WARNINGS: SAGAU Cult AU, Imposter God AU, Creator Reader, Female reader, Implied/Depicted Violence, Major Character Injury, Yandere Behaviour, Emotional Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touch, Dehumanisation, Imprisonment/Confinement, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Cult Mentality, Unhealthy Behaviour, Slowburn HARBINGERS MENTONED LATER. 30+ part series.
Word count: 7.5k
SYNOPSIS: You never asked to be anything more than human — but the frozen wilds of Snezhnaya had other plans.
When you are found collapsed in the snow, it isn’t a king or a god who finds you. It’s a battered Fatui grunt: a nameless recruit worked to the bone, with a warmth that refuses to go cold. Against orders, they hide you away. They feed you, tend to you, nurse you back from the edge, offering help and a loyalty that asks nothing in return. They don’t know what you are. They don’t care. To them, you are simply someone worth saving.
But not everyone is so blind.
Word of your strange presence spreads, drawing the gaze of a Harbinger — a force of awe, reverence, and ruthless devotion. They recognize something divine the moment they see you. To them, you are a long-lost miracle. A creator returned. A power meant to be claimed, protected, worshiped.
And they will not leave without you.
When the search closes in, the soldier helps you escape. Together, you flee toward Nod-Krai, where the Fatui’s reach will hopefully thin and the truth can stay buried a little longer.
You believe you’re only trying to survive.
The world is looking for its creator.
It was cold.
The air stung against your skin and seeped through your clothes, settling deep inside you.
After a while, warmth felt unreal, like something you used to know but couldn’t remember anymore.
You moved forward slowly, arms pulled tight around yourself, boots dragging through the snow. Everything blurred into white and grey sky thick with clouds, the horizon lost in the drifting snow.
Each breath you took seared your lungs, sharp and metallic.
It didn't even feel like you where breathing air anymore, it felt like glass.
You didn't know how long you had been walking.
Minutes?
Hours?
Days?
You where losing consciousness every few seconds.
There was a heavy, dragging emptiness in your mind where the memory should have been.
Where anything should have been.
Your name.
How you got here.
What happened.
Gone.
Every few steps, something slipped through the dark of your mind. Brief flashes of color, half-formed sounds. They vanished before you could hold onto them, leaving no meaning behind.
Your head felt heavy, your thoughts slow, and each time your vision dimmed, it took effort to pull yourself back. The fragments kept coming, unfamiliar and useless, it was as if they belonged to someone else. You grit your teeth and pressed on, trying to think logically.
Find shelter.
Find people.
Don't stop walking.
But the snow clung to you like hands pulling you down. Your muscles ached, stiff and slow, barely obeying the frantic commands firing off in your skull.
Your vision blurred at the edges - a slow, creeping tunnel vision that turned the landscape into an endless smear of white on white.
At some point, you realized your couldn't feel your fingers, That screamed something was very, very wrong.
You stared down at your hands, flexing them weakly and watched as clumsy, delayed movements answered you back.
You felt, absurdly, like you were watching yourself from far away.
Like a stranger wearing your body.
You definitely had hypothermia. Severe hypothermia
You couldn't even feel scared, you where too tired, just heavy acceptance that this was happening.
A gust of wind slammed into you, staggering your body sideways. You threw your arms out instinctively, tried to catch yourself - and slipped.
You hit the snow with a muffled thump, your limbs sprawling awkwardly.
For a moment you just laid there, the sky a swirling grey-white blur above you, the snow slowly soaking through your clothes.
Get up, your mind whispered, urgent and thin.
Get up, get up, get up-
You rolled onto your hands and knees, trembling with the effort.
Snow clung to your face, your sleeves, your legs.
Your body screamed at you to stop - to rest - to just let go.
But some stubborn, primal part of you - forced you upright again.
You staggered forward.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The storm rose around you like a living thing.
The wind howled between distant ice-cracked rocks, screaming high and shrill like mourning pipes.
Snow whipped across the ground in long, frantic streaks.
Somewhere above, the clouds twisted and churned - angry, low, bruised with strange colors you couldn't name.
You pressed onward, eyes half-lidded, mind slipping in and out of lucidity.
Were those lights in the distance?
A village?
A fire?
You squinted, heart lurching - but when you blinked, there was nothing there. Just more snow, more darkness.
The realization hit you with the force of a punch:
There was nothing.
Did you imagining it?
You were alone.
The exhaustion slammed into you then, sudden and overwhelming.
Your legs folded underneath you, a puppet with its strings cut.
You crumpled into the snow, your arms splaying out, your body sinking deep into the freezing drift.
The cold no longer hurt.
It was... gentle now.
Soft.
It whispered to you:
Rest. Sleep. It's easier this way.
You tried to lift your head, but it was too heavy.
Tried to call for help, but your mouth wouldn't form the words.
Only a soft, broken exhale escaped you - a ghost of a sound, eaten instantly by the storm.
Your cheek pressed against the snow.
Oddly, it felt warm now.
Not burning, not freezing - just... warm.
The last thing you saw was the sky -
not black, not blue, but a strange, swirling grey, as if the world itself had been smudged out by an uncaring hand.
You let your eyes drift shut.
The snow rose up and swallowed you whole.
(Pov change)
Alexei Morozov had been born in the cold.
Sometimes he wondered if that was why it didn't bother him as much as it should - why even now, trudging through a blizzard that could flay the skin off a man's bones, he only felt a dull, bitter resignation gnawing at him, instead of fear.
Snow whipped past his face in vicious gusts.
The scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose was soaked through, icy against his skin.
Each breath he drew rattled in his lungs, thin and burning.
His hands - wrapped in worn, half-frozen gloves - tightened around the shaft of his spear.
He hated this.
Not the cold, he'd lived with that his whole life - but the pointlessness of it.
Marching endless patrol routes around an empty wasteland.
Guarding nothing. Watching nothing.
Because that was what you got when you weren't one of the Chosen.
No Delusion.
No Vision.
No shining medals or proud family name.
Just Private Alexei Morozov, third son of a drunken blacksmith, slogging his guts out on the Tsaritsa's frozen frontiers.
He let out a slow breath through his teeth, watching it ghost into the air.
The blizzard roared louder around him, drowning out even the sound of his own boots crunching into the snow.
The world had shrunk to a little bubble of grey around him - a few feet in every direction - beyond which there was only screaming wind and shifting white.
He was supposed to complete his perimeter check.
Supposed to report back.
Supposed to do his duty.
He knew how it worked: complete the patrol, earn your ration tickets, earn your bed. Fail, and... well.
No one would miss him.
Morozov the Nobody, he'd heard one of the higher-ranked sergeants call him once, half-drunk and laughing.
Tch. What a bastard, he thought, letting out quiet sigh under his breath.
He adjusted the strap of his pack, grunting low in his throat, and pushed forward.
Half an hour more, maybe. Then he'd circle back to the outpost cabin. Maybe sneak an extra drink of the bad vodka stash they'd hidden under the floorboards. Maybe warm his half-frozen boots by the spluttering fire.
Maybe pretend, just for a few hours, that this life was worth something.
Something flickered out of the corner of his eye, not the usual color he was used to being out in these parts of the forest.
He almost missed it at first.
It was nothing - just a dark smear against the snow, small and unnatural - barely visible through the storm.
He blinked hard, rubbed at his eyes with the back of his glove.
Still there.
His pulse spiked without warning. Instinct took over, drilled lessons surfacing all at once-move carefully, expect danger.
He shifted his grip on the spear, every nerve in his body coiled tight.
Enemy scout?
Bandit?
Frozen refugee?
Slowly, carefully, Alexei made his way closer.
The figure didn't move.
Closer still.
It wasn't an enemy.
Wasn't a bandit, or a rebel.
It was... someone - curled half-under a drift, limbs awkward and stiff.
A civilian.
Or at least, what looked like one.
Alexei crouched low beside the figure, peering through the swirling snow.
Their clothes were wrong - too thin, strange fabric, no furs, no armor.
Not even boots made for Snezhnaya's winters.
Who ever it was they must have been borderline suicidal wearing something like that in the dead of Snezhnayan weather.
Their skin was alarmingly pale. A kind of pallor that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They must have been our for for a hour or two.
He fumbled his gloves off with stiff fingers, pressed two against the side of their throat.
For one awful second, he felt nothing.
Then -
A flutter.
Weak. Thready. Barely there.
But alive.
Alexei swore under his breath, the words torn away by the wind.
What was he supposed to do?
Regulations said to detain unknown individuals.
Especially ones found this close to restricted patrol zones.
Which meant dragging this half-dead stranger back to the outpost...
Back when he’d been assigned under the Harbinger’s command—Scaramouche. A routine sweep, nothing special. The group of grunts he was working with found a lone figure wandering too close to a Fatui outpost, unarmed, confused, swearing they’d taken a wrong turn.
Lost, maybe. It hadn’t mattered.
Scaramouche hadn’t even asked them any questions. He hadn’t even raised his voice. Just a flick of his hand, a crack of electricity, and it was over.
No hesitation. No regret. The body was left where it fell, and the order was given to move on.
That was the rule. That was how things were handled.
Morozov swallowed, eyes flicking back to the stranger ahead of him.
Or worse, he thought—and this time, the words wouldn’t leave his head.
He swallowed hard.
He didn't know why he hesitated.
Maybe it was the way they looked - not desperate, not dangerous.
He should have been used to this.
The Fatui made sure of that, grinding the reaction out of you until faces blurred and orders were just orders.
And yet.
For some reason, he couldn’t move.
The thought of taking them back to camp turned his stomach. Something in his head kept pushing back, sharp and unformed, telling him not to do it.
He didn’t understand it. He didn’t try to. It was there anyway—instinctive, insistent.
He glanced around - reflexively - though there was no one to see him.
Then, with a muttered curse, he shoved his spear into the snow and hooked his arms under the limp body.
They were terrifyingly light.
Like carrying a child.
Their head lolled against his chest, breath shallow and rasping.
Alexei gritted his teeth against the ache in his muscles, adjusted his grip, and started back toward the outpost cabin - not the main base.
No one needed to know about this.
The storm screamed louder, battering against him with every step, but he bowed his head and kept walking.
He was curious about the situation that could have landed them laying half dead in a snowbank. Or why there where in the forest during a snowstorm.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The weight in his arms was too small, too fragile. How long have they been out here to archive this light?
He tightened his hold instinctively, as if trying to shield them from the storm itself.
In the distance, barely visible through the snow, the crooked outline of the patrol cabin rose up - salvation of a sort.
Alexei trudged toward it.
He didn't know who he had found.
All he knew was that he couldn't let them die.
Not out here.
Not tonight.
The cabin door shuddered against the wind as Alexei shoved it open with his shoulder, the wood groaning in protest.
Inside, the air was only marginally warmer than the blizzard outside.
A battered iron stove sulked in the corner, its belly empty and cold.
The narrow bunk against the far wall was stripped down to threadbare bedding.
The place smelled of old smoke, frozen leather, and sweat.
But it was shelter. It would be good enough.
Alexei kicked the door shut behind him, letting the latch fall into place, and stumbled further in, the precious burden in his arms weighing heavier by the second.
He cursed again under his breath exhausted.
What the hell am I doing?
What the hell are they doing here?
He knelt down beside the bunk, as gently as he could, and eased the stranger onto it.
They didn't stir.
No protest. No groan.
Just a slow, rattling breath leaking from between cracked, dry lips.
He stripped off his gloves with numb fingers, then hesitated.
The stranger's clothes were soaked through - already half-frozen stiff.
If he left them like this, they'd die of hypothermia within the hour.
Alexei scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.
He shouldn't even be doing this, hed he killed if his commanding officer found out about this. But something deep in his gut - that same old stubborn instinct - told him if he left them like this, he'd be digging his and their's grave by morning.
With a grunt, he set to work
First, the feet.
Bare. No boots, no protection at all. The skin was pale, cold to the touch, but not ruined. That alone didn’t make sense.
Then the clothing.
Thin layers, soft and strange, clinging like silk. They shimmered faintly, catching the light where ice had settled along the folds. He’d never seen material like it—not in Snezhnaya, not in any of the other nations. No padding. No fur. No protection. Nothing meant for this world.
He worked quickly, keeping his focus narrow. He didn’t think about how cold they felt, or how faint their pulse was under his fingers. He just kept going.
Once he had them stripped to undergarments - not much better, but at least relatively (not really but he wouldn't strip them nude) - he pulled the thin blanket down from the bunk and wrapped it around them tightly, cocooning them against the cold.
The whole time, they didn't so much as twitch.
Alexei crouched back, sighing at this work.
Snow melted off his own uniform in slow, stinging drips. His fingers were stiff and clumsy. His legs ached. But he stayed kneeling there, watching them. Listening to the faint rise and fall of their breathing.
...
This was stupid. He knew it was.
He didn’t do things like this. Helping people. He couldn’t be bothered. Taking risks for people who weren’t his problem was a waste.
The Fatui didn’t reward that kind of behavior. Neither did Snezhnaya. You survived by keeping your head down and your hands clean. By walking past what didn’t concern you.
He pushed himself upright, moving to the stove.
He fed it tinder and kindling from the battered supply crate beside it, then struck the flint.
Sparks leapt.
Caught.
The fire guttered into life with a low, sullen growl, casting flickering gold light across the dim cabin.
Alexei sat back on his heels, watching it for a long moment.
The simple, stupid comfort of fire.
The stranger shivered on the bunk - a tiny, unconscious jerk - and Alexei moved without thinking, dragging the rickety thing closer to the stove.
The legs screeched against the floorboards, but he didn't care.
Anything to get them warmer.
Anything to get that too-pale face to show a little more life.
The stranger shuddered violently, a low, broken sound tearing from their throat.
Alexei was at their side in an instant, dropping to one knee, gripping their shoulder through the blanket.
"Hey," he said gruffly.
Not expecting an answer.
Their head rolled weakly toward him.
For a moment - just a moment - their eyes cracked open.
Barely a sliver.
Their lashes rimed with frost.
Eyes dazed, unfocused.
But still - they looked at him. Kinda?
A rush of something hot and sick slammed into his gut.
He swallowed against it, trying to find words - anything - but before he could speak, their eyelids fluttered shut again.
Breath rasped in their throat.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and eased them back down against the bunk, adjusting the blanket tighter around their shoulders.
Something about them tugged at him.
"Stay with me," he muttered, the words rough and useless.
A prayer disguised as an order.
Alexei sat back on the floor, leaning against the bunk.
The fire crackled low and steady.
The storm raged outside.
Inside the cabin, the world had shrunk to the two of them.
To the fragile form lying limp on the bed.
It had been hours since he had dragged them in from the snow.
Hours of watching them, listening to their breath rasping in and out like the sound of the wind itself.
The steady rhythm was both comforting and unnerving.
As if they were clinging to life only by sheer stubbornness.
But how long could they hold on like this?
A tightness curled in Alexei's chest, making it difficult to breathe.
He rubbed a hand against his face - rough, unshaven - and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.
He couldn't sit here any longer.
Pacing the cabin felt like the only way to make the tension inside him bearable.
His boots scuffed against the floorboards as he moved from one end of the cabin to the other, his thoughts never still.
What kind of fool was he?
He was dead meat for sure by now, hours late, hours he had disappeared.
His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles scraping against the rough fabric of his uniform.
There had been something in their gaze - something fragile and haunting, and yet there was a strange sort of strength behind it. Something that had made him feel... protective. He hadn't wanted to leave them out there in the storm, to die alone, buried beneath the snow.
