1. I will always find it weird for an adult to think a child is being "manipulative" because a child quite literally doesn't have the brain development to understand what manipulation is or why they shouldn't be manipulative.
2. Yes, Disabled adults *can* be manipulative, as any adult can be. However, I think it's important to realize that Disabled people are somewhat set up to be strategic in order to get needs met. This can essentially train us to lean into manipulative behaviors. Direct and clear communication is often not only inconsistent, but we are also at high risk if it fails. This means that we can be placed in a similar state of vulnerability as children, where we simply have to be strategic to survive (or at least that is the instinct).
But with the female cast of amphoreus? Gotta give our girlies some love too 👏👏👏
(Hope you're doing well and please take care of yourself, academic burnout is no joke 😭)
Hunger Finds Its Heart
Tags: Aglaea x Reader, Cerydra x Reader, Evernight x Reader, Cipher x Reader, Vampire!Reader, Romance, Emotional Intimacy, Angst With Comfort, Power Dynamics (Safe/Protective), Caregiving, Romantic Tension.
Warnings: Blood Hunger, Anxiety, Emotional Intensity, Dark Themes, Power Imbalance, Faint/Weakness, Trauma References.
A/N: Thank you, I'm trying my best 😭🙏
The scent of gold and laurel fills the room long before Aglaea appears.
Okhema’s air always hums with light, yet in her presence it is unbearable — too bright, too divine. And tonight, your throat burns with thirst so fierce it borders on agony. You’ve gone too long without blood. You can hear heartbeats through the walls, feel every pulse like thunder. But none of them call to you like hers.
When Aglaea steps through the door, her gold-threaded gown glimmers like starlight woven into fabric. You can’t breathe.
She knows. Of course she knows.
“I can feel the tremor in your pulse,” she says softly. “You’re starving again, aren’t you?”
You turn away, ashamed. “I— I didn’t mean to. I thought I could control it. But now I can’t even look at you without—”
Your voice cracks.
Without wanting to devour that sunlight.
Aglaea crosses the floor, each step measured. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t show fear — only that serene, haunting calm that could unmake the world.
Her hand lifts your chin, tilting your face toward her. Her eyes are oceans of green-gold.
“You will not fall to hunger,” she murmurs. “Not while I still weave fate.”
Your fangs ache. The scent of her divine blood is maddening. You try to back away, but she catches your wrist, pulling you back with disarming strength.
“Look at me,” she says. “If your body must feed, then feed as one who honors, not one who devours.”
You freeze, trembling. “You’d really—?”
“I have shared my essence with gods and ghosts alike,” she says. “You are no monster, only one who has forgotten gentleness.”
When she presses your hand against her throat, her pulse thrums through her skin like a hymn. You do not bite. Not yet. You simply breathe. And in that heartbeat, her Coreflame flares — gold weaving into the air, steadying your mind.
You lean closer, trembling against her, and she whispers,
“Do not take. Ask.”
You nod, barely able to speak. “Please.”
Her smile is sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Then drink… and remember that love is restraint, not hunger.”
You do — just enough to soothe the fire, never enough to wound. The gold in her blood hums through you, not as addiction, but balance — like silk unwinding from her fingers into your veins. When it’s over, you collapse against her shoulder, shaking.
Aglaea’s hands cradle your face.
“I will weave strength into you,” she promises, voice warm but firm. “You’ll never need to lose yourself again.”
And as her golden threads shimmer through the air, you believe her.
Cipher catches you mid-fall — literally.
You hadn’t meant to leap from the balcony. Hunger makes you stupid. Desperate. The moonlight burns your skin, your thoughts blur, and all you can hear is her heartbeat — that infuriatingly bright rhythm that sings through the night like music you can’t escape.
“Whoa, whoa— easy, batling,” Cipher laughs, half out of breath, half amused. “You planning to dive-bomb me every time you get the munchies?”
You groan, pressing your face against her shoulder. “I can smell your blood. It’s like… gold lightning.”
“Flattering,” she says, voice wry. “Also terrifying.”
You try to move away, but she holds you tighter. Her hands are warm — always warmer than you expect. You can feel her Coreflame pulsing beneath her skin: Trickery. Alive. Wild. It calls to you like a storm.
