synopsis | love changes a person. wanderer is not immune, but he’s picking up on that fact
content | fluff
cw | none, but you did get sick at one point
a/n | inspired by that one garfield plush and the fact my own 2017 rilakkuma plushie was flopped over on my bed and he looks rough af. this has been on my mind for like a year!! has a more serious tone compared to my silly lil fics.
masterlist
love changes people, whether they realize it or not. for a specific little puppet, love evaded, eluded, and confounded him for five centuries. however, your grating, insistent, and overbearing warmth had enveloped the once-solitary puppet.
there were changes that he was not quite quick to pick up on, but he caught on eventually.
his clothing
the ornate clothing adorning his body was always, always, always pristine. with the methodical way the young-looking man carried himself, never a hair was out of place. he’d ensure each layer of his intricate garb was neatly folded in its proper place.
at the end of each week, his attire was washed with much care, leaving it out under the searing sumeru sun for a precise half-hour to get toasty enough to dry inside his home.
never a moment too long, otherwise wrinkles would settle in.
these days, while moving through the bustling streets of the desert city, one could notice the imperfections on the ascetic’s clothes. considering his perfection prior, these little wrinkles glared at the eyes gazing upon them. atypical, soft wrinkles cast dull shadows across his chest.
once, a gray, wet stain on his white clothes marred the nearly impeccable image of the inazuman’s visage.
when you asked about it, pointing out the moist splotch over his heart, the man clicked his tongue and turned his cheek, commenting about a bumbling fool tainting his appearance earlier that morning.
he was referring to you, if that wasn’t quite obvious.
each morning, the man — yet to adorn his head with his usual crown — would silently find himself at your side of the small bed, murmuring to you that he was ready to head out for the day.
he’d find a warm hand shoot out, clumsily grasping at his, tugging him under the sheets. the puppet would tsk and complain, commenting that you were so useless without him. yet, during this ritual, his head never had his hat and his sandals were still at the door, waiting to be donned.
you’d yank him under the warm covers, pressing your warm body against his chilled one. silently, the wanderer would let you enjoy a few more moments of slumber.
on the days you squished your face against his hollowed chest, he wondered if you heard anything beating to lull you asleep.
occasionally, he’d feel your drool seep onto his clothes and that moment would be ruined.
regardless if you drooled that day or not, too many minutes would pass and he would need to flee from your iron grip.
he’d hurriedly hop out of bed, attach his usual embellishments, and soar out of the door. there was never time to flatten out the newly formed wrinkles on his clothes.
quite frankly, he wasn’t too sure if he cared too much by the method in which those wrinkles were introduced. the drool was a different story.
his skin
similarly, the ascetic’s skin was flawless. he was not a victim of hormones like humans were. plus, the dry air did little to marr his doll-like exterior.
keywords: was flawless
blemishes did not exist to this puppet. but exhaustion and the side effects did.
on the rare occasion, if one was chatting with him early in the morning about his tasks for the day, someone could see a twinge of darkness flow a centimeter below his lower lashes. puffy.
his eyes were swollen, similar to when a child would cry and their eyes grew tender. when the god of wisdom chose to not peer into the puppet’s mind and simply inquire about his mildly haggard appearance, the little puppet clicked his tongue and folded his arms.
the metaphorical heart shone brightly as it caught the afternoon sun’s rays as he explained himself to the god.
“they are ill and needy. i am the only one who can properly care for them, buer. speaking of which, i need to depart early today to watch them.”
the wanderer knew how to perfectly care for his sick partner best, and staying up each night to watch you enter a semi-restful slumber eased his soul.
any cough or groan of pain in your sleep would shake the creation from his spiraling thoughts, his feet hurrying to your side. any movement under the covers caused his head to snap towards your form.
this felt all too familiar.
he impatiently waited for your health to improve, staying up each night to ensure you rose in the morning. if he was unnerved by a lack of life from you during your rest, he’d hesitantly pad to your side and hunch over your chest.
it was never meant to be a lascivious action; the puppet was only looking for a comforting sound he did not own.