Was this a kindness?
Or some kind of idiocy?
Alexei scowled at the floor, kicking a stray boot out of his path, and walked back to the stove.
His hands fumbled for a moment.
Not really knowing what he was looking for - something, anything to break the silence that seemed to suffocate the air.
He found an old, dented tin of broth in the corner, shoved into a cracked shelf along with some other remnants of past meals.
It was frozen solid... But hey, he wasn't picky.
With a curse, he tossed it into the pot, watching it melt under the heat of the stove, the sound of ice cracking sharply as it thawed. The smell was faint but comforting - the familiar scent of salted meat, old vegetables.
The clink of metal on metal filled the cabin, the fire's crackling a steady backdrop.
His eyes flicked over to the bunk.
The blanket still clung loosely around their frame.
They should be completly awake by now.
Alexei bit the inside of his cheek, biting back a growl of frustration.
He scraped together a rough bowl of broth once it was warm enough.
The tin had melted into something drinkable, though it wasn't much.
Moving back to the bunk Alexei sat down beside them and pulled them upright, bracing their back against his chest so they wouldn't slump as he turned them slightly to the side.r side to make it easier to feed them.
The motion seemed to stir them just a little - their brow furrowed, lips parted in a faint grimace. But they didn't wake.
....
How could he force someone to eat who couldn't even hold themselves up?
He let out a soft sigh, rubbing his hand across his face.
They needed food.
Alexei scooped up a bit of the broth and reached out carefully.
The warmth of the soup contrasted against the cool air in the cabin, and he moved the spoon toward their mouth, praying they would respond to something.
Just a little.
And then, with a tiny flicker - their lips parted.
Barely enough to allow the spoon in. They swallowed, the faintest of sounds escaping their throat.
It took several more spoonfuls, slow and careful, for the stranger to even begin to settle into the warmth of the food. But Alexei didn't move from his place at their side.
Every spoonful, every small shift in their body, felt like a fragile victory to poor old Alexei.
Their lips parted, and a weak, dry cough rattled in their chest. The sound scraped against Alexei's nerves, and his breath caught in his throat as he leaned forward catching their chin between his fingers.
"Hey," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "Take it easy. Your safe" He frowned at himself for sounding so soft.
Their brow furrowed as they turned their head slightly, facing him more.
"Just... breathe," he murmured softly, his voice unsteady for reasons he couldn't quite place.
The stranger blinked, trying to focus. Their gaze flickered around the room, the same confusion in their eyes.
He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable in the quiet.
"You should talk," Alexei said, his voice far too loud in the silence. "Tell me something. Anything."
There was no answer. Just the soft rasp of their breath. He cursed under his breath, frustration creeping in.
“Damn it,” he sighed.
He reached for the tin of broth again, the warmth still radiating from the stove. It would help, he knew. They needed more. He needed to make sure they didn't slip away while he was busy spinning in circles, second-guessing himself.
The stranger's mouth parted as they took the liquid, their lips dry and cracked.
A long time passed. The soup had finished, and the stranger was resting again, still too weak to do anything but let Alexei's care hold them together.
....
He didn't even realize he fell asleep waiting
Alexei was slouched nearby, half-sitting, half-slumped against the wall. He hadn’t intended to sleep—just to rest his eyes—but exhaustion had won out somewhere in the early hours. Now his breath came shallow through parted lips, fogging faintly in the air. One arm lay crooked over his stomach, the other hanging limp at his side. His coat had slipped off his shoulder.
The girl still lay where he had left her, curled beneath his spare cloak and the bundled hide he’d dragged from a storage crate. Her features were finally starting to lose the pinched tension of fever, and her breathing had evened out in the last few hours. He’d checked. Repeatedly.
He looked over and saw she was already awake, lying still and staring at the ceiling, clearly unaware of where she was.
Her gaze was unfocused, staring past the cracked ceiling beams at something only she could see. She blinked, slow and unsure, and when her eyes finally shifted—catching movement in the corner of her vision—her whole body tensed.
Alexei sat up straighter but didn’t approach.
He saw it, clear as day—the tension in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands. The confusion. The fear.
She looked around the room, tense and confused, clearly having no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there.
Poor girl, he thought. She has absolutely no idea where she is. I can imagine waking up like that is one hell of start.
“…You’re alright,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse. “You're safe.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on him now, wide and uncertain. She looked like she wanted to speak, but couldn’t remember how. Maybe she didn’t even know what to ask.
Alexei stayed where he was.
He could have stood, could have moved to check on her—but some part of him knew better. She looked like a fawn cornered in a thicket. You didn’t rush creatures like that. You let them choose.
He nodded once toward the fire. “It’s morning. The storm passed.” A pause. “I found you outside.”
Her lips parted—he thought she might try to respond, but then she closed them again. She looked down at her hands instead. Pale fingers, raw from the cold. She moved them slowly, as if they weren’t quite hers.
Alexei’s throat tightened.
“…You were half-frozen,” he added, quieter now. “Didn’t think you’d wake up.” His hand shifted to his coat—he hesitated, then reached to the floor beside him and picked up a metal cup. “Water?”
She blinked, eyes darting to it. Then—hesitantly—she nodded.
He crossed the room in measured steps, careful not to startle her. Kneeling beside her, he offered the cup with both hands, keeping his eyes lowered. She took it, barely grazing his fingers, and the contact sent something sharp and quiet down his spine. He didn’t know what it was.
She drank slowly. The water was lukewarm and faintly metallic, but she didn’t seem to mind. She drained half of it before her strength gave out, and her grip loosened.
He caught the cup before it could fall and set it aside.
Silence again.
She looked at him now—directly. Her eyes were… strange. Not in color or shape, but in depth. Like staring into a well that had no bottom.
Alexei held her gaze for a moment, then broke it.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, standing again. “You need rest. That’s all.”
He moved back toward the hearth, crouching beside the fire to prod it with a bit of broken wood. The crackling resumed, a soft, comforting noise.
He didn’t look back at her again until he heard fabric shift behind him. She was lying down, eyes half-lidded now, the warmth pulling her back under.
He hesitated, then grabbed his jacket and stepped back to her side. Gently, without speaking, he draped it over her again—tucking it beneath her chin to block the draft leaking through the cracked door.
The fire had begun to burn brighter again, spitting sparks into the stone hearth with every shift of the coals. Alexei sat crouched beside it, one knee bent, the other foot braced flat on the floor.
Behind him, She was still tucked beneath his jacket and the wool hide, her body curled small, like she was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
Outside, the world was pure white. The storm had moved on, but it left a silence so thick it pressed against the windows like a held breath. The snow had drifted high against the door; they'd be stuck here for a while. Not like they could possibly go anywhere else.
He would be dead meat if anyone from the fatui found him.
Alexei leaned back and exhaled.
He caught himself watching her again. He couldn't stop thinking about her.
It wasn't surprising, really. When you are snowed in and she was the only other person around, there wasn't much else to focus on.
Her skin was pale against the dark room. Her lashes stirred now and then, slow and unfocused, like she wasn’t fully awake yet. She looked out of place in a way he couldn’t explain, not matching the room or anything he’d known.
She looked fragile in the way something wasn’t meant to be touched at all.
For instance is she where to stand next to a rugged looking man like myself, the contrast would be impossible to miss. Like she’d been dropped into the wrong world entirely.
But he felt something more to her.
It wasn't his first time feeling something like this.
He’d felt something like this before, once, during training—crossing paths with a Harbinger
II Dottore. A scientist, obsessed with his work, experimenting on people while they were still alive.
The man carried a presence that cut straight through you, made it hard to think clearly. Standing near him felt like waiting for something terrible to happen, like disaster was already inevitable.rous, inevitable.
She carried a weight too—but different. It was subtle, insistent, drawing him closer instead of pushing him away, like something quietly asking for his attention.
It was impossible to define. Sharp and strange, like a signal from someplace he didn’t understand. Fragile, small, yet undeniably present. Every movement, every blink, the faint tremor in her hands—he noticed it all, even when he didn’t want to.
He tried to make sense of it, to pin it down, but nothing fit. Nothing he knew explained it. It just… existed, pressing on him in ways he couldn’t name, tugging at his attention and making him linger, watching, waiting.
He didn’t try to fight it. He simply let it be, letting the feeling hold him there.
Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.
Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Apparently, as she tried to make sense of her own thoughts, he was doing the same
Alexei raised an eyebrow, taking her in. She may be feeling better to talk now.
She looked off, distressed, beads of sweat glinting on her pale skin.
You really shouldn't be moving yet. You're still too weak." he said.
She didn't answer.
“Why… why’d you help me?” Her voice was thin, trembling almost like a note of music.
The question was soft. Not accusatory. Just… curious. As if she couldn’t quite believe it herself.
Alexei drew a breath, slow and tired.
“I don’t know.”
Another log popped in the hearth.
“I don’t know why I helped you. I’m Fatui. I don’t usually help people—but I couldn’t leave you out there.”
Fatui?” she asked, her voice quiet, tentative. “You’re joking… are you serious?” She looked as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said.
“Yeah. I’m Fatui. Why would I be joking? Do you… have bad relations with the Fatui?”
Her eyes flicked to his outfit. He wasn’t wearing a full uniform, just the symbol stamped over his clothes, but that alone seemed enough to make her pause.
She shook her head slowly, still staring at nothing in particular. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, completely silent. The quiet stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, she shook her head again. “No… I don’t have any relation to the Fatui.”
Alexei didn’t know what she was thinking. He could see the confusion and concern in her eyes, it was like she couldn't belive what you just said.
“So… where exactly am I?”
"..."
"We're in Snezhnaya," he said, keeping his voice even.
She still looked as if she didn’t believe him
“I’m not sure why you’re acting like I’m lying,” he said, voice flat. “I’m wearing a Fatui uniform, and look outside—we’re completely snowed in.”
"..."
“I have no reason to lie, you know,” he added. “Bold of you to question your savior. Would you prefer I leave you out there in the Snezhnaya snow?”
A sudden cough ripped through her throat, and she curled in on herself slightly. Still weak from the hypothermia, her body trembled.
“Sorry… thank you for saving me, but it’s hard to believe. That place… is fictional.” She looked at him, clearly struggling to make sense of everything.
…He didn’t reply. Just stared at her, like she’d lost her mind. He shook his head slightly. I mean… really?
He said in a calm tone, “Okay. I think you should go back to rest. You’re not thinking straight right now.”
He shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. How did she just say Snezhnaya is fictional?
Was this… some kind of memory loss? People forget things, sure, but calling a real place fake? That didn’t make sense. Maybe the cold scrambled her mind. Maybe she’d been through something worse than he realized. Or… maybe he’d just saved someone completely unhinged.
She flinched slightly under his hard gaze—part judgment, part concern. Embarrassed, she looked down and shook her head, still clearly confused and shaken.
She didn't answer, just shifted slightly, curling back under the blankets. Her hands trembled, and he resisted the urge to reach out and tuck her in.
Alexei exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to make of her
A quiet tension hung between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire. Alexei’s jaw tightened. He still had no answers—no way to make sense of her, of the pull he felt toward her, or why he’d saved her in the first place.
SYNOPSIS : Transported into a video game, then to be cast out as an imposter and left for dead, you survive what should have been final. As Zhongli’s devotion twists into obsession and Dottore claims you as his own, divinity proves to be nothing but another vulnerability.
WARNINGS : SAGAU Cult AU, Imposter God AU, Creator Reader, Gender Neutral, Implied/Depicted Violence, Major Character Injury, Yandere Behaviour, Emotional Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touch, Dehumanisation, Imprisonment / Confinement, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Cult Mentality, Unhealthy Behaviour.
Zhongli had waited six thousand years for the Creator.
Somewhat to his own embarrassment, his first impression upon their arrival was how unlike anything he had imagined they were. The scriptures had described them in meticulous detail, yet words were finite, limited in their ability to capture a being such as this. No passage could have prepared him for the reality of them standing before him.
And then there was the truth of it— undeniable. They were cruel.
That, however, was not a problem. Zhongli had waited six thousand years. In that time, he learned how to shape himself, his views, his convictions, even the core of his being, into something that might better suit the Creator’s tastes. Devotion, after all, was an act of constant refinement. At times, he allowed himself to daydream. He imagined presenting them with his life’s work and waiting, measured and silent, for their judgment. Would they approve of Liyue as it stood? Of the way he had ruled, the choices he had made, the sacrifices demanded across millennia? Would they find fault in him? He decided it would not matter. If they were displeased, if there was anything they wished changed, he would see it done. Land could be torn asunder. The heavens themselves, which tethered the world to the sky, could be challenged and overthrown. Should the flaw prove to be himself, then he would correct that as well. Thus, when an imposter was discovered, and the Creator’s displeasure became unmistakably clear, Zhongli did not hesitate. As a faithful servant ought, he took it upon himself to remove the problem.
His first impression of you, however, brings his carefully laid plans to a halt. A week after the announcement of your existence, he finally finds you. The moment his eyes settle on you, he freezes, utterly still, as though the world itself has paused around him. His heart sinks, an unfamiliar weight settling low in his chest as he watches you seated by the riverbank, the quiet radiance of your existence rippling outward through the water. For a fleeting moment, the instinct to kneel nearly overtakes him. He suppresses it at once. That impulse is misplaced. Reverence belongs to the Creator alone. What unsettles him now is nothing more than the sight of your reflection trembling in the current, a trick of light and water that stirs something it has no right to.
That must be it.
Surely, it is only your mirrored image, one that reflects the creator, that confounds his loyalties—nothing more.
His second impression of you is this: you are frustratingly difficult to kill.
At first, he makes easy work of you. There is nothing dramatic about it, just red blood spilled, the abrupt drain of colour from your skin, a heartbeat that falters and fades far too quickly. If he wished, he could have ensured it was final. He could have ordered your body burned, or cast from one of Liyue’s many cliffs, erased so thoroughly that even rumour would struggle to remember you. But it was late. He was expected to return before sunrise, and the inconvenience of further effort outweighed its necessity. The matter seemed settled enough as it was. He would attend to your body in the morning, once the light had fully left your eyes and there could be no lingering doubt. It was not as though you could cause any further trouble in his absence.
One can imagine, then, his surprise when he returned the following morning, no less than twelve hours later, to find you gone. Not merely absent, but erased, without a single trace left behind. Were he anyone else, he might have called it a miracle. The blood had vanished as though it had been dissolved into the earth itself, or carried away by the river that thundered against the rocks where he had left you. Nothing to suggest a body had ever lain there at all. The likelihood of scavengers having found you was far lower than he would have preferred to believe. And that, more than the emptiness of the riverbank, unsettled him.
His instincts prove correct soon enough, as word of you reaches him from Inazuma. He ought to feel relieved. The matter is no longer his to resolve; it has passed into the hands of another nation. He is free to return to the Creator’s side, where he belongs, unburdened by unfinished duty. This should be a blessing. And yet— A single, treacherous thought coils in his mind. Why is it them, and not him? Zhongli knows he should not indulge such feelings. Jealousy has no place in devotion. If there is anger stirring within him, it should be directed at you, for slipping beyond his grasp, for unsettling the Creator with your continued existence. That is the proper interpretation. That is what he tells himself.
Still, the nights stretch long and restless. He lies awake, thoughts circling where they should not, imagining what it might be like to find you again—to stand before you once more, and lay his eyes upon your visage with nothing left between them but truth.
His third impression, he decides, is one of hate.
