𐔌 . . . 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒 ꒱
✧ living forever was supposed to make you untouchable, not perpetually ill. all you wanted was a nap and some herbal tea. instead, you got adopted, scolded, doted on, and occasionally kidnapped by teyvat’s most eccentric (and hottest) personalities. honestly, at this point, you’re the real archon of healthcare. ― albedo + alhaitham + ayato + cyno + dottore + diluc + kaeya + kaveh + kazuha + lyney + neuvillette + scaramouche + tartaglia + thoma + tighnari + wriothesley + xiao + zhongli x reader ⋆ incl. mentions of ilness, passing out, death 𝜗ৎ reader is ill and sickly, however they're immortal, so they won't ever die. in other words, they're perpetually sick. there are a few death jokes (iirc, they're in Diluc's part) anyways . . . i had fun writing this ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
𐔌 . . . 𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐎꒱
You collapse in his lab again. Albedo doesn’t even flinch, just sighs, grabs a blanket, and notes down, “Patient continues to overestimate stamina. Adorable...scientifically. Of course, scientifically.”
You once tried to “help” him by organizing his reagents. You accidentally created a puff of toxic smoke and passed out. Albedo calmly opened the windows. “Ah. So this is why I don’t have assistants.”
When you get too sick to speak, he draws for you. He insists it’s for observational purposes, but his sketchbook has more drawings of your sleepy face than experimental diagrams.
Klee once saw you faint and yelled, “Albedo! They’re melting!” He never moved faster in his life.
Sometimes you apologize for being such a burden. Albedo just tilts his head. “If caring for you hindered my research, I would have stopped. I haven’t. Therefore, you are part of my work—and my peace.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐀𝐋𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐌꒱
You once argued with him mid-fever about Kantian ethics, passed out halfway through, and woke up tucked into his bed with your notes neatly annotated.
“Why were you climbing the tower?” “To see if gravity feels different up high.” He stares at you for ten seconds straight. “It doesn’t. Please stop.”
He lectures you on self-preservation daily, but every time you start coughing, his entire rational front collapses. “You need rest.” “You need to admit you care about me.” “…Shut it. I don’t care about weaklings.”
When you fall asleep at your desk, he wordlessly sweeps you into his arms, tucks you into bed, places a glass of water beside you, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “cute.”
Your illness worsens during exams. He volunteers to carry your notes and escort you around campus, then glares at anyone who dares whisper “simp” (ahem, Kaveh).
𐔌 . . . 𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐓𝐎꒱
He catches you fainting over paperwork again. “You know,” he says dryly, “our budget for the couches that you lay on when you pass out is starting to look a little suspicious.”
You try to hide your coughing fits. He pretends not to notice, but quietly rearranges your workload so your desk is near the garden’s open window.
Sometimes you stay late to finish his reports. When he finds you asleep on your desk, he covers you with his cloak, signs the last pages himself, and murmurs, “You’re too efficient.”
You once tripped during a meeting and nearly brought down a whole tea tray. Ayato caught the tray midair, set it down, and just smiled, “You’re as graceful as ever.”
When the sickness gets bad, he distracts you with light gossip about the other Commissioners. “Don’t worry,” he assures you with a chuckle, “I only weaponize secrets, not health conditions.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐁𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐇𝐔꒱
You once tried to help him grind herbs while feverish and accidentally mixed in sugar. He sighs, “Sweet of you—literally—but please, go lie down.”
Every time you say, “I feel fine”, he and Changsheng chorus, “No, you don’t.”
You’ve fallen asleep mid-treatment more times than you can count. Baizhu tucks you in with a sigh, whispering, “If you were any other patient, I’d charge triple.”
When you insist on helping around the pharmacy, he makes up safe tasks like counting the bamboo leaves. “If you finish before fainting, I’ll consider you cured,” he teases.
Despite his jokes, he checks your pulse more often than necessary. When you call him out, he smiles faintly. “Forgive me. I’ve lost too many patients to let one slip away because of pride.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐂𝐘𝐍𝐎꒱
He returns from missions expecting peace. Instead, he finds you stuck halfway inside a kitchen cabinet. “I dropped a spoon,” you try to scramble out and end up kicking him in the face. He deadpans. “Let’s not stir up trouble now.”
You worry about his dangerous job, meanwhile he worries about your ability to trip over flat ground.
When you get dizzy, he lifts you bridal-style without hesitation. You joke that he’s smoother than his puns. He freezes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my puns..”