under a dimly lit lantern, the novel he engrossed himself with contained nonsensical babbles; with his mind whirring, none of the words on paper formulated a thing.
when you finally wake without a hoarse voice and a newly refreshed skip in your step, the puppet’s eyebags seemingly lightened after a week. buer noted this, naturally.
the god’s lips were sealed.
his walk
before, when walking through the streets of sumeru’s largest city, the wanderer would find himself traversing at a steady pace. if he was busy, he was at a near-scurried swiftness. if he was on a leisurely walk to reflect on his life, he would take on a slow, nearly methodical pace.
the point was this man did not change his canter when out and about. nothing affected the rate at which he strolled through treasures street.
at the start of your companionship, he’d let you trail without him, seeing himself like an apathetic dog owner. the wanderer would watch you prance around and allow you to return to him when you were ready.
thanks to your human tendencies to just… get distracted by the most inane things, he was forced to deal with your aimless exploration.
one second you were walking at his side, the next you were sprinting towards a food stall. by the time he’d get you by his side again, you would be lagging eight steps back, munching on a snack you had purchased earlier.
humans were so very inconsistent and unpredictable.
he believed if you wanted his company so bad, then you’d have to follow his pace.
that’s how the ascetic operated: it was his way or the highway.
however, like a river flowing through a valley, the water runs the vale down, inching itself closer to the heart of the earth over time. likewise, his defenses wore down the more he clung to your side.
now, when you’d see something interesting down the street, you’d give him the most awestruck face he’d ever seen, and you’d yank him to follow you. he’d stumble at your rough treatment, but his feet would start bounding after you.
if he didn’t, you’d release your hold on his hand, and he’d hate to have to find you through a crowd.
if you’d slow down to fix something on your person, he’d find his legs shortening their strides, wordlessly matching your own.
on the rare occasion when your strides were in sync with his, he’d accidentally brush his soft hand against yours. when you’d grin and intertwine fingers with his, his face felt unbearably hot, but he knew it was not from the sun above.
in the back of his mind, he wondered if other parts of him, deeper parts of him, could change too.
could his chest have a rapid, rhythmic thumping when his cold hand found home in yours?
|| the wanderer x reader || M || strangers to lovers + handfeeding + fluff || wc: 5.6k || ao3 ||
You and the enigmatic Wanderer become acquainted with each other, an old story, and the best zaytun peaches.
minors & ageless blogs dni
note: the wanderer is referred to as Zerah
✨🍑meet fruit masterlist🍑✨
a/n: !!! here's my piece for the willow's house server summer collab, meet fruit!!! for my fruit prompt i had peaches!!! enjoy this sweet summer treat of wanderer and peaches loves 💕
CWs: hand feeding
“You’re obscene.”
“What?” You ask, wiping a smear of peach juice from the corner of your mouth. “It’s just ripe.”
Verging on overripe truthfully, but you aren’t one to argue about semantics (not your darshan) or discard an almost-perfectly-fine fruit, just because it has a few squishy imperfections on its flesh.
Your traveling companion scowls, pulling back his lip to look a lot more like an offended housecat than the right-hand of the Dendro archon. You swallow down your mouthful and hold back a laugh. You’re sure he could be intimidating if he tried, but he reminds you more of a stray kitten than anything else.
The hill you perch on is grassy, dry from the midday sun but vibrant green with the rain that sprayed down that morning from Apam Woods. You’d avoided the worst of it, and you didn’t mind being a bit damp. Your companion hid under that comically large-brimmed hat of his, perfectly dry. Probably a good thing, given his feline-leanings. You don’t need to learn the sound of his hissing.
He regards you with an expected scrutiny and thinly-veiled suspicion that you’ve learned he picks everyone apart with. Not even you, his fellow traveler for weeks now, is sparred. It took you some time to not take it personally. Lord Kusanali had warned you of his eccentricities, but she’d had confidence that you would be ‘more than fine’ managing him.
If she had been anyone other than the Archon of Wisdom, you would’ve questioned her judgment.