You occupy his thoughts with an unforgiving persistence. Despite how little he truly remembers of you, you consume every waking moment, and the moments that should have been given to sleep. Nights find him kneeling before the small shrine he has built for the Creator, hands steady, posture reverent, as if ritual alone might absolve him. He knows himself to be a righteous man. That certainty changes nothing. He can feel you. He can see you as you were—sunlight caught in your hair, warmth spilling across the river’s surface, the glow of your presence almost caressing his form as you gazed down at your own reflection. The memory is unbidden, vivid, intolerable.
This is not his fault. He refuses to believe it is.
It is you, the deviant, who sparked this flame. And so he prays. No, he begs, for your fire not to sear him to flesh and mind, even as it continues to burn him all the same. He prays for his creator to deliver him from this sin, he stays kneeling at the shrine for the better half of the nights coming, as he can almost feel the fire burning him.
Meanwhile, you lie half-dead in the white snow, the aftermath of Inazuma’s failed witch hunt etched into every trembling breath you take. The cold has numbed you to pain, leaving only a dull, drifting awareness as shadows loom overhead.
A man stands above you, his face hidden behind a mask, his gaze unreadable as it settles upon your broken form. Without haste, he bends and gathers you into his arms, disturbingly gentle in contrast to the violence that brought you here.
After all, you are in need of a doctor. And his services, he decides, are open.
Dottore’s first impression of you, however, is a simple one: you had been outcast.
News of an imposter was hardly remarkable. Such rumours surfaced whenever devotion curdled into excess, when those zealous in their loyalty to you, or rather, to the deceiver wearing your name—rushed headlong into outrage. To be hunted like an animal and yet survive it was no small feat. Even he could acknowledge that it required a formidable mind. He is not surprised when the truth reveals itself so plainly: the true god lies broken in the snow, while the false one sits comfortably upon a throne. That your people failed to recognize the difference speaks less to your deception than to their lack of rigor. Disappointing, really.
He could almost sympathize with you, almost. With the sheer amount of time and energy you had poured into this world, with everything you had endured simply to survive within a place you had once cared for, just to make it this far. He finds himself wondering whether you had ever considered giving up. Surely the repetition, the endless cycle of pursuit and survival, must have worn you down eventually. But you did not surrender, instead, you fled. In his opinion, that was the wiser choice.
He makes easy work of you. There is nothing poetic about it, blood spilled, colour draining from your face, a heartbeat faltering and fading. A flaw, yes, but a correctable one. Were it anyone else on his table, survival would have been impossible.
And yet.
Despite his certainty, despite the precision of his work, he finds himself surprised when the following morning arrives, no less than ten hours later, to find you alive. Very much alive, in fact. There is a heartbeat, faint, erratic, but it exists all the same. Your pulse is nearly imperceptible, so weak it takes two fingers pressed firmly into the side of your throat to coax it into being. The touch of ice-cold skin against your warmth draws a response from you at last. You stir, barely. A twitch of your fingertips, a subtle flutter beneath your eyelids, minimal reaction, but functional nonetheless. His gaze travels with quiet precision, bruises bloom along your arms in mottled shades of violet and yellow, mapping violence in the abstract. Near your collarbone, a scar curves like a bolt of lightning, jagged and unmistakable. He pauses there, curious. He wonders, not for the first time, how you found the strength to reach Snezhnaya at all, let alone endure its winter for so long in such a state. His musings did not matter in the end. They do not change the fact that the world that had once adored you had treated you most cruelly—and he could fix that.
His second impression settles in with unexpected clarity.
You are endearing. Like a frightened little rabbit, bloodied and shaking, still running despite the certainty of pursuit. Prey that refuses to lie down and die, even as the predators, unsated, relentless, follow the trail you leave behind. It is almost cute, he thinks, in a pitifully misguided way. A futile, stubborn instinct for survival clinging on long after it should have been extinguished. If he were a lesser man, unburdened by reason, he might have called it a miracle. He almost does. For what else could your continued existence be? You live as though the heavens themselves have intervened, not in the way of the blessed, but in the way a wounded rabbit lives when surrounded by starving wolves. Only instead of a forest, you awaken in a laboratory.
And that is where you remain.
Not that you ever truly had a choice.
Despite his adamant insistence that you were not what they accused you of, leaving would have placed you at the mercy of others—and, in truth, there was no mercy to be found there at all. After everything that had followed your arrival in this world, falling into a game only to be branded an imposter, hunted, and treated as though you were not human, the last person you ever expected to save you was Dottore. Even days after your near death, you still could not make sense of him. What he deemed worthy of his time and what he dismissed as frivolous waste seemed governed by a logic entirely his own. You supposed you should be grateful that you had fallen into the former category. Otherwise, your body might have been the next one laid out upon his vivisection table.
Lately, all your mornings begin the same way. You wake two hundred or so feet below ground,(at least that’s what he told you), buried beneath satin sheets in an otherwise empty bed. Blearily, you force yourself upright and stumble onto the floor, grimacing as the cold bites into your bare feet—the thin rug doing little to soften the shock. Snezhnaya’s temperatures rarely rise above freezing, and while the doctor appears wholly unbothered by the cold, you are not so resilient. The chill serves as an unwelcome reminder of your fragility, of your mortality, made painfully clear since your arrival here. Your gaze drifts to the bandages wrapped firmly around your arms, and your mouth tightens. On the bedside table waits a cup of tea, milky and rich, its familiar blend offering a small, fragile comfort to your mornings. You learned, not long ago, that it is not brought by the doctor himself, but by another version of him—after waking one morning to find a face with no eyes, only metal, staring down at you.
After you finish the tea, you spend the next stretch of the morning resting in bed, strict orders, ones you do not dare to disobey. You read, when you can be bothered, which isn’t often, but when you can you can choose one of the many books he has left for you to stave off boredom. It startles you, at first, to realize you understand the words on the page without ever having learned the language. There is little else to occupy your time. You could, in theory, join him while he works, linger at the edge of his presence. But the laboratory repels you. The cloying scent of rot and preservatives turns your stomach the moment you cross the threshold, and the dark, congealed puddles on the floor burn themselves into your vision long after you look away.
You choose the bed instead.
Sleep, however, refuses to come. Ever since the hunt, you have been trapped in a hollow state of wakefulness, an endless limbo of insomnia. No matter how long you lie upon the soft mattress, your body twisting restlessly beneath the sheets, rest remains just out of reach. You yearn for sleep with an aching intensity, but it never answers you. It isn’t as though it bothers you all that much. Most days, simply getting up and moving feels like an insurmountable task. It’s not that you don’t know you should, you do, but there’s a persistent fog in your mind that dulls every intention, makes effort feel distant and unimportant. And so, you remain in bed.
You no longer feel like yourself—if that’s even the right way to put it. The truth is, you don’t feel anything at all. It is almost like screaming without ever hearing a sound leave your mouth.
Occasionally, Dottore comes himself to check on your condition, carving out time despite the countless experiments demanding his attention. The doctor increases your medication. Beyond the usual painkillers, he takes it upon himself to administer various vitamins, an occasional sedative to coax you into sleep, and other substances you eventually stop asking about. He replaces your bandages with practiced efficiency, and sometimes, unasked, he helps you wash. Unallowing to let you wallow in your own filth. You never want him to. The first time, even through your hoarse, broken voice, you refuse as firmly as you can. It makes no difference. You find yourself wondering whether he ever feels embarrassed. After all this time in such close proximity, you imagine that if you were to ask him outright, he would launch into one of his long, indulgent lectures, how a true scholar stands above such trivialities, how emotions like embarrassment are inefficiencies best discarded, how he is untouched by sentiment altogether.
You do not believe him. There must be something, buried somewhere beneath the layers of intellect and calculation. He is simply very good at hiding it. Otherwise, you cannot fathom why he would have saved you that day at all.
In that regard, your first impression of him is nothing like what you expected. When you played Genshin, you knew Dottore only through fragments and reputation, the conflict with Diluc, the countless lives taken, the long list of atrocities catalogued neatly in the lore. It was easy enough to acknowledge those horrors from a distance, from the safety of a world that could be exited at will. Living inside it, however, is different.
Here, he is not the caricature of a villain you anticipated. There are moments, rare, fleeting, where something almost like kindness surfaces, if you squint and catch him in the right light. It unsettles you more than outright cruelty ever could. You tell yourself he must be gaining something from this—that it is only a matter of time before your guard slips and you find yourself laid out upon his vivisection table. The reasoning is sound enough in your mind. And yet, as time passes and nothing changes, no hidden cruelty revealed, no sudden turn toward violence, the excuses you cling to begin to crumble.
There is always a brief moment of silence when Dottore enters the room, as though he is observing you before deciding to approach, before the routine resumes.
“Can you hear me?” he asks, every time. As if you are both still caught in those first days, when he had found you broken in the snow and you lay unresponsive after the surgery. You manage a half-hearted reply, thin and automatic, and that seems to satisfy him.
He guides you toward the en-suite bathroom, the bath already drawn. You do not remember hearing anyone come in to prepare it, but memory has become unreliable these days. You are not entirely present anymore. You undress with reluctant, mechanical movements. Despite everything, your weakness, your dependence, there remains a stubbornly human part of you that understands embarrassment. By the time you lower yourself into the tub, without clothing and dignity, the water closes around you as if an embrace.
He is oddly gentle with you. He forgoes a sponge, choosing instead to use his hands, lathered with a soap that lacks the sharp sting of chemicals—likely chosen to avoid irritating your sensitive scars and still-healing wounds. His touch moves methodically, ensuring no stretch of skin is left unattended. He never asks for permission. He simply lifts your arm above your head to wash beneath it, efficient and precise. He is not rough. And perhaps, in some distant, numbed part of you, there is a strange relief in not having to do anything yourself. Eventually, you close your eyes.
The silence settles between you, as it always does. The doctor moves his hands along your sides, deliberate and precise. Your eyes remain closed, but you imagine what you would see: the unblinking figure of him, the mask rendering his gaze impassive yet unnervingly attentive, studying you as though committing every detail to memory. Every muscle that tenses, every subtle shift of your body, nothing escapes him. Perhaps it amuses him, the knowledge that he can elicit a reaction from a god with nothing but his own touch, bending you, contorting you, shaping your response to suit him. He has always been fascinated by such things: the way bodies betray themselves, the predictable mathematics of stimuli and reaction.
Perhaps, had this been when you first arrived, you would have been tense—unable to meet his eyes, barely able to resist flinching at his touch. Now, if you were to react the same way, you can almost hear his voice, dry and precise, the same as when you first came to him: “And here I thought we had moved past your naïve embarrassment.” You imagine the faint lift of his tone, the implied amusement. But now, your mind is occupied with everything and nothing all at once, an oxymoron that makes even the simplest thought slippery. It is frustratingly difficult to name your emotions when they exist as one undifferentiated mass. Back then, you might have felt shame, disgust, fear, anger, sometimes all at once. Yet even those labels never quite fit. Now, at this moment, you do not have the capacity, or perhaps the desire, to look any deeper into yourself.
Once he deems you clean, he steps back, leaving you bare, exposed in the cold air. Every inch of you falls under his scrutiny. You cannot see his eyes behind the mask, but you feel them, red, unblinking, meticulous, tracking each tremor, each involuntary twitch you make standing there. The weight of his attention presses down on you, making the room smaller, the air heavier. For a moment, you almost want to sink back into the bathwater.
You shift uneasily from foot to foot, your muscles tight, your skin crawling as if aware of his invisible hands still cataloguing you. Perhaps he will circle you, but he does not. He waits instead. Then comes the faint, deliberate click of his tongue, the sound of approval.
“Your condition is improving. Good.”
It is different from before, when he would prod and test your wounds and scars, studying the way skin and flesh healed under his scrutiny. But Dottore is never predictable; he is too clever to fall into that pattern twice. Dottore’s satisfaction is quiet but still evident. You feel it in the faint curve of his lips and the subtle shift of his posture. Although, around you he always appears to be rather pleased with himself.
After his careful observation, he gestures for you to step forward. Without a word, he takes the towel and begins to dry you himself. Every movement is deliberate, measured, his hands moving over your skin with the precision of a sculptor shaping clay. There is a strange reverence in the way he touches you, a quiet devotion that borders on worship. He attends to every limb with the same meticulous care, and gradually, you go limp in his hands, your body surrendering to his methodical attention. When there is nothing to soften your grief, it ends up softening you to the one before you. When he kneels to dry your legs, your hands find their way to his shoulders almost instinctively. He does not flinch, does not shift, does not react, yet the stillness of his acceptance presses in on you, and you are aware of every careful motion.
It is during moments like this that Dottore considers himself truly fortunate. Perhaps, for once in his life, he even entertains the notion that fate is real. That he was cast out from his birthplace, only for the creator of this world to fall victim to that same cruelty—how neatly the pattern aligns. How alike you are. He wonders if you are, in some sense, his creation: a being exiled from your natural environment, stumbling through the world like a new-born, instinctively imprinting upon him as the first figure you encountered upon waking. The thought is… pleasing. Perhaps that is a lie.
Perhaps it had always been the other way around. Perhaps he was the one born into a world that rejected him, and it was you who held him, unknowingly, unknowably, in your arms. Perhaps it was he who imprinted upon you.
It is only after he has finished drying you, back in your room, your bed layered with silks, soft throws, and warm blankets, your nightclothes returned to you, that he allows himself a look that can only be called fondness. One hand traces small circles over the skin of your collarbone peeking through fabric, while the other tugs the blankets snugly around you. His eyes drift over your form one last time before it is hidden, as though committing the sight to memory, savouring every detail as if it were the most fascinating thing he has ever encountered.
But it is not fascination in the way mortals might understand. Divinity, he reminds himself, is reserved for him alone, as he is starkly reminded as his gaze lingers on you, lying there in the bed before him. Still, it takes all his willpower not to break into a grin.
You are, he realizes, utterly perfect for him.
It is almost exhilarating, knowing your life is entirely in his hands, your divinity, your very existence, your very self. His fingers tighten around the blankets. Really, he thinks, he deserves this. After everything he has endured, after all he has accomplished, having his own divinity delivered almost effortlessly to his doorstep is more satisfying than he could have imagined.
You do not realize your eyes have closed, drifting into a dreamless sleep. Dottore remains hovering over you, unbothered by your sudden surrender to unconsciousness. His hand, long released from the blankets, rests in your hair, fingers tracing through it as if memorizing its texture. He murmurs to himself, low vibrations threading through the quiet room, and though you cannot make out the words, the sound is oddly comforting as you sink deeper into slumber. For a fleeting instant, you imagine waking tomorrow in your own bed, finally home.
But you know the truth. With the memory of his hands resting on your collarbone, threading through your hair, you will awaken not in safety, but in the laboratory. And there, as always, is where you will remain.
A/N: I’ve always loved the Imposter Cult SAGAU because the concept is genuinely horrifying. You’re thrown into something you know is a game, hunted to within an inch of your life, and then, after being killed or watching the truth come out and the imposter be executed right in front of you, you’re expected to just forgive everyone? Of course I love it. Who wouldn’t have a complete mental breakdown after that? In this version, after the Reader is killed, Teyvat simply respawns them in a different area and hopes for the best. At that point, prayers and wishes are the only things holding the Reader’s sanity together.
