya."
"of course. anytime for my favorite couple!"
you want to gauge out kaeya's other eye when he winks at you. you don't, obviously. you'd rather not cause an even bigger scene than your lover, who has now resorted to using you as his walking stick when he stumbles over his own feet or trips over thin air. another facetious sigh escapes you when you sling one of varka's arms over your shoulders and he doesn't miss the opportunity to plant a chaste kiss on your cheek.
"what am i gonna do with you, varka…" you ask absentmindedly. taking measured steps as varka wordlessly allows you to lug him across the dimly lit streets of mondstatd.
"'m really sorry, [name]. please don't go find another man to marry," he begs, voice cracking by the end of his sentence.
"you're such an idiot," you snicker. "but you're my idiot. i'm not gonna go finding a new lover over something so silly, varka."
"but you're mad at me!"
"i'm worried. there's a difference."
"is it because i didn't go home when i told you i'd come back after work?" he asks in earnest.
you nod. "yes, i thought something bad had happened to you. i'd appreciate it if you tell me if you're going out drinking until dawn instead of pacing around the house for hours."
varka leans a little more of his weight on you when you reach your front porch. his nose nuzzles the side of your cheek, his growing stubble poking at your skin as you card your fingers into his already tousled hair.
"'m sorry, my love. i promise to do better next time. i swear it on my honor."
you let out an amused chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief as he swoops in to capture your lips into a kiss. when you part, he chases after you like a parched man in the desert. you boop his nose with a smile and usher him inside. "i know, big guy. i forgive you."