He tries to teach you TCG so you’ll rest in bed more. You fall asleep mid-match. He still finishes your hand for you. “I win,” he mutters fondly, “but only because you let me.”
Sometimes you wake to find him sitting beside you, head bowed, fingers loosely holding yours. “You break every rule of common sense,” he murmurs, “but I’d kill anyone for making you cry.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐃𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄꒱
You cough blood mid-sentence. He doesn’t even blink. “Good,” he murmurs, “that means the serum is working.” “Normal people call that dying, you maniac.”
He finds your defiance entertaining. “You’re trembling, but you still argue. Fascinating. Perhaps fear strengthens human stubbornness?”
You once slapped his hand away when he tried to inject you. There was a full five seconds of silence before he smiled an awful, slow smile. “Ah. The survival instinct in action. Precious.”
He gives you “treatments” that look like they weren’t made for human use. If you ask what they do, he’ll hold up a scapula. “I’ll tell you if you live.”
Sometimes, late at night, you catch him adjusting your blanket. “The experiment must stay alive,” he mutters. But when you whisper “thanks, Doctor,” he freezes and doesn’t answer.
You’re certain he’s using you for research. You’re equally certain that when his experiments go wrong, his hands shake just a little as he fixes you up.
𐔌 . . . 𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐂꒱
You once stomped your foot, demanding to go out and touch grass. Diluc sighed, picked you up bridal-style, and carried you outside to touch exactly one blade of grass. “Happy now?”
You get cold easily, so he lights the fireplace before every nap. When you complain it’s too hot, he just gives you that look.
The first time you tried to sneak out at night, he caught you mid-step and deadpanned. “You’re grounded. Permanently.”
You love teasing him. “Diluc, if I die, can you cry handsomely at my funeral?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not dying. And I wouldn't cry.” (He absolutely would.)
He grows and dries herbs himself for your tea. You make faces at the bitterness. “You’ll drink it,” he warns, “or I’ll force you to drink it myself.” You nearly choke laughing at the idea of him dressed in an apron, making you drink…until he actually does it. Never again.
Every time you call him “my knight in shining armor,” he blushes and mutters, “I’m not a knight anymore,” but still holds you tenderly like one.
𐔌 . . . 𝐈𝐅𝐀꒱
You once tripped while holding a small Saurian and cried, thinking you hurt it. Ifa checked both of you, sighed, and crossed his arms. “The Saurian’s fine. My floor, however, may not survive another of your episodes.”
You’re technically his assistant, but he never lets you lift anything heavier than a feather. “You can help by existing peacefully. Please.”
Every Saurian in the clinic adores you. They follow you around like little guardians. Ifa jokes, “If you ever leave, I’ll have to deal with a revolt.”
You love cooking for him when he’s busy. Half the time you burn something, and he still eats it with a smile. “If my stomach can survive toxins, it can survive your soup.”
When your illness acts up, he hums lullabies from his childhood while changing your bandages. You call him the kindest man alive. He replies, “Don’t say that. I’ll get a reputation.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐊𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐀꒱
You fainted in the middle of the Knights’ office once. He caught you instantly. “Don’t worry, everyone, they’re just swooning from my looks.”
You once fell asleep at your desk mid-meeting. Kaeya quietly finished your portion of the paperwork and told Jean, “Teamwork, right?”
When you look too pale, he brings flowers to your desk with a smirk. “For decoration,” he says. But the bouquet always matches your favorite colors.
He teases you endlessly…until you cough. Then he turns serious, adjusts your scarf, and mutters something like, “You know, I hate it when you go quiet.”
He once challenged you to a race just to make you laugh. You tripped on the second step, and he carried you the rest of the way, grinning. “Victory by default.”
Beneath the jokes, you’ve caught him glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking with a look softer than he’d like to admit.
𐔌 . . . 𝐊𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐇꒱
You and Kaveh once decided to “fix” a loose balcony railing together. Alhaitham came home to find you both dangling over the edge, arguing about aesthetic symmetry.
Kaveh panics every time you sneeze. “They’re DYING!” he yells. “It’s a cold,” you mumble.
When you faint, he fanatically fans you with blueprints. “Breathe, my love, breathe!” Alhaitham: “If they die, I’m not cleaning it up.”
You both cry over sad books and spill tea on each other. Alhaitham keeps a mop specifically labeled ‘For Kaveh & His Sickly Love’.
Kaveh spoils you rotten. Handmade pillows, curtains, tea sets—your room looks like a fever dream of affection. When you tell him it’s too much, he gasps dramatically, “Too much love? Impossible!”