WARNINGS: NSFW - MDNI, Pet names, obviously making out and physical contact, suggestive comments and writing, sry if some are shorter or longer...it's not good, i deeply apologize for Itto's part, idk what substances i took for this one. (DW i took none, don't do drugs)
SUMMARY: Making out with your favorite
CHARACTERS: Everyone x F!Reader
WORD COUNT: bestie, a lot you can count if youre bored haha
A/N: wrote more about making out than i ever made out in my life myself
Yoo quimichi many months later haha, Citlali and ect are not in here so sorry about that
Hi quimichi many many months later, never finished this, pls dont be mad i just wanna post some food for ya oki?
Aether
Aether moans into your mouth at the contact, his mouth parting slightly beneath yours, eyes falling shut as he melts against you. His hands reach up to cradle your face, long slender fingers gently caressing your skin.
His lips are softer than rose petal against yours, as though every part of him was crafted for worship. The kiss deepens as Aether opens his mouth further, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head tenderly, pulling you closer against him. His tongue traces your upper lip, seeking entry into your own mouth. It's hesitant at first, as though he's asking for your permission. But he is growing more sure, more confident, as the moments pass.
His breaths, soft and warm against your skin, come and go like the wind. They carry a sense of reverence, his desire for you almost tangible. "Shit-" you breath out. An amused smile lifts the corners of his lips. "Is something the matter" he murmurs against your mouth. His tongue traces a line down to the pulse point on your neck and he gently bites down. He hums in satisfaction when you shiver.
The sound you make when he bites you goes straight to his core. It's impossible to remain unaffected by you, not under you like this.
His hands roam freely under your clothes, exploring your skin like a new continent. They move with a purpose, mapping out your every curve with reverent fingers. He pushes you down onto the bed, following closely after. His body lies against yours, pressing you into the bedding. One of his hands tangles itself in your hair, gently pulling your head to the side to get better access to your neck.
Albedo
He can barely contain himself. His tongue dances in your mouth like a flame dancing for air, his body trembling wherever he touches you. His hands move in tandem with his mouth, roaming up your sides with a carefulness that says he's scared you'll disappear at any given moment. He presses his body closer to yours, almost as if he's scared a single centimeter of space between bodies will send you away. Albedo's eyes are closed, lost in the sensation of your tongue against his. His breathing is deep and even — almost calming, like the sound of the ocean slowly washing up and down the shore.
He sighs against your mouth, his tongue sliding up against yours with a practiced ease. One of his arms snakes around your waist and draws you closer, pressing you against him until there is no space between your bodies whatsoever. Albedo's teeth nip at your lower lip. They skim across the tender flesh, tugging on it and drawing a soft little gasp from your mouth.
He smiles at that, then moves his mouth away from yours to press a trail of kisses and nips down your neck. He kisses at the bare skin there, his lips moving with the same reverence as his words, his breath warm and heavy against your skin.
"You taste so good."
Amber
Amber leans into you, her touch gentle as she holds your waist. Her eyes flutter shut, a whisper of breath brushing against your lips. Her body fits against you as if she was shaped to be there— perfectly, completely.
"Kiss me," she murmurs, her fingers tangling in your hair. "Please, please..." Amber inhales a sharp breath as your lips meet hers, and then she makes this quiet, soft noise as she melts against you. She pulls you closer, holding you as if you would disappear if she didn't keep you close to her.
Her hand against your cheek, fingers brushing your skin like light on water. She leans into the kiss, pressing against your body, all thoughts in her mind disappearing as she focuses only on you. Amber makes a soft noise, something like a sigh, as you run your fingers through her hair, and a shiver runs through her frame. She gently pulls on your hair, guiding your head to the side. She kisses along your jawline, down your neck, all the way to your collarbone. She pushes you until your back hits something behind you— a wall, a door, anything— and she traps you against it so that she can press against your body. Her hands are everywhere on you— on your shoulders, your waist, your hips, your back— as if she doesn't know which part of you to focus on. She mouths and nipped at your skin, leaving soft marks in her path. She pulls back for a moment, catching her breath, her eyes drinking in the sight of you. She's panting, and her hair's a mess from the way she's tugged at it and tugged at yours, and her lips are swollen from kissing you. She looks disheveled, but in all the best ways. Amber takes a step closer again, and she lets out a low exhale.
"More," she manages to gasp out as she grabs your wrists, pinning you against the wall.
Al-Haitham
His lips are like silk, his hands moving up your sides with a slow, almost reverent touch. He deepens the kiss and pushes you down into the soft sheets, trapping you beneath him with a slow, effortless smile.He moves his lips to your neck, sucking gently at your skin, leaving behind a trail of marks. He whispers against your flesh, his words soft in your ear.
“I adore you,” he rasps. “Look at you beneath me.” He runs his hands down your sides, fingers tracing over every inch of skin he can find. His touch burns like wildfire, and his kisses are as hot as embers. He nips at your skin as he kisses lower, his body moving against yours, his tongue flicking against the hollow of your collarbone. When he hears you say his name, something catches inside him. It’s almost like he’d been waiting to hear you say it, craving the sound of his own name from your lips. He pauses, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before he speaks, his voice a ragged murmur.
“Say it again,” he whispers against your skin. “Say my name again.”
"Al-Haitham..."
He shivers as the sound reaches his ears, his breath catching in his throat. He lets out a shaky inhale and he presses you closer, his hands running down your back. "Again," he whispers in your ear, his voice rough. The words come out as both a request and a plea, and he kisses your skin once more, his tongue tracing a damp line across your collarbone.
"Fuck, say it again."
Arlecchino
Arlecchino buries her face into your shoulder, pressing her face against the crook of your neck. She hums against your skin appreciatively, the vibrations from the sound of her voice shivering down your spine. Her lips brush over the skin of your nape lightly. If she were cat, she’d be purring right now. She’s content to simply hold you in her arms, and do nothing else. She runs her tounge over your neck and trails to your lips. Arlecchinos tongue slides over yours, hot and demanding. Her lips move against yours, biting and sucking in turns. She moans into the kiss, a low, throaty sound that vibrates against your mouth. One of her hands slides under your shirt, fingertips dancing across the skin of your stomach. She pulls you closer to her, her embrace possessive as she holds you tight against her body. “Mine,” she whispers again into your ear. One hand slides up to cradle your jaw, holding you in place with a firm grip. She pulls your head back, exposing your neck.
Arlecchino kisses down your exposed throat, lips brushing over your flesh reverently. She sucks again at the spot on your neck that makes you shiver, and hums appreciatively at the way you squirm against her.
“So sensitive,” she murmurs into your skin. Arlecchino kisses down your pulse point, lips tracing a path down to your collarbone. Her mouth latches onto the skin there, teeth scraping over your flesh.
Ayaka
She melts in your embrace. She lets out a trembling sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan as you pull her into your lap. When she feels your hands on her, they might as well be caressing her soul. Ayaka shifts, turning and wrapping her arms around you. She is shaking against you, almost desperate for you to feel her.
"Please," She whispers. "please… I need you…" Your presence is both intoxicating and addicting. Ayaka feels as if her head had taken on a drunken spin as she sits in your lap, held by your embrace. She lets out a whimper, burying her face in the crook of your neck. Her breath is shaky against your skin, her body trembling. Her mouth finds your skin, kissing and mouthing at it needily. Ayaka whimpers again, melting further into your lap. Her body goes boneless as she lets you kiss her, completely submitting to your touch. No other feeling in the world is more sublime than your lips on her skin.
She moans against you, mouth going slack. Her breathing turns to quiet, laboured pants as you kiss her. "Please," she mumbles, her voice almost pleading. "Please, don't stop…"
Ayato
His hand is at the front of your neck, fingers sliding back into your hair as he kisses you, drawing you close to him. He leans over you, his body pressing you to whatever surface is behind you, while his mouth devours yours over and over again. He nips and teases at your bottom lip, his teeth scraping along it before he soothes your mouth with the flick of his tongue against yours. Ayatos hands seem to be everywhere all at once. One moment they’re in your hair, the next he’s grasping your hips, his grip tight and firm, as if he’s desperate just to feel you. Then he’s pulling you closer, lifting you up so you’re sitting on his lap, and his hands are on your thighs, stroking over the skin there.
He kisses your cheek, down your jaw, and back up again, his lips seeking your skin, desperate to taste you. “You taste so sweet,” Ayato mutters against the skin of your throat. His lips are against your pulse, and he’s murmuring against your skin, his breathing already ragged. He presses the words into your skin as softly as his kisses, as warm as the heat of his body.
“Let me taste more of you.” One of his hands slides under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing against your skin. He’s everywhere; in your hair, at your neck, trailing kisses over your shoulder, all the while he’s tugging at your shirt, desperate to undress you.
“I have to taste all of you,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and rough like sandpaper.
Baizhu
Baizhu’s arms encircle your waist like a snake coiling about its mate. A noise like a sigh of contentment bubbles in the back of his throat, lost in the sound of your kiss. His glasses threaten to slide off his face at the movement, and he pulls away for a brief moment as the glasses shift, only to be right back against you a heartbeat later. Baizhu is flush. His cheeks are like roses with a fever; he looks as if he’s about to melt beneath your touch.
A breathless gasp leaves his lips when you pull him in again, and his fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt. You can feel the heat of his skin against your own— he’s burning like a fever, his very touch the fire of desire.
“I’ve longed for this.” He’s breathless, every word a mere gasp against your lips. He’s been starved of your love, craving the touch of your hands like a man dying of thirst. It’s all he’s wanted. You, against him, drowning out all other noise in the world with the beating of his heart. “Too busy,” he admits, his words a breathless huff of air. His fingers are tangled in your shirt, pulling you closer with every fiber of his being. “I hate not being with you,” he confesses, a ragged edge to his voice, as if the words are being forced out of him against his will. “Hate it.” Every kiss is another desperate whisper, another admission lost amid the heat and tangle of lips. “I missed you.” The words are soft, spoken with the reverence of a prayer. “I need you, I want you.” He clings to you as if you’re his lifeline, as if he will drown without you being so close.
"You're gonna stay here, for as long as I want you to."
Barbara
Barbara's hands find your shoulders. They are trembling, her grip on you tighter than it ever has been before.
The whine that leaves her as you press her against the wall is desperate, wanton. Her body shakes against you; with you pinning her against the wall, it's as if all her strength and will have deserted her. Barbara has no choice but to submit to you entirely. The wall behind them is cold against her back as your body pins her against it. Her breath hitches in the back of her throat, coming out in soft, shaky gasps.
She can do nothing but whimper into the kiss as you press closer, her trembling fingers curling against your shoulders. "Please," Barbara breathes out, voice catching softly on the single word. She can feel herself growing hot, her knees weakening, struggling to keep her standing. Her hands cling to you like a vice, seeking out anything to anchor themselves against before she crumbles entirely. "I've got you..." you mumble against her parted lips. Barbara shudders at the sound of your voice - she can feel your lips brush hers as you speak. Every word sparks a fire in her, her breath coming out in quick, short gasps against your mouth.
"Y-You do, you've got-" Her words die on her tongue as she loses herself to sensation, to your touch. Barbara can taste you on her lips, can feel the heat of your body pressed up against hers, pinning her to the wall. She lets out a soft, breathless whimper, trying to focus; but it's difficult when you're so close, when the sound of your voice has her trembling even more than before.
"M-my love," she whispers against your skin. Her hands pull you closer against her, seeking out something, anything to ground her against this sensation.
Beidou
As she pushes you back onto the mattress, her lips press against yours firmly. Beidou lets out a quiet little whine into your mouth, a soft sound of need. She brings a hand up to cup your face, her touch tender and firm. You are trapped under her now, her body pinning you against the bed with strength that belies her appearance. She breaks the kiss and trails a line of kisses down your throat, her body shifting against yours. A quiet whimper falls from her lips as she peppers your skin with attention, her touch just the slightest bit desperate.
Her hands wander up your stomach, pushing the hem of your shirt up with them. Her touch is tender, like moonlight against your skin. She kisses a path down your chest, stopping for a moment to worship every inch of you she can reach. As she comes to the waistline of your pants, she stops, nuzzling your bare hip with her face, breathing in the scent of you like a woman possessed. When she looks up at you, her eyes are wide and dark, watching you like a predator watches its prey.
Her hand comes up to rest on your stomach, her touch almost teasing. "Can I?" She asks, her voice little more than a whisper as a rosy blush climbs up her cheeks. Your answer of yes is barely out of your mouth before her hands start to work at your pants, pulling them off your hips to reveal more of your body to her. Beidou is impatient, wanting to claim you in every way she can.
Bennett - aged up
He melts into you, his body soft and pliant, his mouth warm and welcoming under yours.
One hand finds its way to the small of your back, the other holding your face like you are the most fragile and beautiful object in the world. His breath is ragged, his skin blushing under your touch.With the slightest bit of pressure, he pulls you a step or so closer. He's so close now that he can feel your heart beat against his own. He lets you taste his lips, soft sighs stealing from him as you touch him. He flinches when his teeth snag your lip, breaking the kiss.
It takes a moment for him to gather his tongue, his eyes open wide. He touches your lip, an apology already on his lips. "Ah- I-" He swallows, his cheeks flushing.
"I didn’t mean to-" Before he can even finish his sentence, Bennett is bending to press a soft, barely-there kiss to the redness on your lip. Then another, and another. Each kiss more gentle than the last.
His hands come up to rest on your arms, holding you in place. "I'm sorry." He murmurs, the words whispered against your skin, his breath like steam rising in the winter cold. The tip of his nose touches your jaw, his hands running over your arms with a reverent sort of worship. "I didn't mean to- to bite you."
Capitano
He pins you against the nearest wall. His body is pressed up against yours, warm and firm and solid like an iron pillar. One arm curls around your waist, pinning your hips to his, keeping you flush against him. He kisses you like he's starving for it. He kisses you with the desperation of a drowning man gasping for air. One of his hands slides up under your clothes, pressing against the bare skin of your side. Even the touch of his fingers against you is like a brand, setting your flesh alight.
His other hand grabs at the collar of your shirt, yanking it down to leave your skin exposed for him to mark with his mouth. He kisses his way from your jaw to the crook of your neck, his breaths hot and his lips feverish. Capitano mouths at your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a red-purple bruise on your skin. It's like he's trying to mark you, leave a trail of hickeys up and down your throat like a claiming badge, for all the world to see.
He groans against you, his breath hot and heavy. He shoves his leg between yours, holding you firmly in place against him. He's grinding against you, his mouth never pausing in its assault on your neck, still marking you with deep hickeys and claiming you as his.
His hand, still under your shirt, finds a way around the front and up to your chest. His thumb brushes against a nipple, flicking over it teasingly. He's almost panting, breaths harsh and heavy against your skin. It feels like his whole body is thrumming with electric energy just from you, from the way his hands are sliding against you and the way you're pressed against him.
"Only mine," he growls against your skin. "You're mine. All mine. You understand?"
Candace
Her fingers reach up and touch your face, gently, reverently. They touch the curve of your lips, as if tracing your smile. Then, with a breath, she kisses you. Her touch is soft, gentle as a feather, tender and loving. Her mouth moves against yours, the touch light as the caress of silk, the slide of a flower petal. Candace savours the way you taste against her lips. She is gentle, slow. Her kiss only deepens as she lets out a sigh against your mouth. Her hands find your waist as she pulls you closer, shifting so that her body is against yours. Her hair is wild, unbound, glowing like moonlight against the night sky. She is soft, warm, safe. Everything you want her to be.
With a soft moan, Candace breaks away, eyes fluttering open. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused. Her breath is heavy, warm against your skin. Candace opens her mouth to speak, her voice a whisper. "I—" She falters. For once, her mind seems to be utterly empty. The words die in her throat, and she swallows hard, searching for them.