Cipher tips your chin up with one finger. “Hey. You’re shaking.”
“I haven’t fed in days,” you rasp. “Everyone’s afraid to let me close. And you—”
“Am irresistible? Yeah, I get that a lot.”
You glare weakly, but her grin softens. For all her mischief, she looks at you with a kind of fierce understanding. “You think you scare me, huh? I’ve shared tavern rooms with ghosts and outrun gods. If you need to feed, I’ll survive it.”
You hesitate. “It’s not that simple—”
“Sure it is. Just a nibble,” she says, flashing teeth. “But fair warning, I bite back.”
You laugh despite yourself. Cipher always does that — turns fear into play, hunger into motion. She offers her wrist, golden boot catching the moonlight.
When you drink — carefully, shakily — she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she talks through it, teasing:
“You’re shaking like a leaf. Relax. You’re doing fine.”
The taste hits like fire and starlight. You pull back, gasping, dizzy. Cipher steadies you, hand on your cheek. “There. That wasn’t so bad, huh?”
You whisper, “You shouldn’t make it look so easy.”
“Life’s easier when you laugh,” she says, brushing your hair back. “Besides, you need someone who reminds you you’re not just hunger.”
You lean against her shoulder. “And you need someone to remind you to slow down.”
Cipher grins. “Then it’s a deal, bloodsucker. You don’t chase me, and I don’t vanish on you.”
You chuckle faintly. “That’s not fair. You always vanish.”
Her voice drops lower, almost fond. “Yeah. But I always come back, too.”
You’ve seen Cerydra in battle — commanding, imperious, terrifyingly composed. But tonight, as she sits behind her desk with firelight reflected in her pupils, she looks more human than ever.
“You should have told me,” she says, her tone sharp but controlled. “You’ve been starving yourself for weeks.”
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you admit. Your hunger coils through your chest like smoke. “I can’t control it, Cerydra. The scent of your flame— it’s too much.”
Her expression softens just a fraction. “You think I can’t handle your hunger?”
“You’re law and order,” you whisper. “And I’m chaos.”
She stands. Her blue flame crown flickers brighter. “Then let the law guide the chaos.”
She approaches slowly, each step deliberate — regal, measured, terrifyingly calm. When she stops before you, she raises a hand to your chin, her voice low.
“You will not take from me without permission. But if you ask—if you trust me—then I will grant you control.”
Her words are power. Command. Comfort.
You breathe hard. “Please.”
Cerydra removes one glove, revealing her hand. “Then take only what you need. And remember who rules this flame.”
When your fangs pierce, her divine blood floods your senses — structured, precise, burning with logic and fury. It’s not sweetness; it’s iron and justice. You pull back too soon, afraid of hurting her, but she steadies you with one hand on the back of your neck.
“Good,” she murmurs. “You stopped when you chose to.”
You look up, trembling. “You’re not angry?”
“I am proud,” she says, and the words make you dizzy. “Discipline is not suppression. It’s choice. You’ve proven yours.”
Her blue flame brightens, wrapping you both in a faint warmth. “Next time,” she adds, “do not hide your hunger from me. We are not enemies. I will help you master it.”
You nod, breath shaky. “You always sound like a general.”
Cerydra smirks. “And you sound like someone who needs rest.”
She places a hand against your chest, steadying your heart with her Coreflame’s rhythm.
The world is quiet under the sky.
Under her gaze — firm, protective, unyielding — you feel peace for the first time in weeks.
You find her sitting among the ruins, her hair catching the moonlight, eyes like fading embers. She doesn’t turn when you approach — she already knows you’re there.
“You’re trembling again,” she murmurs. “The thirst hasn’t faded.”
“I can’t— it’s like drowning,” you whisper. “I keep dreaming of blood. And yours…”
You swallow hard. “Yours calls to me like a song.”
Evernight smiles faintly, sad but knowing. “Because it remembers. My blood holds memories, echoes of what was lost. And you…” she looks at you gently, “you carry too much longing.”
You sink to your knees beside her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she says. “You’ve always been careful, even when desperate.”