One night when you had a fever, he stayed up talking until you fell asleep. In the morning, Alhaitham found him drooling on your shoulder and muttered, “Both of you are incurable.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀꒱
Every time he sails somewhere new, he sends back a pressed flower and a note. “For when you miss the breeze.” You have a whole wall of them now.
Once, when he returned home and saw you struggling to stand, he quietly lifted you and whispered, “I’ll carry you until your strength returns.” You pretended to complain. He smiled against your hair.
You keep jokingly asking him to bring back souvenirs. He takes it too seriously. You once woke up to find a basket of seashells, a rock, and a live crab beside your bed.
He buys a Kamera, saying, “Now you can see the world through my eyes.” He fills your room with photos of sunsets, forests, and landscapes all with you in mind.
When you get sick, he reads poetry aloud until you fall asleep. He never finishes the last line out loud—he always saves it for when you wake.
He’s seen countless sunsets, but he swears your sleepy smile outshines all of them.
𐔌 . . . 𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐘꒱
He performs full magic shows in your room with cards, doves, and all and insists on a ticket fee of “one smile per act.”
You once asked him to make your fever disappear. He kissed your forehead. “Sorry, my love. Even magic has its limits.”
When you try to get out of bed too early, he blocks the door with a dramatic bow. “For my next trick, I’ll make my assistant rest.”
You told him you don’t like pity. He never gives it, only warmth. When you’re bedridden, he tells you stories of the Melusines’ mischief and Fontaine’s chaos until your laughter drowns out the pain.
He sometimes hides small gifts under your pillows like ribbons, cards, or candies shaped like hearts. “A magician never reveals his secrets,” he elusively smiles when you confront him, but the blush gives him away.
When your cough keeps you up, he lies beside you, holds your hand, and whispers, “The show must go on, but not without you. Never without you, mon amour.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄꒱
The first time you got sick under his care, he brought you water instead of soup. “This… doesn’t work?”
You once demanded apple slices cut into stars. He actually tried. It ended with both of you staring at a mangled fruit and him looking devastated.
You call him “Papa Neuvi” as a joke. He gets visibly flustered and mutters, “That is… not an appropriate form of address for the Chief Justice.” You keep doing it anyway.
When you cry from pain, it rains every time.
He consults Melusines for care tips. They’ve essentially adopted you. One even knitted you a scarf that says “Get well soon, weak immortal.”
Despite his confusion, he’s surprisingly gentle, his hand cool on your feverish forehead, his voice soft. “You are… precious, though I cannot explain why.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐄꒱
You cough once and he’s instantly hovering. “You’re so fragile, it’s ridiculous.” You smile, teasing. “You love it.” He goes scarlet and mutters, “Delusional.”
He complains nonstop. “You’re heavy. Stop leaning on me.” Meanwhile, he hasn’t moved from holding you for an hour.
Once, you told him to smile more. He said, “I’ll smile when you stop tripping over your own feet.” Then you tripped. He caught you mid-fall and sighed. “Unbelievable. You manage to defy the laws of what’s natural every second you breathe.”
He pretends not to care, but he keeps meticulous notes of your symptoms. You found one labeled ‘Days They Didn’t Cough’ and of course, he denied it.
When you thank him for looking after you, he scoffs, “Don’t misunderstand. I just don’t want you dying in my vicinity.” Still, his hand lingers on your hair.
You once fell asleep against him mid-argument. He went silent, then whispered. “Fine. You win this one.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀꒱
He cleans his hands thoroughly before touching you. You tease. “What, afraid I’ll catch your inclination to violence?” He smiles. “No. I just don’t want you seeing blood and remembering pain.”
Once, he took you ice skating to build stamina. You fell 17 times. He caught you 16 of those times. On the 17th, he dove after you and both ended up in a snowbank laughing.
When you collapse from overexertion, he panics. The infamous Harbinger who fears nothing will beg you to wake up.
You once scolded him for coming home injured. He scolded you right back for walking up stairs too fast. “We’re both idiots,” he concluded, kissing your forehead, “perfect match.”
He spoils you with gifts from every nation: weapons, plush toys, rare sweets. You asked for something simple once, “Just you home safe and sound.” He grinned. “Dangerous choice, but I’m yours.”
If someone so much as looks at you wrong, they mysteriously forget how to use their legs for a week. Coincidence? You think not. He denies it every time, though.
𐔌 . . . 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀꒱
He once found you hanging upside down from a balcony trying to reach a wind chime. You waved, and he almost had a stroke.