"You—" she tries again, only to fumble over herself once more. Every one of your touches, every glance, every word spoken against her skin— it is as if you are a drug that has taken over her mind.
"I love you."
Charlotte
Charlotte trembles as you run your fingers through her hair. You can see her eyelashes flutter against her high cheekbones. She can't help but lean into your touch, her shoulders rising and falling more rapidly as you caress her. "Ah…"
That one little exhale is all she lets out before biting down on her lower lip, trapping the noise that almost came out with it. Her face is a little pink, flustered under your touch. Charlottes breath stutters as she feels your lips against hers again. It steals the air from her lungs, her whole body growing warm at the feeling of your kiss. She kisses you back, leaning in towards you as her eyes fall closed, her eyelashes resting feather-light against her flushed cheeks. Her hands itch to touch you; to feel your skin against her own. Charlotte isn't even thinking anymore at this point— she's acting on instinct alone. She wants to be closer to you, to feel your body against hers; to feel the heat of you on her skin.
She deepens the kiss, her tongue gliding against yours in a way that makes her shudder. A soft, barely detectable noise escapes her at the contact. Her tongue slips past yours with a need that surprises even her— the kiss growing suddenly hungrier, more desperate. Her hands find your waist, her fingers clutching at your skin as if she's drowning and you're her lifeline. Charlotte breaks the kiss, her breathing ragged and chest heaving. Her breaths come in sharp gasps, her lips flushed and slightly bruised from the contact. It's like she's been drowning and you're the first gulp of air.
She's so close to you now that you can feel the heat of her body against your own, the way her heart is pounding against her ribs.
"Archons-! Air seems so precious now-!"
Chevreuse
Chevreuse is desperate. She's pressed up against a wall in a dark, secluded alley in Fontaine. You're the one pressed against her, kissing her, pinning her to the wall, and it steals whatever thoughts she'd had right out of her mind.
She pulls you closer against her, wrapping her arms around waist like she's starving for some invisible, intangible thing. Her heart is a fluttering thing— delicate and quick. Chevreuse doesn't feel like a person in this moment. Her skin tingles everywhere you touch as if she's been struck by lightning, and her mind is a hazy, lustful place. She moans against you, pressing even closer so that there's not even an inch of air left between you. Her hands clutch onto the back of your shirt.
Chevreuse lets out a small, soft gasp as you pull away, blinking as if she's been suddenly woken. "Salty..." you mumble. She's breathless, her cheeks flushed pink, as she asks "Salty?" her voice is little more than a breathless whisper. "You taste salty." Chevreuse's mind takes a moment to catch up. You're saying she tastes salty?!
Her first reaction is a small noise, somewhere between a whimper and gasp, but her gaze flickers down to your lips and she realizes exactly what you meant by salty.
She blushes, and averts her eyes. "O-oh…" she murmurs, feeling a little embarrassed.
"It's the food I constantly snack on..."
Child (idk why the e is missing folks)
Childe pushes against you, his slender frame trembling against your body. He kisses your jawline, his lips skimming your skin in a desperate attempt to feel more of you, more of your heat. His hands are on your hips, his fingers gripping the fabric of your clothes. He can't get close enough. He needs you closer, tighter, closer.
With strong hands, Chile hoists you up onto the table, his eyes never leaving yours. He positions himself between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs to maintain his balance. He leans in close, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, he just breathes you in. One of his hands comes up and cups the side of your face, gently tracing the line of your jaw. His thumb grazes your cheek, drawing small, affectionate circles against your flesh.
"You're mine," he whispers, the words barely more than a breath against your skin, and then Childe is kissing you again. The kiss is hungry, desperate, as if he is drowning and you are air. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue darting out for a taste, taking the chance to deepen the kiss when given.
One of Childe's hands slips under your shirt, tracing the sensitive skin of your stomach with a feather-soft touch. He moves to press his lips to your neck, his tongue flicking out to taste your bare flesh. He sucks at your pulse, biting the skin just enough to mark you as his.
He wants you to remember this. He wants you to remember him, to remember that you belong to him.
Chiori (had to add her in cause she disappeared?? Sry she's not green lol)
Her lips are soft against yours, but the kiss is anything but. She kisses you with a ferociousness that surprises even her. She bites down on your lower lip, a quiet sound of desire slipping from her throat as your tongue slides over hers. She moves, shifting closer to you, pushing you against the nearest wall. "Meanie..." you mumble into the kiss as your back hits the wall not so softly. Chiori lets out a low laugh, moving closer until her body is pressed against yours. Her fingers slide around your wrists, pinning your hands against the wall on either of your head, effectively trapping you. Her smile is sharp, but her voice is low.
"You tease me, first, and I'm the mean one?" She murmurs. She leans in further, until her lips are barely a breath away. "Or do you like when I get like this?" She almost purrs against you, her eyes meeting yours with a mixture of desire and challenge. Her teeth scrape against the side of your neck, leaving a trail of hot breath behind. Chioris grip on your wrists tightens, her voice a low growl as she leans closer.
"Answer me, darling," she murmurs against your skin. "Do you like it?" "Shut up-!"
Chiori lets out a quiet huff. Her fingers loosen against your wrists, though she doesn't release your arms; not yet. There's a certain look in her eyes. "Are you giving me orders?" She says, her voice still low. She smirks. "You know better than that." She leans in and mouths against your neck, and her voice drops an octave.
"Brats shouldn't be talking back."
Chongyun - aged up
Chongyun's mind is utterly blank. His thoughts melt like wax in a fire, burning around him and falling from his brain like droplets of rain. He's never kissed anyone before. He's never felt this way before.
And— as your lips meet his— he doesn't know what to do. Chongyun is perfectly still for a moment, overwhelmed at the pure bliss of your touch, before he begins to follow the push and pull of your mouth against his. The kiss is messy. And clumsy. And absolutely perfect.
Chongyun's hands find their way into your hair, twisting themselves among the strands as he tries to pull you closer. He's utterly inexperienced at this, but in his mind, there is nothing in the world that matters except the feeling of your body against his.
"Doing good." "I am?" His words are breathless, like a leaf caught in a gale. His chest is heaving and his entire body is shaking— but in that moment he has never felt so alive. "I'm doing good?" He repeats the question, hoping that you'll reassure him. His hands are still buried in your hair, holding you to him. The contact is almost as if he is trying to anchor himself to you.
"Mhm.""Can we-" His voice catches in his throat. "Can we keep going?" The way he says it, so sweetly and gently, makes him sound so very vulnerable.
He just wants this moment to last forever. "Kf course we can."
Clorinde
Clorinde lips part in a slow exhale as her tongue slowly, gently slides inside your mouth. She pulls closer, and her hands come up to grip your waist, tugging you flush against her body. Her eyes flutter shut as she presses against you, body humming as she tastes you. Her hands slide to the small of your back, and she moans softly into the kiss.
Clorinde is all hands and heat, grabbing and pressing and pulling you closer. She doesn't want even an inch of air between the two of you— she desperately wants the feeling of your body against hers. Her hands slide up your back, running across your skin to pull you deeper into her.
She kisses you with an almost sinful fervor, completely surrendering herself to the heat of the moment. Clorinde is drowning in a wave of sensation. Clorinde grins into the kiss when you make a noise, and she immediately responds by biting your lip. Her tongue slides along the same spot, soothing the sting as her grip on your waist tightens.
She tilts her head to deepen the kiss, lips molding against yours and body flush against your own. Every movement is deliberate, calculated to wring out another gasp from you and another moan from her. Her body presses against yours as she kisses you again, pushing you back against the nearest wall. Your bodies press together like fitted puzzle pieces, molding and sliding in all the right ways. Clorinde groans, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your lips.
Her hands slide from your waist to your hips, nails raking against your skin. Her teeth sink into your lower lip and tug.
Collei - aged up
The moment your lips touch, it's as if Collei has been thrown into a world of sensation. She gasps softly, closing her eyes and leaning into you.
Her hands, shaky and trembling, come to rest on your shoulders and hold on to you as if you were a lifeline. Her grip is firm but gentle, her touch so light it's as if she fears you might disappear under her hands. Her lips are warm and soft against yours, tasting of summer rain and something faintly sweet. She makes the softest noise in her throat when you move against her and she seems to shudder under your touch, hands squeezing your shoulders.
She wants to pull you closer. She aches for it, aches for you to hold her tighter, feel you against her heart. However, the mere thought of such a thing makes her blush, and she's far too shy for such boldness. "You're so cute." a smirk plays on your lips as you mumble against her lips. Colleis face flushes an even deeper shade of red as you speak. She feels like she might burn up under her skin. The praise settles in her like a warm stone, leaving her feeling almost heady, breathless.
She buries her face against your shoulder. "Am I?" She whispers, almost as if it's a secret.
"Mhm." A sigh, soft and shaky.
She can't deny the praise when you're so close to her. Collei leans a little closer into you, seeking the warmth of you and your praise. "And you are…" Her voice is soft, quieter still because she's almost afraid of the effect you have on her. She can feel the heat in the tips of her ears; her whole being is burning up, the feeling spreading under her skin like wildfire.. "...so beautiful."
Columbina
Her lips move against yours like waves upon a beach, her tongue gently slipping into your mouth as a soft moan escapes her lips.
Her hands find their way to your hips; her grip is tight, almost desperate, fingers digging into your skin as she pulls you closer to her. Her laugh is sweet as honey against your mouth.
Columbina kisses you deeper. The heat of her tongue against yours is a warm, almost dizzying feeling, and she pulls you down into her lap. Her hand cups the back of your neck, slender fingers weaving into your hair, holding you close. Her lips move from your mouth to your jaw, leaving a trail of kisses along your skin. Her warm breath fans against your neck as she buries her face there, nuzzling against your pulse with something like reverence.
"You're mine," she whispers, voice soft on the edge of a sigh. Her arms wrap a little tighter around your waist. "Only mine." Her tongue teases along the crook of your shoulder, teeth gently scraping over skin, leaving pale red marks in their wake.
"Only I can see you like this, love you like this," she mutters, the words against your ear.
Columbina's hips shift beneath you; you can feel the heat of her body through her clothes against yours. She hums in approval as your body presses into hers, her mouth finding its way back to yours. Her kiss is soft, sweet and almost aching with need. She leans up, drawing you flush against her.
Her legs shift, the knee nearest you gently but purposefully nudging between yours.
Cyno
He growls as he pushes you back and pins you against the bed, all the while kissing you with a possessiveness that matches the burning in his chest. He wants to dominate, to lay claim to you. He wants to worship and take you like a man possessed. He wants all of you, wants you to let him own you. His body is taut as a bowstring. Cyno has you where he wants you, under him like this, and he has no intention of letting you go. One knee rests between your legs, his weight pinning you to the mattress as his mouth finds your neck.
He's going to mark you, claim you in such a way that no one else can lay their eyes on you without knowing who you belong to.
"Mm-!" you can't hold back the soft hum that leaves your throat. Cyno's tongue teases over the sensitive spot of your neck with a pressure that makes your blood rise.
His lips curve into a smile as he feels you react, a soft little moan escaping you. "That's it," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "Let me hear you." He kisses your skin, then bites down, intending to leave a mark behind. His tongue soothes the skin that he'd bitten, the hot, damp flat of it skimming over the sensitive spot in a way that makes you shiver.
"Does that feel good?" he asks, but the tone of his voice tells you it's a redundant question; of course it feels good. Everything he does makes you feel good— he's just enjoying hearing you react. His mouth finds your ear as he speaks, "I want to hear you scream my name."
Dainsleif
Dainsleif presses his body close into yours, his hands resting on either side of your face. He kisses you hungrily, as if this is the only thing he's ever needed to survive. He takes the lead, his tongue brushing against yours, his lips pressing against yours again and again and again. He needs you, like a flower needs the sun or a bird needs the air. Dainsleif pushes you back against some sort of surface— anything so he can pin you against it. He presses into you, his chest hard against your own, a need in him to be as close to you as possible. His hands fall from your face, roaming over your body instead, needing to touch anywhere he can reach to assure himself that you're real.
With a soft grunt, Dainsleif moves to press his lips against your neck. His hand slides under your shirt, resting against the bare skin of your stomach, warm as a sunlit stone. He sucks and nips at your skin, his mind almost fogged over as he worships every inch of you.
He doesn't lift his head to look at you, too lost in your neck to bother focusing on anything else as you called his name. He runs his tongue across your skin, then he murmurs your name, more a breath than a word.
And then he sinks his teeth into the crook of your shoulder. He needs to mark you, to make sure everyone knows you're his alone.
Dehya
Her tanned fingers trace along your arm, leaving goose bumps in their wake. Her touch is like ice, cold but not unpleasant. You can feel her press herself closer, her breathing slow as she buries her face into the crook of your shoulder.
She murmurs your name, the syllables falling from her lips reverently. Dehya's fingers grip your arm, her chest brushing against yours. You can see her breathing speed up, every exhale coming faster than the last. Her face turns slightly to bury her nose into your neck, and you can feel her breath on your skin as she inhales.
"Your smell…" she whispers against your neck. "Gods, you smell so good…" It starts slowly at first, her lips like velvet against your skin. It's just a gentle caress, a tentative brush of her mouth against yours, but soon she's pressing against you with more intensity. It's as though Dehya can't help herself, like your touch drives her to insanity.
She breaks the kiss to catch her breath, but only for a moment. Then her mouth is on yours again, biting and claiming. She pushes you back, pinning you to the nearest surface as her mouth wanders over your skin. She kisses a path down your throat and down your collarbone, leaving bite marks behind. Dehya's breaths become more and more ragged, until you can hear a soft moan escape her mouth. She moves back up to you, finding your mouth and taking advantage of it, her tongue slipping in between your lips with a desperate urgency.
Diluc
He kisses you with a desperate passion, his arms tight around your waist pulling you flush against him. He keeps his eyes shut, lips moving against yours urgently. His body trembles in your grasp, fingers grasping a little too tightly at your clothes. Each time footsteps sound from the hallway, he stiffens a little, his lips faltering and his body tense.
Diluc breaks off the kiss and buries his head into the crook of your neck, his breath quick and hot against your skin. His shoulders stiffen as their voices and footsteps come closer to your hiding place. His hands grip a little tighter at your shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric and crumpling it. He presses his body flush against yours, his face buried in your neck. His breath is shaky, each exhale hot against your skin. The maids chat amongst themselves as they pass by, unaware of the pair hiding in the corner. Diluc stays utterly still, his body rigid, his breathing shallow, like a deer hiding from a hunter. With each moment their voices fade, his body relaxes little by little until he's fully sagged against you, head still tucked into the crook of your neck.
"Gonna fucking fire them if they don't move their asses." he growls.
Dottore
He kisses you with a fierce sort of fervor, biting and pulling at your lip. His hands are on you, holding you tight, fingers digging into your skin as he holds you there. He wants you close. He wants you his. His tongue flickers against your lip, trying desperately to get more of you, as if he's trying to memorize the flavor that is your kiss. His teeth nip at the inside of your mouth, making you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to slide his tongue further, tasting you like a starving man. The taste of iron on his tongue has Dottore's mind spinning. He greedily sucks at your tongue, taking everything you give him and wanting more. His grip on you tightens, nails digging into your flesh. He tastes you, he takes and he takes and he wants.
"Gods," he mumbles against your lips once he finally pulls back, panting and breathless. His voice sounds ragged, barely more than a low, gravelly whisper. "I want to taste more."