The silence stretches, heavy and soft. Then, Evernight offers her hand — ethereal, trembling like a candle’s glow.
“If it helps you find peace, then let me share a fragment of mine.”
You hesitate. “You’ll fade faster if you do.”
“I’ve faded before,” she says, smiling faintly. “It’s not so terrible.”
When your lips brush her wrist, it feels less like feeding and more like prayer. Her essence flows into you — cool, sorrowful, infinite. It doesn’t burn. It soothes. You see glimpses of her memories: laughter, loss, starlight, March’s reflection in her eyes. You pull away, tears streaking down your face.
“Why?” you whisper. “Why would you give this to me?”
“Because I remember what it’s like to hunger for something that isn’t yours,” she says softly. “And because I want you to remember… that even monsters can be gentle.”
She brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Don’t let the thirst define you. Let it remind you.”
You rest your forehead against hers. “What if I can’t stop wanting more?”
Her answer is barely above a whisper. “Then I’ll stay… until you learn to want the dawn again.”
The stars above flicker — dimming, then brightening. Her shadowy warmth wraps around you like a night tide. And in the silence that follows, you realize:
⚓ - You used to climb the stairs to see them, but they found you crying one day when you were too tired to make it to the top. The sight of you sitting on the stairs and looking so lonely broke their heart. Now they always meet you at the bottom of the lighthouse whenever you visit. They follow your pace, holding your hand and making sure you don't fall. If your little legs get too tired, they'll pick you up and carry you the rest of the way!
You can nap in their arms while they watch for ships, and they'll wake you up if they see anything interesting. Sometimes seagulls land on the lighthouse railing and you can babble at them! Other times, it's too stormy and cold to go outside. They'll make you a warm drink and bundle you up with extra blankets until you fall asleep.
embarrassment after a burp or belly noise is so cute. and someone soothing the embarrassed person after by lovingly patting or rubbing their tummy to let them know they care about their tummy, want their belly to feel relaxed and comfortable, and kindly assuring them they shouldn't be embarrassed about their digestive system's natural functions, like burps and gurgles. then kissing them on the lips and belly and continuing to comfort their stomach while the person feels all soft, vulnerable, and cared for inside, but even more embarrassed from all this attention on their pudgy little belly and digestive process.
Tags: Diluc x Gn!Reader, Oneshot, Sickfic, Stubborn Patient
Warnings: None
Diluc has seemed to come down with some sort of severe cold, and only you can drag the workaholic away from his duties to treat him.
* ˚ ✦ 2048 Words • Read below the cut
╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-╰┈➤ ❝ [30/12/25] ❞
It was incredibly late at night, but work never stopped for Diluc. The imposing oak doors to his office muffled any sounds from the rest of the manor, leaving the room in stifling silence. The only source of light on the desk was a single candle, its golden flames flickering in the air and casting Diluc's tall shadow across the rows of burgundy leather-bound ledgers.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
His quill maintained an unrelenting rhythm. Diluc sat ramrod straight, his cravat loosened just slightly, the smallest evidence of his uncharacteristic discomposure. Perhaps he was too enthralled with whatever work he was doing to notice the sound of the heavy door creaking open, but you studied him from the doorway for a brief moment.
You noted how his gloved hand gripped the pen with excessive force, turning his knuckles white. Suddenly, the rhythm of his quill froze. Diluc clutched at his chest, hunching his shoulders and tucking his face in the dip of his elbow. It was a muted, wet cough that he tried to swallow back into his lungs, but it cut through the silence anyway.
When he pulled his arm away, he did not look up; instead, he stared at the parchment again, his eyes hazy and unfocused.
"Diluc," you said softly, stepping into the circle of candlelight.
He didn't flinch, but his voice was dry. "The trade logs from Liyue... they're behind schedule. I just need to verify the tax stamps."
"The stamps aren't going anywhere," you countered, reaching the edge of his desk. "But your handwriting is. Look at that last line, Diluc. It’s a mess."
He reluctantly looked up, and the sight of him made your heart sink. His normally porcelain-fair skin was stained a furious, mottled crimson over his cheekbones, and his breath came in quick, shallow puffs that hitched in his throat. You could swear his skin looked hotter than his vision normally made him.