He’s learning nursing just to care for you, but every time he tries to practice bandaging, you “help” and somehow end up wrapped like a mummy.
You keep trying to cook for him to return the favor, and he keeps finding new ways to politely compliment charcoal.
He takes notes from Baizhu, Kuki Shinobu, and even Kokomi. Still, your unpredictability keeps defeating medical science.
When he scolds you for overexerting yourself, you give him puppy eyes. He folds instantly. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, spoon-feeding you soup anyway.
If you so much as sneeze, he cancels plans, grabs medicine, a blanket, tea, and enough snacks for an apocalypse. He swears it’s “just in case.”
He secretly loves caring for you, but every time you do something reckless, he adds another gray hair and whispers. “Why did I fall for you again?”
𐔌 . . . 𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈꒱
You once pretended to faint so he’d cancel patrol. He crouched down and poked your cheek. “Convincing. Ten out of ten acting. Get up.”
Every time you get a fever, you demand cuddles. Every time he gives in, he mutters, “If you transmit pathogens to me again, I’ll put you in quarantine.”
When he leaves for work, you immediately get into trouble, climbing trees, stealing snacks, or pestering Collei. He always knows. “How?” you ask. “Because the forest rangers report you,” he tries to hide a smile at your baffled expression.
He keeps an entire shelf of herbal teas labeled For When the Brat Inevitably Overdoes It Again.
You once tried to help him identify mushrooms and nearly ate one. He’s never looked so horrified in his life.
Despite all the scolding, he checks on you every few hours. Sometimes he just stands in your doorway, ears twitching, watching your breathing even out. “At least you’re still alive,” he whispers, sounding relieved, “I must be doing something right”
𐔌 . . . 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘꒱
You were sentenced by the Iudex to work under him for stealing medicine you desperately needed. You expected chains, instead you got warm blankets and hot cocoa. “This is… prison?” “Meropide’s hospitality division,” he says nonchalantly.
You feel guilty for not working much, but he waves you off. “Your job is to get better. Don’t make me file a complaint with myself.”
You once threw a mild tantrum about your medicine tasting bad. He crossed his arms. “Would you prefer injections?” You drank it immediately.
When you insist you’re fine and try to help around, he gently herds you back to bed like a wayward kitten. “Nice try, inmate.”
He keeps track of your health so closely it’s borderline overbearing. You joke that you’re his favorite prisoner. He just chuckles. “You’d get a lighter sentence if you stopped sneaking sweets.”
Beneath the teasing, he checks your pulse with genuine care, his big hand enveloping your wrist, voice low. “No more stealing medicine, understand? You’ll get it from me now. You won’t ever have to suffer like that again” Those words are always enough to ease your worries and soothe you to sleep.
𐔌 . . . 𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎꒱
You once scolded him for not eating. He sighed. “You’re dying, and you’re scolding me?” You replied. “Exactly”, and he’s been finishing his meals ever since.
When you’re sick, he appears wordlessly at your side, silent as mist with those unreadable eyes. If you ask how long he’s been there, he says, “Long enough.”
You’ve fainted on the balcony during one of his visits. He caught you before you even hit the floor. “You can’t keep doing this,” he whispers, his voice breaking in a way he won’t ever show you.
Sometimes he hums a tune from long ago when he thinks you’re asleep. You hum it back once. He almost vanishes from sheer embarrassment.
You once said, “I’m not scared of dying, but I’d hate for you to be alone again.” He didn’t answer, just brushed your hair back with trembling fingers.
He never says it aloud, but he’s terrified of losing you. So he watches, guards, stays. Always.
𐔌 . . . 𝐙𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈꒱
You whine when he brews bitter medicine. “Zhongli, it tastes like rock dust!” He calmly replies, “That’s because it is rock dust, refined through a thousand years of alchemy.”
You love clinging to him when you’re dizzy. He carries you effortlessly, murmuring, “Careful, my dear. You might chip my heart.”
When you can’t sleep, he tells you stories from ancient times—sometimes boring, sometimes tender. You always fall asleep halfway through. He pretends not to notice and finishes the tale anyway.
He spoils you with fine tea, silk blankets, and handmade remedies. You complain that he’s treating you like porcelain. “Porcelain,” he says, smiling, “endures centuries when cared for properly.”
Once, you faked feeling better so he’d stop worrying. He caught you immediately. “You are many things,” he sighed, “but a good liar is not one.”
He sometimes forgets money but never forgets your medicine. Even gods, it seems, have priorities.
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