One of his hands is in your hair, gripping so tight it's on the verge of being painful, while the other is on your hip, pulling you against him. He wants every inch of you pressed against him, skin against skin, his body seeking yours. He is desperate for you.
"Please," he whispers. The single word sounds like a prayer. "I need to taste the rest of you." "You're just gonna draw more blood like a vampire." "True."
Eula
Eula melts when you take a seat in her lap, her arms wrapping around you. Her lips are warm, her breath hot when she parts them for you, pressing herself up against you.
She cannot get enough of you, the feeling of your skin against her own, the taste of your lips. She shivers, letting out a soft moan against your mouth, arching closer. Her hands come to rest on your hips, gripping them tight as she pulls you against herself. Her tongue brushes your lower lip, slipping into your mouth when you open it, tasting you, exploring. She groans when she shifts against you, her thigh pressing up against your own. Her hands find their way up your body, tracing over your skin with a reverent touch. Her fingers slide up your back, over your shoulders, running up the sides of your neck. Her touch is light, yet it somehow feels like a brand, marking you as hers forever. She's panting when she pulls back for air, her voice coming in a rough murmur.
"My love," she whispers, still close to your mouth. She doesn't move her arms from around you, holding on tight, pressing her forehead against yours, drinking in the very sight of you. "I love you," she gasps out, leaning into you.
She buries her face in the crook of your neck, burying her nose in your hair. She inhales deeply, taking in your scent, taking in you.
Faruzan
Her cheeks are flushed a light pink as you two kiss, and for a moment she can't bring herself to say anything. She presses close against you, her tongue darting into your mouth as she leans into the kiss. There's a hunger in her movements. It's as if she can't get enough; her hands clutch at your clothes, desperate to bring you closer, to be as close to you as possible.
She lets out a quiet gasp against your lips. "Please."
The word is gasped against your lips, a plea to continue. A plea to let her stay like this, to keep touching her, keep kissing her. She's been alone for so long. For so long
For as long as she can remember. She hasn't felt like this in so many years. She can barely think. Her skin is flush, her body burning hot wherever it's pressed against yours. Faruzan lets out another soft moan, pressing closer against you.
"Please," she gasps in a soft whisper against your lips, "don't stop. Please. I—" She stops herself, and swallows the words before they can come out. A soft, almost whimper-like moan escapes Faruzans lips as you kiss her again, her body going soft under your touch. She can't think, she can't focus, her mind is a blur of thoughts and the feel of your mouth on hers. In a quick, almost desperate movement, she pulls you against her, pressing her body against yours. Her head tilts forwards, and she deepens the kiss, her tongue slipping past your lips. There’s a desperation in her movements, a need, a desire to have you as close to her as possible. She lets out another quiet gasp against your lips.
Fischl - aged up
Fischl gasps softly at the feel of your lips on hers. She melts into you, her body practically trembling at the sensation of your touch. "I-" she starts to say, but then you're kissing her again, and all she can do is make a soft sound into your mouth. After a moment, Fischl is grasping at the front of your shirt, clutching it until her knuckles are white like bone from grasping so tightly.
"I-" she tries to speak again, but then your tongue is in her mouth and what comes out is a desperate whimper instead. She can't think straight. Her entire world has been reduced to the feeling of your body against hers, your tongue on hers. Fischl can’t seem to get enough of you, can't get you close enough. She tugs you forward by your shirt, practically pulling you against her as she leans back against a wall. Her head tilts back, exposing the sensitive skin of her neck as her breathing turns shallow. When the two of you finally pull away to breathe, she whimpers.
Your lips are swollen and bruised from the intensity of the kiss, and Fischl is panting like she’d just run a mile for you. Fischl leans into the touch, her eyes slipping shut as her breath leaves her in a heavy exhale. Her hair is silken against your fingers, as smooth as the finest silk.
"...More," she whispers, her voice little more than a breathless gasp against your lips.
Freminet
Freminet lying in the sand, your body wrapped around his. It's late at night, and the ocean is a deep, midnight blue. The stars are glimmering above like a thousand diamonds hung against the sky. Your skin against his lips makes him shiver, and his hands move to hold your hips, bringing you closer to him. He pulls you into the crook of his arm.
He breaks away from the kiss for a moment, breathing heavily. His skin is aflame, like he's been struck by lightning. His free hand reaches up to grasp your face, fingers trembling against your skin. His eyes are dark, almost completely black with how wide his pupils have become. He speaks before he can help it, his voice barely more than a whisper:
"By the Archons, I'm in love with you."
He pulls you closer, his body heat burning against your own. His body aches to touch you more. He sits up, pulling you into his lap. One of his hands cradles the back of your waist, the other still grasping your chin. He kisses you again, fiercely, his lips devouring you with need.
A soft moan escapes his lips as he kisses you. It's quiet, but it reverberates through his chest in a way that gives the impression he was holding it in. As if your lips on his are exactly what he needed. He buries his face in your neck, his lips pressing against your sweet skin. He sucks at your collarbone, the feeling of you between his lips making his mind go blank. When he speaks, his voice is guttural, raw and desperate.
"I love you. Gods, I love you," he says again, as if the words are escaping him, as if all he can think about when you're in his arms is the feel of your skin, your lips, your body against his.
Furina
Furina's tea has cooled to lukewarm, but she's far more interested in your touch. She straddles you on the couch, her heart pounding as if it will burst through her ribs. She presses her body against yours, burying her face in the crook of your neck. She leaves kisses along your pulse, breathless and desperate. Your fingers trail through her hair, and she moans into your skin. Her hands clutch at your clothes, pulling you ever closer, her voice a whisper against your flesh.
"I need you," she says, voice cracking with desire. "Your tea, Fufu." You softly remind her. She shakes her head. "I don't care about the tea." Furina captures your mouth in a kiss, desperate and needy, her body pressing against yours as if she wants to meld with you. Furina can feel your heart beating against her own; she can feel you, feel it all, and she wants nothing more than you.
Her kisses are hungry, her hands pulling you closer, desperate to feel every part of you. One of your hands finds her waist and settles there, thumb rubbing circles against her side. She groans at your touch, her own hands finding purchase on the back of your neck, holding on to you like a lifeline. "Easy girl, take it slow." Furina is anything but easy. She moans against your skin, her body shuddering and pressing closer.
"Don't tell me to be easy," she growls, biting down on your neck.
Ga Ming - aged up
As your bodies intertwined in the dark, Ga Ming loses himself in your touch. The feel of your skin on his, your fingers in his hair, your lips on his are enough to make him gasp against your mouth. His lips leave your mouth to kiss across your jawline, trailing kisses down the side of your neck. His breath hitches as he kisses below your jaw, hands roving over the expanse of exposed skin they can reach. Ga Ming buries a moan in your skin, his body reacting to the curse. He nips at your throat, teeth digging in just a little rougher than he had before, his hand grasping at your waist a little firmer.
"You feel so good," he whispers, the words barely more than a vibration against your skin. He kisses your body like a worshiper. He pulls you closer, pressing himself flush against your body, shuddering against your skin when you move under his touch. He continues to leave a mess of hickeys along your neck, the sounds of his lips against your skin and the quiet, hitching gasps his touches pull from your lips filling the dark.
One of his hands moves over your body, exploring every exposed piece of flesh he can reach, mapping you with his fingers. As Ga Ming kisses you soundly, he pushes your body down against the sheets, straddling your waist and bracing a hand to the side of your head.
He draws in a shuddering breath between kisses, his tongue slipping through the gap in your lips when you part them.
Ganyu
Ganyu lets out a startled gasp when you pull her into your arms, the sound quickly devolving into a soft whine of pleasure. She melts when you press her up against a tree in the middle of the clearing, a faint shiver running up her spine as your bodies press together. Her lips are desperate when they meet yours, needy. She whimpers your name against your mouth as she clings to you like a leaf in the wind. Her fingers clutch at your clothes, trying desperately to pull you even closer. Every bit of her is shuddering, begging for more of you.
Her knees are weak, and she would have collapsed to the ground if it weren't for your body pinning hers against the trunk of the tree. Her breath comes in unsteady puffs against your skin, her mind blank of everything but the sound of your heartbeat. Ganyu lets out a whimper when you run your tongue against her.
She shudders and clings to you tighter, practically melting in your arms as her head falls back with a quiet moan. Her eyes flutter closed, and she seems to give herself to you completely, submitting to your every touch. Her heartbeat is racing, her breath is coming in quick, small gasps, and she is utterly lost in the sensation of your body against hers. Your every touch is sending sparks through her, stoking the fire in her gut until her entire body is aflame.
Gorou
Gorou seems more energetic when he's pressed up against you, his skin against yours. Even his tail is moving more than usual, flicking and swirling in a haphazard manner. One of his hands is pressed hard against your hip. "Eager?" Gorou's face is slightly flushed, his breath coming in short puffs as he tries to regain his composure. He nods a little too vigorously. "Yes," he answers, a shiver going through him, "Very eager." He's pressing against you even more now, the heat he emits warming your body. He has you up against the wall, trapping your body between his arms. His breathing has become more ragged, even his tail continuing its wild movements. A low groan escapes his mouth as he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. He is trying his best to not completely crumble, but each moment his control is growing more strained.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he mumbles. "No idea at all." He pulls you close in one swift movement, his arms winding around your body possessively. He practically buries his face in your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"I want you." He whispers, and he doesn't even try to hide the desperation in his voice.
Hu Tao
Your back is pushed against a tree, Hu Tao's body pressed against you and her knee between your legs. Her breath is hot against your ear, her voice a honeyed whisper.
"You are mine." She murmurs, nipping gently at your ear. "Aren't you?" You nod. There's a low, pleased chuckle that comes from Hu Tao as your head nods. Her hands find their way to your sides, sliding under your shirt to touch your skin with reverent fingers. "Say it." her voice is demanding and loving, leaving no room to deny her. "Say you're mine." Her teeth sink into your neck with a possessiveness that leaves marks. You can feel her smiling against your flesh as she sucks dark bruises into your skin.
She draws back a little, just enough to look at you, to stare at the place between your neck and shoulder that's now beginning to stain red. "Answer me." "Yours-!" You blurt out. A satisfied hum rumbles in her throat as she hears those words fall from your lips. Her knee grinds lightly against you, drawing a low gasp from you as it puts pressure just there.
"Damn right." She mutters, her mouth going to your neck again, marking you in bruise after bruise like a canvas dappled in paint. Her hands on you are feverish, leaving behind trails of scorching heat in their wake. She nips and kisses a trail along your neck, her lips leaving behind marks just as much as her teeth.
"You're mine, " Hu Tao whispers against your skin like a prayer, "Till the day that i put you into the ground....wait...no that came off very wrong."
Jean
Jean falters for a moment as the two of you separate, the faintest sound of surprise and reluctance leaving her lips. Her breath is ragged, a few strands of hair sticking to her sweaty brow. And yet, there’s a strange… vulnerability in her eyes, as she struggles to keep them open to look at you. “You…” She begins, words soft and breathless. “… I feel so tired.”
"We can stop if you wa-" “No, I—“ Jean tries to protest, shaking her head. But her words are cut off by the most ungainly yawn that she’s produced in quite a while. She looks mortified for a moment, cheeks flushing pink as she attempts to hide her face behind her hand.
“I don’t want to,” she protests, but it sounds weak even to her own ears. “I don’t want to stop…” Jean kisses you eagerly, her own lips parting as she melts into the embrace. But it’s only a matter of moments before she’s yawning again, eyes fluttering tiredly as she pulls away. She looks embarrassed, almost sheepish as she tries to apologize. “I— I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happening—“ "You're tired." You reason with her. “Obviously,” Jean grumbles, embarrassed at how apparent it is that she can barely keep her eyes open.
The urge to pull you back towards her is strong, but even stronger is the exhaustion that tugs at her eyes, begging her to drift off. Jean looks away, biting her bottom lip. The thought of going to sleep right now irks her, but she’s rapidly losing the ability to keep herself awake at this point.
“I… I don’t want to sleep.” She admits quietly; but even her own protest sounds half-hearted. “Just a few minutes,” she mutters reluctantly, her voice even quieter this time.
She’s fighting a losing battle, her eyelids drooping more and more with each passing moment. Her breathing grows heavier too, as her head starts to list to the side, like a wilting flower.
Heizou
A low growl escapes from Heizou's throat as he leans against you, pressing you down on the table. His fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, trying to undo them with his shaky hands. He's eager, wanting more— he's desperate for the feeling of you against him.
"Wait wait wait-!" you intervene. "Why?" He groans against your neck. His lips are against your skin, leaving a trail of burning kisses against your flesh as he slowly moves downwards. He's so close to you, his hands roaming across your body, mapping your skin like a canvas waiting to be painted. "Let me... please you," he says, voice strained. A small smirk twitches up the corners of Heizoz's lips. "Is it that much of a problem, darling?"
He moves his hand down from your shirt, tracing along your side, his fingers gentle but clearly itching to do more. He runs his thumb along the waistband of your pants. "We're alone here, aren't we?" "For now-!" you almost snap in panic. "For now," Heizou echos, his smirk deepening. He leans down, lips at the curve of your neck. His tongue traces a line to your ear, where he nips you lightly.
He whispers in your ear, "We'd better be quick, then."
Itto
Itto whines softly as he pulls your body against his, his mouth hot and eager against yours. He'd give up breathing, if it meant one more second with you. "Fuck," he breathes between kisses. His hand finds the back of your neck, gently tugging you closer to him. "You're perfect. Utterly perfect." Itto's hips roll against yours, a small whimper falling from his kiss-bruised lips. He's utterly overwhelmed by your presence. Your touch, your taste, your scent... it's all he can think about.
"You taste like a good" he gasps into the kiss. "Like Miso Soup." "You heard me," Itto whispers into your ear. "Good soup." He rolls his hips against yours again, another small moan slipping from him. He's flushed, lips parted, breathing heavy.
"I think you were made for me," he says, gently nipping your earlobe. Itto's hand gently grips your hip as he kisses a line down your throat. "Mm... You feel like one, too," he says, his voice low as he feels your folds, "Wet."
Kazuha
Kazuha melts at your touch, his body pressing against yours blissfully. His tongue brushes your lip as you kiss, his hands gently caressing your skin as if he is afraid to hurt you. Like this, he’s entirely at your mercy. He’s pliable, obedient, your plaything. The way his body responds to a moment with you is divine. "You're so soft," he whispers when you catch a breath, nuzzling his face against your cheek. He pulls you closer, his chest against your chest.
"You're perfect. You're beautiful," he murmurs. Kazuha's lips against your skin feel like fire, his tongue leaving a trail of heat down your throat. Your skin feels like a drug where he kisses it. His lips press against the side of your neck, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. “You make my heart race.” He says, his voice as soft as flower petals. He worships you with every inch of his body. Kazuha is overwhelmed; your very presence is making his head spin. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. For a moment, it makes him dizzy— breathing in the smell of you.
“I love you,” he mumbles. One hand wraps around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. He can feel you against him, the gentle curve of your body perfectly fitting against his. You’re all he can think about. Your smell, the feel of your skin under his hands. You take over every sense at once. Kazuha can taste you on his tongue, he can feel you against his chest. Even if he closed his eyes, he would still know you were there.
“You are a dream,” he whispers against your ear. His hands roam your body in admiration. Every one of his senses is on edge. “You have to be a dream.”