Your companion gives you a tight tsk, “That doesn’t change that you eat like a shroomboar.”
You gasp, “Rude. It’s just juicy, I can’t help it.”
You really can’t. The zaytun peach you’ve been cradling in your palm for the better part of a half-hour has been dripping juice down your wrist. You’ve tried to juggle it to your other hand and lick up what you could, but the noise he made when you sucked on your index finger was far more obscene than the mere display of eating fruit.
Even now, Zerah’s face is blushed with a pretty pink, just like your peach. Affected, despite his particularities and general disposition. Perhaps you’d toy with him more if you weren’t trying to enjoy your breakfast and the view of the towering, thick straight-trunked trees of the wood. You settle for another bite of fruit that gushes pulp and juice that stickies the corner of your lips.
Zerah huffs, rolling his eyes before pointedly looking away from you. Generally, he’s not childish, but he has moments like this where he’s bashful like a young girl.
You hide a laugh behind the remnants of your peach, held to your lips.
...
When Lord Kusanali assigned you and ‘Hat Guy’ together, to complete some private research on her behalf, you were more than shocked. You’d only recently returned back to the Akademiya following Azar’s fall (personally invited back, by the Lord herself) when you received a summons and an assignment.
‘Hat Guy’ was introduced to you as Lord Kusanali’s ‘friend’, but you could tell from the way he bristled at the description that it wasn’t entirely accurate. The Lord was all too happy to hand you both stuffed envelopes with her requests. Open-ended things, really. Nothing specific, more of a call to explore with explicit instructions to note what you find interesting. You and your new companion were both from Vahumana, though Lord Kusanali noted that you were certain to have very different perspectives.
(She wasn’t kidding.)
Your companion was neutrally nihilistic, and believed in the worst of people in most cases. It was shocking he studied within Vahumana and spent his energy writing theses on human nature when his thoughts tended to be so… defeatist.
It didn’t take you long to put together that Lord Kusanali’s ward is not human.
It’s not just his specific brand of pessimism that gives him around. You brushed your hand against his while walking and it was cold. It should’ve been hot and sticky with the rainforest drizzle, but instead it was cold and wet, like a ceramic glass beading condensation.
(He scowls when you touch him. Tells you to watch yourself. You are starting to understand why.)
He looks too perfect, you note after a while. His skin is devoid of imperfections, too smooth. Like it was manufactured and not grown cell by cell. He doesn’t tire, and rarely eats or sleeps. Most unsettling is that he can remain motionless for hours. You’ve only witnessed it, on the few nights you couldn’t sleep, and kept yourself entertained by watching the lack of breath in his chest and his rigid, unchanging posture through the night and rain.
Your companion fascinates you.
He seems... indifferent about you. Such indifference has been tempered down from annoyance, you think. You don’t think Zerah liked you much at all during the first weeks of your research. Perhaps some of that is his demeanor, and perhaps some of it is your own unfamiliarity with his quirks. You two didn’t know how to walk in step, and in those early days of your travels, your companion didn’t seem interested in learning your rhythm. You stumbled and struggled to keep up with his.
It’s on a single night, you think, that Zerah began to become intrigued with you.
...
“Hey, Zerah? Can you throw another log onto the fire?” You ask, peeling a root vegetable with a paring knife.
Begrudgingly, he tosses a log into the fire and then frowns, “Why do you call me that?”
“Call you what?”
“‘Zerah’.”
“Because Hat Guy certainly isn’t your real name, and it’s too goofy to fit you well,” You hum and toss the cubes into a simmering pot. “Figured you needed a name that suited you better.”
“And ‘Zerah’ does? That hardly sounds like a name.” He scowls at you as you stir.
“It is, promise.” You lick the spoon and grimace. Fishing into your bag, you pull forth a block of salt and a small grater on a keyring. “It’s a name from a storybook I used to read when I was little.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” You stir in a few more tablespoons of black pepper. “It was one of several in an anthology my father purchased in the desert. It was falling apart when he got it, and disintegrated by the time I was old enough to do any proper digger about it.”