Your gaze shifted briefly to the forgotten grape juice on his desk, raising an eyebrow. Diluc never left anything half finished.
"I’m fine," he lied, the words catching on another suppressed cough. "It’s just... the dust from the archives. Go to bed. I'll join you when the ink is dry."
He reached for the ink container, but it seemed his fingers underestimated the distance. His hand trembled so much that the quill clattered against the wood. He stared at the dropped pen as if it were a traitor, a disgruntled frown forming between his brows. Before he could grant you permission, he felt your palm on his forehead and froze.
It was so cold in comparison to the way he was burning up.
"I said, I’m fine," Diluc repeated, his voice dropping into a stubborn rasp. To prove his point, he gripped the edge of the mahogany desk and pushed himself upward.
For a second, he stood tall.
Then, the blood drained from his face.
His lower extremities buckled, and the world appeared to tilt on its axis. He sputtered one second, and began to tip forward the next. You moved before he became acquainted with the floor, stepping into his space and seizing him by the shoulders. The heat radiating from him was unnerving, soaking through his vest and into your palms.
Diluc did not pull away for an unusually long time. He collapsed into you, his head resting on your shoulder as he battled dizziness. You felt his hot breath fan over your neck.
"See?" you murmured. "Even you can't fight a head spin."
"Just... a momentary lapse," he managed to choke out, though he didn't have the strength to push you off.
You knew logic was your only weapon. You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, keeping your hands steady on his arms. "Diluc, look at me. If you stay here and faint in this chair, you’ll be bedridden for three days, minimum. If you come upstairs and rest now, you’ll be back at this desk by tomorrow afternoon. Which is the more efficient use of your time?"
His eyes wandered slowly across your lips, absorbing the words through the fog of his fever. He loathed it when you were correct, especially when you used his own rhetoric against him. After a beat, his shoulders sank in dismay.
"Tactical... retreat," he muttered, a faint scowl twitching at his lips.
"Exactly. Now, move."
The trek to the master suite proved to be a tedious and cumbersome one. You nestled yourself beneath his arm, serving as a human crutch. He tried to preserve some dignity, but as you moved through the poorly lighted hallway, his weight became increasingly heavy on you.
"This is an unnecessary fuss," he grumbled into his collar, his footsteps heavy and uneven. "I have a constitutional resilience to... kh… kh-kt!... common ailments. Adeline could have brought me a tea... you didn't need to..."
"Quiet, Diluc." Your voice was firm as you steered him through his bedroom door.
"Inefficient," he muttered a final time, but when the edge of the bed crested above the back of his knees, he stumbled onto the mattress, finally allowing the shadows of the room to envelop his exhausted vision.
The master bedroom had been lit by the dwindling embers of the fireplace. Diluc sat at the edge of the mattress, his head hung low. After some fumbling with his clothes, he appeared diminutive without the crisp silhouette of his frock coat; he felt too weak to take hold of the silver buckles on his boots himself, so you softly pushed his hands aside to do it for him.
He had not complained, instead coughing dryly as he flopped back against the pillows. You only left for a second to go fetch a basin of cool water, a cloth, and some tea. The master suite's air was laden with the aroma of dried cedarwood and the strong, medicinal fragrance of the herbal tea steeping on the nightstand.
As you leaned over him, the heat emanating from Diluc's body was tremendous. Less like a fever, and more like the glistening air above a forge. Most likely a direct cause of his vision; it typically responded to his internal discomfort by raising his body temperature until he was truly miserable.
At least he's great to cuddle with.
When you finally laid the damp cloth on his forehead, the contrast was startling; a slight hiss of steam seemed to rise from his skin. His eyes, which were normally bright and calculating, fluttered shut as a result of the cold compress. The stiffness in his jaw subsided, and the lines of constant stress on his brow smoothed out, leaving him looking nothing more than human - and profoundly fatigued.
"You shouldn't stay..." he muttered, his fingers brushing your wrist with a heat that felt like a brand. "You'll... get sick, too. Go back to your own wing."
"I'm a lot stronger than you give me credit for, Master Diluc," you countered with a teasing laugh, gently nudging his hand back down to the sheets. He was far too delirious to chide you for the use of that title. You reached for the steaming mug, the scent of valberry and mint rising to meet you.