Kaeya
Kaeya's hands move to your hips, grasping so strongly on your skin that you can feel the faint tremors in his hands as he holds back. His lips push against yours, pressing firmly but gently, as if he is holding back. He breaks the kiss only to pant against your lips, a quiet whimper in the back of his throat. Kaeya is pressing you against his desk, his breath warm as his mouth moves to your neck, trailing kisses against the skin like a prayer. Your presence drives him breathless, your very touch like rapture upon his tortured soul.
"Stop-!" Immediately, Kaeya freezes in his movement, a frown upon his face as he lifts his head from your neck. "What's wrong?" His voice is a quiet murmur, his eyes searching your face for a sign of what brought you to halt him. He hears the footsteps, but they barely register in his mind. For a moment, Kaeya is frozen, torn between the person approaching and the one in his arms. For a moment, he doesn't care that someone may see them.
He continues kissing against your skin, his body moving to press you back into the desk. Kaeya is lost in the moment, his focus only on you. The sound of footsteps becomes little more than white noise, a buzz in the back of his mind as he continues to kiss your neck.
His tongue against your skin, his hands in your hair, pinning you between him and the desk... he doesn't even hear when the door to his office opens.
Kaveh
Kaveh's breaths are ragged, chest heaving like an avalanche as a stream of soft gasps and whimpers tear themselves from his throat. His hands move across your body, touching you as one might touch a holy artefact. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide by bliss.
"Yours," he moans as he presses another kiss to your skin. "I'm yours. Always yours, forever yours." "Whats gotten into you today?" You chuckle against his lips. Kaveh shivers at the sound of your voice, as if your words themselves are enough to send a shiver down his spine. His lips find the shell of your ear as he leans in, breath hot on your neck.
"Nothing," he murmurs, his words half-lost in a shudder of ecstasy. "I just…" His hands tighten on your waist; his heart races as if it might burst. "I need you," he whispers, voice trembling with desire. He lets his head fall against your shoulder, a sound somewhere between a curse and a plea spilling from his mouth. He kisses your neck, tongue tasting your skin as his fingers dig into your flesh.
"I need you," he repeats, voice growing more urgent. "You, you, you." He kisses a trail from your collarbone to the juncture of your shoulder, biting and sucking at your skin as if he means to mark you.
Keqing
Keqing lets out a soft sigh as her lips meet yours. Her eyes flutter close as the world around her melts away. There is only the taste of you and the softness of her own skin against yours. Her hands find your waist and she pulls herself closer until every point where your bodies touch meets, like puzzle pieces falling into place. She feels breathless and heady, and she never wants to leave. One of Keqings hands finds it's way to your jaw, holding your face gently. Her thumb runs over your cheek, skin on skin, feeling the soft lines, the planes and contours beneath her touch.
She presses her body closer, desperate to feel you against her, to know that you are here, real and solid and perfect. She feels so soft and vulnerable but here, with you, she doesn't mind. "You... you feel so good," she whispers against your lips, so close that her voice barely stirs the air between you. Her eyes blink open for a moment as she looks at you, taking all of you in, before her eyelids flutter close again.
She is breathless, like you've taken her air and stored it inside of you. She presses her lips to yours over and over, wanting for this moment to never end. "Please," she whispers, breathless, her hands gripping at your clothes, pulling herself closer and closer, wanting desperately to bury herself in you. She wants to wrap herself in every part of you, to let you take over her body and mind until her whole world is you, you, you.
"More..."
Kinich
Kinich can't help but grin against your skin as the tips of his fingers ghost over your sides, light and quick against your sensitive spots. He laughs as you twist and wriggle against him, your voice a delightful source of music as you half-laugh, half-complain. He moves closer yet, boxing you in against the trunk of the tree, his fingers moving to play at the sensitive skin along your thighs. "Ticklish?" he murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his hands roam slowly over your body.
"Or are you just trying to play coy with me, sunshine." Kinich's nose scrapes over your collarbone, tracing the slender lines of bone and muscle. His hands push against your thighs, gently spreading them apart so he can press closer to you. Konich kisses you slow and deep. There is a hunger in the way he moves against you, the heat of it making your toes curl and burning its way down your spine. He moans against your lips, a desperate, aching sound that speaks of an intense need you can sense rolling off him in waves.
"You sound pathetic." Ajaw interrupts. "Ajaw-!" "The almighty!"
Kirara
Kirara, after a long day at work, slumps backwards onto the bed. She's tired and sore, just wants to pass out and curl into your warm embrace. She shuts her eyes and lets her body sink into the sheets, feeling the cool cotton against her skin. She sighs softly, allowing the tension in her muscles to slowly fade and a smile to spread across her lips. Kirara hums softly at the kiss, her body reacting to yours almost instinctually.
She reaches up and cups the side of your face, pulling you in closer and kissing you deeply. She slips her free hand around your shoulder and tries to pull you down on top of her. Kiraras breathing softens, and a shiver rolls down her spine as she feels you against her. She deepens the kiss, pulling your body closer against hers.
She doesn't want to break away, but she knows she has to breathe. Pulling away, she gazes up at you, her eyes hazy with lust and exhaustion. "I love you," she mumbles, her voice soft like silk. Kirara pulls you down against her again, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her head in your shoulder. She clings to you like a lifeline, letting out a little sigh of content.
"Can we stay like this for a while?" She murmurs, her voice muffled against your skin. "Just like this. With you."
Kokomi
She moans softly against your lips, her arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer against her. “I love you,” she whispers in between each kiss, each one a prayer, a plea for you to never leave her again. Her body melts against you, desperate to feel the warmth in your touch. Kokomi’s hands slowly travel across your body, exploring the planes of your skin in delicate, reverent movements. Each touch is deliberate, as if she’s mapping your body for the first time, desperate to memorize every inch of you.
She moans softly against your neck as she moves along your body, the sound a mixture of desire and pure adoration. Her breathing becomes more labored as she whispers your name, her arms enveloping you, pulling you closer still. Kokomi buries her face in your hair, the soft scent of you making her shiver. She presses the length of her body against you, savoring the way your warmth envelopes her. She closes her eyes, relishing the feeling for a moment before slowly trailing kisses along your neck, her breath hot against your skin.
“I want…” she mumbles, her words trailing off as she struggles to find the right words. “I want… you. I need you.” Kokomi’s breath stutters as she continues her trail of kisses, moving down your throat, along your collarbone, and down to the hollow of your collarbone. Her hands begin to wander, her touch growing desperate as they move across your body. She lets out a quiet, ragged whisper, the sound more gasp than words. “Please…”
Layla
Layla melts into the kiss, eyelashes fluttering shut. A content, quiet noise escapes her throat and into your mouth, a soft sigh of breath as she leans into you. Her knees buckle a little, and she’s forced to grab your shoulders to steady herself against you. “Careful,” Layla mutters as she pulls away from the kiss, her face flushed a soft pink that makes her skin glow. She’s panting just a little, her head spinning, your taste still on her tongue. “I feel dizzy…”
Layla is clinging to you fiercely now, using your shoulders to keep herself upright. Her legs are still unsteady, and she can’t quite keep the breathlessness from her voice. “You make me weak,” she murmurs, her voice a quiet moan. “Stay awake,” you murmur as you feel Layla start to doze off against your lips. Her eyes are so heavy, her body still so dizzy… you can’t help a smile.
“You can’t fall asleep on me yet, can you?” Layla closes her eyes as she leans against you, inhaling deeply. The effort to even stay standing right now feels tremendous; she clings to you with a desperation that surprises her, her fingers clenching the fabric of your clothes. “You’re too much… too much for me.”
Lisa
A soft noise leaves Lisas mouth— half gasp, half breathless whine— and her eyelids flutter shut.
She is completely helpless against you. She presses herself harder against you, her breathing growing harsher against your skin with every moment that passes. Her fingers twist in the fabric of your clothes and her head tips back to expose the pale skin of her neck. Her breaths come in quick, shallow gasps. She is drowning, falling, sinking in whatever it is you're doing to her. She can't think beyond your touch, the press of your lips against her neck, the feeling of your hands on her body. Her grip on your clothes tightens. One of her hands slides up to clutch at your sleeve, the other fisting in the collar of your shirt while she trembles against you. Her head tilts back even further, her neck and chest bared completely. Her breaths falter, each inhale catching in her chest before she can speak. She manages a single word, spoken like a gasp of pain.
"Please." She can't beg. She can't speak. She can barely even think. A few more seconds pass before she manages to rasp out another single word.
"Gimme more cutie."
Lynette
Lynettes lips are soft and eager, her tongue hot when it brushes against yours. She kisses with a passion that could set the world ablaze. Her breath is hot on your face, her skin like fire when she pulls you against her body. It is unusual for Lynette. Normally she's more reserved, composed. But right now, it's as though there is some hidden part of her that is being set free, brought to the surface by your touch. She is wild, unrestrained, needy as she pulls you closer against her.
"Calm do-" "No." Lynette breaks the kiss, but immediately moves to bury her face against your neck, pressing kisses against your skin. Her breath is hot against the crook of your collarbone.
"More," she breathes, the word ragged and needy. "Don't tell me to calm down." Her lips trail up your neck, up to your ear. She nips, gently, at your earlobe, before sucking the skin between her teeth. "I need you," she gasps, and you can feel her tremble against you. Her hands are already pulling at your clothing, desperate to expose more of your skin to her. Her lips leave a hot trail against your throat as they work their way back down your collarbones to your chest, then lower.
"If you dare tell Lyney about this...I might just kill you."
Lyney
Lyney deepens the kiss, his arms wrapping around your body. He pulls you impossibly closer, closing any gap between the two of you. His hands trail across your back, caressing your body slowly, gently. The kiss only breaks so he can draw breath, but it never lasts. His lips brush against your jawline, his breath hot against your ear. "May I show you something?" His voice is a deep murmur, spoken as if the words are a secret. His hands are on your hips as he gently pushes you back to the bed, his lips brushing against the skin of your neck. With a single, fluid movement Lyney pushes you onto the soft material and pins you beneath him, resting his body against yours. The weight of him is pleasant, grounding, and he gives a soft smile as he looks down at you.
His eyes are full of promise, mischief, and he runs a hand over your waist. "Stay still for me," he murmurs, his words a whisper on your skin. Lyney's fingers find the hem of your shirt, gently gripping the fabric. He rolls it up, revealing a little more of your skin. Slowly, gently, he lifts the shirt over your body, only stopping when your torso is exposed. He takes a moment to look at you, drinking in the sight before him. His eyes move over every inch of your form, memorizing it as if you were a work of art. Then, quietly, he lowers his head to your exposed skin, kissing a trail down your body. His lips move over your flesh like a prayer, his tongue occasionally flicking out to taste it. He doesn’t stop until he reaches your stomach, before giving a soft bite.
Mika - aged up
As soon as you speak, Mika obediently relaxes his shoulders. His eyes close for a brief moment, a light shiver running down his spine as you tell him to. His hands are no longer curled into nervous fists at his sides, instead laying limply in his lap. When he looks up at you again, his heart is pounding a nervous tattoo against his ribcage.
He's so easily affected by you. It would make him laugh if he weren't too flustered. Mika lets out a soft huff when he feels your hands brush against his, but he doesn't move. He wants you to touch him. He wants you to hold him and caress his skin, to run your hands through his hair. He wants to feel you, to be touched by you, but he's far too nervous to do it himself.
Just the lightest brush of your skin against his feels like an electric shock to his entire form. Another soft sigh leaves Mika as your lips meet his again. He wants. He wants to take, to touch you. Every time your mouths meet, he gets tempted to move his hands to your body. To touch you the way he wants to touch you.
But he doesn't. Mika is far too nervous to do anything but obey you. He's content with you taking control of this situation. Mika parts his lips as you kiss him, inviting you to enter and explore his mouth. He wants to taste you, and he wants you to taste him, but he holds himself back from doing anything except letting you do it to him.
He's trembling again, every nerve in his body on fire at your touch.
Mona
Mona lets out a sharp gasp as your lips meet hers. Her eyes widen, and for a moment she is frozen in place. She blinks, and her eyes flutter shut as she leans closer, reaching out a trembling hand to rest on your waist, holding you close, almost as if she was terrified of you disappearing. Her kiss is slow, almost tentative. You are a deity, and she is nothing, and yet-
There is a kind of desperation in her movements. Her hands tangle in your hair, her fingers trembling as they graze your skin. She has been patient; she has been pining for years in silence.
Now that she has you, now that she feels the softness of your lips against hers, she will not let go so easily. Monas kiss deepens. A low moan escapes her throat, and a shiver runs through her as her tongue brushes against yours. She pulls you closer, pressing against you, her fingers gripping tightly in your hair. She can't get close enough. Her lips move with a hunger she can't suppress. Her tongue slips into your mouth, deepening the kiss as her hands rove over your body, her touch both needy and gentle at the same time.
She would give you anything, she would submit to any command you gave her. All her thoughts and hopes are pinned on you - she can't lose this.
Mualani
Mualani can't breathe. Everything feels like too much. The sensation of your skin- she needs to touch more, needs to feel more, needs to press against you until all that is left is your scent, your warmth, your taste. Her hands run up your arms until they find purchase in your hair, tangling it between her fingers. She pulls, and her lips crash against yours. Mualani's thoughts are lost in you. All she wants is more. She can't get enough of the taste and the smell of you.
She pulls you against her with a surprising amount of strength, as if nothing else matters but the way you feel as if your touch were the most important thing in the world. Her fingers run along your spine and down your back, pulling you even closer, pressing kisses against your neck and shoulders. Mualani is dizzy with desire. Her body is a slave to your touch, every movement, every caress sparking white hot need through her veins. "I- " she moans, her voice breaking with desire. "Please- please-"
She can't even finish the request because all she can think of is how badly she wants you.
"Chill out." You chuckle at her eagerness. Mualani tries to take a deep breath, but the scent of your skin drives her to distraction and she lets out a shuddering gasp instead. She's still pressed against you, her fingertips still tracing absent circles on, her eyes locked on your neck like a lioness with her next meal. "I can't." She admits after a moment. "I can't chill out when you're so close to me."
Navia
Navias cheeks flush deeply. Her body tenses at your words, her hands gripping the fabric of her skirt so tightly it nearly tears. "You... think I taste sweet?" She asks, sounding genuinely surprised. She hadn't expected to hear such an intimate remark from you. "It's probably from all the sweets we just ate." You figure. She blinks. Oh.
A breath escapes her that's somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, her expression changing from wide-eyed surprise to a smile. "I guess you're right, huh?" She muses, taking one of her hands and wiping at a corner of her mouth with her thumb. "So, how's the taste?" "Sweet, and...a bit salty?" The words make Navia's breath catch, and her heart quicken. She pulls back for a moment, to look at you, her eyes slightly dazed. She brings one hand up to brush against your cheek, thumb sliding across your skin. You can feel the slight tremble of her fingers.
"Did I surprise you?" she asks quietly, half-whispering as if fearing your answer. Her eyes search your face, trying to read your reaction. "Perhaps a little." You admit. Navia's hand moves up to the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair to tangle in the strands. Then, she closes the small space between you, her lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. It's short, and it doesn't go beyond a lingering press and the soft brush of her mouth against yours, only meant for you.
The kiss is chaste.
Neuvillette
Neuvillette is the embodiment of a gentleman. He takes your face carefully in his hands, thumbs rubbing over your cheekbones. He presses his lips to your brow, your cheeks, even your nose and chin. Then he finally finds your mouth with his.