“I know plenty of old stories.” Your companion huffs as you spoon your dinner into two bowls. “I don’t know any with that name.”
“Would you like me to enlighten you, then?” You hand him a bowl and collapsible spoon with a raised eyebrow.
He takes the bowl and glares. So, yes.
“It was this story about a little boy born into a dark world, full of sand and dunes.” You remember the illustrations vividly. Worn, illuminated pages fit with four-pointed stars on the corners. “He was nameless, and so he asked the earth what his name should be, and it said to go out and look for his name.”
“So the little boy traveled his whole world— dark and scary and lonely as it was. He met friends and creatures who he asked to name him, but they all told him to keep looking. Eventually, he came to an oasis with a Heron wading in its center. The boy asked the heron, ‘What am I to be? What will I be named?’ and the Heron said ‘You must ask the sun, it will know your name.’”
“But, there was no sun. So the little boy had to go even further, upwards, until the world turned upside down, and turned right-side up again. There, he found the sun, brighter and more luminous than anything he’d ever seen, and asked it what his name should be. And the sun said, ‘You have traveled the world over for a name, yet you are only beginning.’ The sun took letters the little boy taught him and gave him the name ‘Zerah’, which the sun said is the sound the world makes every morning with dawn.”
“... That’s abstract.” Zerah huffs, and ignores the very delicious bowl of curry in his hands. “And the name doesn’t sound like common. Or any other language I know of.”
“I’ve never been able to find anything on it.” You shrug. It’s not like you spent much time looking. “I figured it was some poor translation of an old Deshretini fable. Regardless, you’re Zerah.”
“... Like dawn.”
“Like dawn.” You nod. “Because you’re always staying up so late until the sun rises. Seriously, don’t you get tired? How does your skin stay so perfect, despite the lack of sleep?”
“You’re insufferable.” Zerah rolls his eyes with a growl. “Is that really your reasoning? How juvenile.”
“I think it’s perfectly acceptable.” You speak around a mouthful. “If it bothers you, I’ll call you Hat Guy, Hat Guy.”
Your companion stares at you, then laughs under his breath and a click of his tongue. “It’s fine.”
“So I can—”
“It’s fine— I’m going to find more firewood.” There’s still a stack next to your camp ground, but before you can grill him more, he’s gone, hovering up over a ridge and out of sight.
Zerah didn’t touch his dinner.
...
It’s another day, later. Sumeru doesn’t have much for seasons, especially as you near the Wall of Samiel and the desert’s sand and heat creep into Sumeru’s jungle. You and Zerah wander over a ridge while you munch on a dried slice of Harra fruit. It’s bitter, puckering your mouth and making you salivate. You wipe at the corner of your lip.
“You shouldn’t walk and eat.” Zerah says, pushing himself up and over a small ledge. He offers you his hand.
“Why’s that?” You ask, holding the fruit in your mouth and reach for him.
Zerah pulls you up, steadying you and then frowns. A smear of spit from your hand shines on him now. He looks disgusted, wiping it away on his shorts with a grimace.
“Choking hazard.” Your companion grabs you by the wrist. “Wash your damn hands. You’re sticky.”
“A necessary evil.” You shrug as Zerah leads you to a pond nearby. He kneels with you at the water's edge and stares. “A good fruit is worth it.”
“Is it really?” Zerah deadpans as you relent and rinse your hands in the crystalline blue water. You scrub at them with a flat stone you find in the silt and sand.
“Absolutely.” You respond matter-of-factly. You can feel Zerah’s scrutinizing glare. It dawns on you that, perhaps, he truly doesn’t know of such things. “... Have you ever had a perfectly ripe peach?”
“No.” Zerah curls his knees to his chest at the water’s edge. His bottom lip juts out cutely— pouting, almost. As close to such a thing as he would allow himself. “I don’t need to eat.”
“Well do you like eating?” You ask, shaking off the water from your hands and drying the excess with a wipe to your shoulders. You pointedly ignore the expression of mild disgust Zerah wears. “Have you ever enjoyed eating?”