"Now be quiet and drink this tea. That’s an order from your temporary physician."
He begrudgingly let you guide the cup to his lips.
...
By midnight, the fever had peaked. His chambers were silent, save for the occasional crackle of the dwindling fire and Diluc's strained breathing. He tossed and turned, his head against the damp pillow, locks sprawled in a wild, scarlet tangle across the white linen.
You'd think he looked pretty if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't fully present anymore, mind foggy and between awakening and a nightmare. This was a rare sight.
"The sky... it’s the wrong colour," he rasped, his eyes snapping open, though they didn't seem to see you. They swam with the heat of his delirium. "It’s too dark. I can't..."
"Diluc, you're at the winery. You're safe," you whispered, leaning over to replace the cloth on his brow.
He did not seem to hear you. He began to mumble, pieces of ideas he normally kept hidden behind iron gates. He described his father's final breath, the weight of a heritage that felt more like a shackle than a gift, and the crushing loneliness of a man who fought in a battle the city was unaware was taking place.
"I have to keep them out," he choked out. "If I stop... if I close my eyes... who stays behind?"
You shushed him while rising up to refill his mug, ignoring whatever it was he was rambling about. Then, his hand sprung from beneath the sheets, his calloused fingers clamping onto your wrist. They fell down into your hand, clutching it desperately and white-knuckled.
"Wait," he breathed, the command cracking into a plea. "Don't... don't go back to the city yet. Not tonight."
His thumb rubbed a frantic, uneven circle over your knuckles, his skin practically searing yours. You were concerned, of course, but it was somewhat amusing the way he clung onto you.
"Just... stay," he whispered, his eyes heavy and pleading as they began to slip shut again. "Stay until the sun comes up. Please. I don't want to wake up alone."
You sighed, sinking into the armchair at his bedside. The inferno within him flickered momentarily as your hand closed around his, a quiet tether pulling him from the past’s relentless grip, grounding him to the now, in this room, in you.
...
The morning light filtered into the room in pale, thin fragments, piercing the heavy velvet curtains and lighting the dust motes swirling in the air. Diluc moved, his eyelids heavy but no longer scorched by the heat of his own blood. His head was clear, but his body felt like stone. As he shifted, memories of the previous night resurfaced in disjointed spurts.
The flavor of bitter tea, the cool touch of a cloth, and the sound of a voice all helped to keep the dreams at bay. He carefully moved his head to find you. You were slumped in the recliner near his bed, your chin tucked into your chest and fast asleep. You were still dressed in yesterday's clothes, tired after your all-night vigil.
Diluc's face softened slightly, which was unusual for him. He was too proud, too hesitant to wake you with great expressions of thanks, but seeing you quiver slightly in the morning chill touched him. He sat up slowly, disregarding the objections of his sore muscles. He reached for his discarded frock coat, the heavy, fur-lined one you had helped him out of hours earlier, and leaned over the edge of the bed.
With a firm, gentle touch, he placed the coat over your shoulders and tucked the collar around your neck to keep you warm. His fingers swept the hair away from your face, the touch emitting a pleasant warmth rather than a burning fever. When you finally opened your eyes, the first thing you noticed was his familiar, comfortable scent.
Smoke and expensive wine.
Diluc was sitting up against the headboard, alongside a tray of light breakfast and water already on his lap. His ponytail was unkempt, and his face looked pallid, but the glassy look in his eyes had vanished. He looked like himself again.
"You’re awake," he said, his voice quiet and much smoother than that of the night before.
"Diluc? You're sitting up," you mumbled, still half lost in sleep. "How do you feel?"
He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from a fresh cup of tea. "Better. Much better. The... efficiency of your methods proved more effective than my own resilience." He paused, his expression turning sincere as he looked back at you. "Thank you. I... suppose I was more fatigued than I realized. I was foolish to ignore the signs."
He reached out, his palm briefly hovering over yours before giving it a quick, anchoring squeeze.
"I've already sent word to Elzer," he added, a small, rare shadow of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "He is to cancel my meetings for the morning. I’ll stay here. With you."