The kiss is soft and gentle, with every trace of reverence behind every movement. Neuvillette is like a worshiper in the temple, reverent and gentle as he presses his mouth to yours. His touch is slow, like he's trying to etch himself on every corner of you. Neuvillette pulls you against himself, one arm wrapping around your waist and holding you as if he never intends to let you go.
His forehead presses against your own, his other hand still tracing across your face, caressing your skin like he's trying to commit every bit of you to memory. His lips part slightly, the kiss growing deeper, more intense with the passing of each second. He's drinking deep of you. The kiss is almost desperate. Neuvillette presses you close, the hand on your waist holding you firm against his body. His breaths start coming faster, his touch growing a touch more needy. His hand drifts from your face to the back of your head, gently cupping it and holding you close. His tongue slides over your lips, gently pressing and trying for entry. A soft moan rolls from his mouth.
Nilou
She feels her pulse quicken at the closeness of you, and the feel of your lips. Her tongue slips against yours, and she moans at the sensation. Her hands travel up and down the arms, chest, and back of your tunic. She doesn't speak, but she can't help but whimper softly against your ear. She wants you so badly. The feeling of your tongue against her tongue has a shudder running through her body, and she can't help but gasp in anticipation at the kiss. Her hands are already touching you and more of you is what she wants.
She is completely enraptured by you, her fingers dancing down your back. She wants to be closer to you, closer. Close enough to be a part of your skin.
Her fingers curl into your clothes, tightening, and she wants to pull you closer. As the kiss continues, Nilous tongue slips against yours, wanting—desiring—more. Your taste is everything she wants, and when you pull away, for a heartbeat only, she lets out a faint whine of disappointment. "I want more," she murmurs against your lips. "Please." "You will." You whisper. Nilou doesn't need to hear more than that in order to understand.
She pulls you closer, her body pressing flush against yours. Her tongue slips back against yours, and she makes a low moan at the sensation of you against her. The feel of your lips is like nothing she has ever experienced, like a drug.
She wants more.
Ningguang
Ningguang lets out a soft gasp at the feel of your lips against hers, her mind reeling. Her heart is thundering in her chest and her breath is caught in her throat. Her everything.
Her arms come up to hug around your waist, pulling herself closer. She moans softly against your lips, a faint whimper escaping her as she melts into the kiss. Ningguang gently pushes you back, slowly, until you are flat on your back.
She positions herself on top of you, straddling your hips. She's breathing heavily, her breaths shallow and shaky as she stares down into your eyes. "You are mine," she pants softly, a shudder running through her form at her own words. Ningguang reaches a hand down to cup your jaw, a shiver going through her at your skin against her touch.
"Mine," she repeats, eyes roaming over you with a possessive gaze that borders on adoration. Her lips find your neck, leaving a trail of kisses on the soft, delicate flesh. She nips gently at your skin as she speaks. "You're mine. All mine." Ningguangs hands are fumbling against your chest, fingers desperately trying to unbutton your shirt.
"All mine," The words are almost a growl. She's breathing into the hollow of your coller, hot breaths against your skin. Her body is hot against yours, desperate as her hands go lower and lower.
NEVER FINISHED BUT I POST IT FOR NOW ♡
Hope yall are hungry cause maybe i finish this all lol
Noelle Ororon (newly added) Pantalone Pierro Pulcinella Raiden Razor Rosaria Sandrone Sara Scaramouche Sethos Shenhe Shinobu Succrose Thoma Tighnari Venti Wriothesley Xiangling Xiao Xianyun Xilonen (newly added so pls dont ask why she isn't green lol) Xinyan Xingqiu Yae Miko Yanfei Yelan Yoimiya Yun Jin Zhongli
⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅ As seen by the Harbingers: You, the Creator
I: sixth, ninth, fourth and third. II: the director, eighth, first, second.
III: eleventh, fifth, seventh.
✦ SCARAMOUCHE
He imagines the Creator without eyes when he’s weak.
No gaze to witness his humiliation, no pupils to reflect the things he’s become. When he’s low—when his voice shakes and his eyes sting and he thinks no—no—not here, when his joints ache like they’re rusting from the inside and his throat closes around the jagged ribs of old heartbreak, he imagines you blind.
Because if you could see him—really see him—when he’s crawling through mud and ruin, when he’s nothing more than gears and bruises and shame—
No. That won’t do.
But when he is something—when his powers ring in the bones of Tevyat and the ground cracks under his steps, when the sky and rules bends to his will, when mortals kneel and whisper his title like it tastes iron and end—then he imagines you with eyes.
Wide. Unblinking and brilliant.
He wants—he needs you to see. Needs your gaze like a blade to press himself against. So he can shout and shove it in your face like a trophy stained with dried blood:
‘’Look! Look what I did without you!’’
He doesn’t know what he expects in return. Awe, maybe. Horror. Guilt would be nice too, even if it’s hollow. But what he really wants is to catch a flicker of regret. He wants to know you care, even if it’s too late. Especially if it’s too late.
He imagines the look on your face when you see how close he has come with splinters and pride alone.
He spat on a statue of you, once. Watched it streak down the stone-cold face like weeping. Then wiped it with his sleeve and slept under it.
✦ PANTALONE
He imagines you as a transaction. The first deal he ever begged for.
The first time he prayed, it was not to you by name. He did not know the shape of gods—only the sharp edge of hunger and cold. He lit a candle after slicing his palm with a rusted shard and letting the crimson drip to the wick and whispered:
"Let me live, and I’ll make the world owe me."
And the candle stayed lit.
Not a gust of wind could touch it. Not the dark. Not the fear and the possibility of infection that trembled his hand. It burned like an agreement. It burned like a signature.
So he made good on his promise.
He learned to smile with closed eyes—because he imagines you do too. He drinks wine even if it upsets his stomach—because he imagines you held a glass in your hand when you signed your name in fire with the other that night.
He built an empire out of debt, not faith. But if you count his prayers the way you count his coins, you’ll find he’s kept a perfect record.
He’s been paying interest on that night since he was twelve.
He smiles more often now, tilting his head just so, like a man who’s seen the divine—and convinced it. He tells himself you’ve been watching him climb this whole time. That the world kneels for him because you shook his hand first.
He calls it faith. Others call it debt.
✦ARLECCHINO
She does not picture you as man or woman—because that would be too easy. She does not assign you the softness of skin or the weight of a voice. She does not put you in neither silk or armor.
Instead, a wolf. She imagines you as a wolf, the kind that watches a crib rocking in the rhythm of your heartbeat all night and does not blink. A wolf with blood still staining its muzzle—not because it devoured anything, but because it would have, if it meant keeping the child untouched. A beast that doesn’t purr or kiss or cradle. One that circles and maims. And when she thinks of you that way, it makes sense.
You are not cruel. Just practical. That’s the only type of god that could exist in a world like this—one who does not meddle, only intervenes when the wolves aren’t grown but men are. One who never offered her safety, but gave her enough strength to drag herself through hell by the teeth.
She thinks you would have liked her or bitten her throat out.
She dreams of it sometimes—wakes up with a short breath, grins at the ceiling until sunrise.
Either way, she would have known you.
That's all she ever wanted.
✦ COLUMBINA
She imagines you like a friend.
A soft presence. The kind that pulls a blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep mid-sentence. The kind that whispers instead of warns. The kind who is the reason why bells ring at noon and brings sugar instead of salvation.
She imagines that it was you—only you—who closed her eyelids long ago. That your hands were cool, not cold, and smelled faintly of lily stems. That you kissed her temple like a promise and said, “Don’t open them. Not yet. You’ll see too much.”
And she obeyed, because she loved the voice that asked her. Because you didn’t speak like a god—you spoke like someone who cared what would happen to her mind if it shattered too soon.
When she sits on the windowsill, arms looped around her knees, she sings to the empty air. She doesn’t ask for anything—she just sings. Because she’s certain you’re listening. And sometimes she imagines you sitting across from her. Your legs tangled with hers. Fingers tracing the shapes of new worlds on your dress. Hair a little messy. Like a girl. Like a friend.
Yes, she thinks. That would be nice. To have a friend like you.
୨୧ — ꒰ Streamer!Reader who gets sidetracked by people's donations/chats making the genshin characters feel jealous
Ft. Xiao, Wanderer, Kinich, Traveler
A/n: inspired by la2yn0va hsr fic
X I A O
(Name) happily smiled at another donation sent to him after recently completing a natlan quest
"Thanks for the 20 bits donation!"
He thanked the chat with a wide smile, the chat which was filled with people commenting every second flooding the entire screen making (Name) shift his focus to answer their questions about himself.
This cute interaction made (Name) feel warm and lovely in the inside, being able to interact with fans who admired him.
You know who wasn't happy? A dark headed male inside a screen wasn't that happy unlike (Name). Why were these people gifting you so low? Most of all why was (Name)'s attention not on him anymore?
He had to pull alot of strings to make his own crit rise up since (Name)'s luck on the Vermilion domain was absolutely dog shit.
(Name) — Hm? My favorite character in genshin?
Xiao — You called?
Xiao unintentionally blurted that out without any thoughts whatsoever, but when he did realize and saw (Name)'s confused face along with the chat going wild.
Without any choice Xiao did his idle animation to hide his face away from you, he used his mask so that Xiao won't face you for a while since he was in a very vulnerable state
(Name) — New mail? Sweet 300 primos!
(Chat) — Fr? I didn't get any new mail from hoyo yet.
(Name) — Well.. Free primos is free primos
If (Name)'s happy then he'll rest easy today. Hopefully no rumors circulate about what happened earlier.. Self aware fanfics are crazy these days.
W A N D E R E R
Wanderer stared at (Name) blankly, he was too busy thanking people with countless of donations to even realize they were still in a boss fight farming material's for upcoming characters.
Wanderer became (Name)'s fan ever since he saw him at that temporary event named 'Unreconciled Stars Event Quest The Crisis Deepens'.
Smug mf since he made (Name) hit hard pity for him. But was kind enough to give you his c1 after 140 wishes
(Chat) — Why don't you change your main (Streamer Name)?
An irk mark appears on Wanderer's face but wasn't that visible on screen.
Is this swine telling (Name) to replace him with someone else? Hard pass. He was already stolen from (Name)'s attention and now these nobody's are trying to persuade him into maining some other weak random than him.
Just so happen that (Name) spotted a chest nearby and happily went over to open it, Wanderer took this opportunity immediately
(Wanderer) — Unnecessary.
(Chat) — Is it just me or is his voice rougher than usual?
Damn right it's rougher since he just wanted to vent his anger out on any enemies on sight
The chat won't know but what he had said was directly targeted at them, if only he could say every insult known to man right now
So (Name), keep your eyes on him only and no one else, then maybe he'll make his attacks stronger if you comply
(Name) — Well to answer your question earlier chat, no I don't think I'll be changing my main anytime soon. Wanderer's pretty fun to play with.
After (Name) finished talking he took a closer look at Wanderer's face, but his eyes swore Wanderer had a tad bit of pink on his cheeks
His eyes must've been starting to break with the amount of streaming his doing
T R A V E L E R
(Name) had just began to prep for his stream of the week and now he was currently adjusting the Traveler's artifacts to try out a new build
You know what's crazy though? His builds are pretty shitty.
He has the absolute worst luck in artifacts plus in leveling up pieces, most of which usually goes to defense or HP%
But he still hits about 800k regularly with the Traveler! How could he do such thing with only 44.6% Crit rate!?
(Chat) — 1 MILLION?? (Name) are you doing hacks?
(Name) — What? No! Guess my Traveler's just really op
The Traveler is a smug motherfucker
Of course the Traveler wouldn't hit such high numbers without using a...slight adjustment to the system
Sure their pieces are pretty bad but they'll accept anything (Name) had given them! How could they just shake off his hard work on griding for their ascension and talents?
Whenever the Traveler sees (Name)'s shocked expression during the massive crit's appearing on his screen they are damn right happy and overjoyed they managed to satisfy their grace!
(Chat) — Your builds are bad af tho lolol
(Chat) — Why main the Traveler? They're a pretty bad character to main, you should go for Nuevillete or Alhaitham.
The Traveler's good mood immediately faded into dust once he saw the chats text
Are those no lifers saying that they're not fit to be (Name)'s vessel? They're the most perfect one!
What could Nuevillete or whatever character have that they don't? Could they switch elements? Don't think so
If they wanted bigger numbers, the Traveler will show them big numbers all right, if you want them to hit 10 million they're gonna make it happen with just one click
(Name) — Thanks for the suggestion chat but I'm going to stick with the Traveler, I'm already wayyy too attached
The Traveler's mood once again took a 360 and smiled softly at what (Name) said to them, their stomachs fluttering with delight
(Name) is attached to them? No other compliment or praise could ever reach what the Traveler was feeling at the very moment
Their grace! Oh their grace... If only they could just grab onto you and drag you here where you rightfully belong
K I N I C H
Kinich is an upcoming playable character but many in the genshin community have fallen head over heels for him
Yet he couldn't careless about them, after all just being near (Name)'s presence even though it's just by the Traveler's vessel already makes him nice and comfortable
(Name) — Day 10 of saving up for Kinich let's goo
(Chat) — Woah already 200 wishes? You're quick man
(Name) — Can't help it lmao, Kinich seems fun to play and he's really pretty!
(Chat) — He seem's boring though
(Chat) — Dude the dialouge is slightly glitching wtf
The dialouge's glitching is caused by Kinich's embarrassment and rage, he was previously just about to talk till he heard (Name) sing praises about him! How could he not accidentally stutter and mess up the dialouge!?
But on the other hand, the hell did that person meant by he was boring? He wasn't even released yet! This caused Kinich to panic mentally if whether or not you'll change your mind about pulling for him
He stared at you from the screen, clenching his fists tighter by the second. Just a small bit more... Just one more step and he'll be released, then he could really be by your side now.
(Name) — Aw man, hold on chat I gotta pause the stream to fix this glitching
(Name) eventually had to exit the game to try and see what the problem was with his device or if it was overheating again
Meanwhile Kinich was still standing there re-adjusting his thoughts about what just happened. His feelings were all a mixed bag at this point, he sighed rubbing his temples slowly
Ajaw eventually came to his side while looking at him weirdly like he had done something wrong
(Ajaw) — Wow.. Just wow
(Kinich) — Shut up...
To rightfully apologized the system eventually sent 10 wishes in (Name)'s game mail which he was confused at first but eh, more wishes for c6 knich!
Once he becomes playable Kinich would definitely spoil (Name) with high numbers and crit's. He would just have to deal with Ajaw's yapping in the meantime..
So don't get distracted over what those 'Chat' people say about him!
A/n: likes and reblogs are appreciated! Have a nice day(ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ
Nice to meet you. Fight me. (Lohen x reader) [sagau]
First thing Lohen does when meeting your other favourites is ask them to a fight.
Not as a friendly spar.
Not because he's bored.
But to see if they're really all that. If they're actually worthy of you...
And he doesn't hide that he looks down on them either. He has expectations from what he's heard from you. Of your praise.
He's both excited for a real challenge, and bonus if he can prove their strengths wrong. (It's not that he flaunts how strong he is, but he does like having you know you can depend on him, and that he can protect you better than others).
Be it Adepti, General Mahamatra, samurai, hunter, Fatui/Harbinger ex or not, a fellow Knight, or Captain. Heck even an archon...
Bring it on.
It gets his blood pumping. And if they live up to your words and praise, it doesn't matter if he gets wrecked. At least he experienced their strength and skills first hand to know they'll be able to protect you from any harm and danger.