“... I don’t need to answer you.”
“No, you don’t.” You frown. “But, I’d like it if you did. Come on now, don’t be so shy.”
Zerah almost growls at you. It’s cute. He’s so prickly. “I don’t hate eating, but I don’t enjoy it either.”
“What have you enjoyed eating?” You ask, turning to him. “Do you have a favorite dish?”
That makes him pause. He opens his pretty, petal lips, then closes them with a shake of his head. There’s a wistful look in his eye that stops you from prying at such things. Teasing is far different from poking at a past that you know is, perhaps, sensitive.
You don’t think before you act; you reach out a hand to wrap around his and squeeze. Trace your thumb against the too-smooth plane of his palm.
“Tell you what,” You flash him a smile. “Next chance we get, I’ll find us a ripe zaytun peach and I’ll show you how tasty they can be, okay?”
Zerah looks at you. Really looks at you. With his too-perfect skin wrinkling around his gem-cut eyes. He doesn’t like promises— you’ve put this together. Assurance rarely does anything but make him avoidant and hissy. What you’re handing to him now is something— something more tender than what you, as research partners, were assigned to share.
Your companion flexes his fingers in your grip, “... Fine.”
Something feels sticky in your chest— like honey and bee’s wax dripping between your ribs. It makes a sweet smile stretch across your face, one that raises a soft blush on Zerah’s face. He ducks under his hat, and drops your hand, grumbling something about your next destination.
Perhaps, you’re a bit smitten with him as you dash after him, half-skipping.
...
Zerah begins to stick to your side more than he used to.
You’re not sure he knows he is— but, he is. He walks a few paces closer, and sits at your side around the campfire each night, rather than across from you. Rather than hovering outside of your tent and tarp each night, he sits just inside, near your feet.
(You swear, once or twice, that he lays a hand over your ankle. Touches you before drawing away after just a moment.)
One night, Zerah lays down next to you, when you’re half asleep. A drizzle patters against the fabric of the tent as he curls next to you, not touching, but undeniably close. It’s almost unnerving— his lack of heat in this instance. He doesn’t shiver, despite the chill and humidity.
He lays his head on top of his folded hands, nose just inches from yours. You watch him with him with half-lidded eyes, and sleepily debate on whether or not to comment on his... seeking. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A wanderer who isn’t quite human and doesn’t quite know himself, seeking something from you. Though he doesn’t know what.
You’re not sure either.
“‘Come here,” Your words slur and you lift up your blanket. It’s more than big enough for two. “It looks lonely out there.”
Zerah stiffens up, and scowls, but doesn’t move. “I don’t need a blanket.”
“Not relevant.” You answer, grip slipping. The rain and the darkness of the tent make you so, so sleepy. It doesn’t help that Zerah is so close, always smelling like damp earth and some perfume you can’t recognize.
“I’ll make you colder.” Zerah frowns. “I don’t produce heat under these circumstances.”
“... Not relevant.” You begin to doze off, clinging to wakefulness.
Zerah rolls his eyes, “Why would you want me that close anyways?”
That startles you. “... Because I like you? And I meant it, it looks lonesome without a blanket and a sleeping buddy.”
Zerah is looking at you. It’s piercing and almost violent. The aura of it wakes you up fully, along with the whirring of the air around his Vision. He looks angry, pushing himself up halfway in an instant, before caging you, arms on either side of you, bringing you both nose-to-nose.
Your heart hammers in your chest. You grab one of his wrists and your eyes go wide.
His breath is cold against your cheeks— lips.
“... Zerah?” You say, softly. His lip curls and his hand scrunches into a fist near your ear. The lines of his throat bob with a swallow, and you itch with the urge to bring him closer. Offer him something more than just a blanket and some body heat.
(But, you are dealing with a stray cat after all. It must come to you.)
“You’re... you’re something.” He says it like an accusation. It makes your head spin.
“Am I?” You huff, kicking him lightly. “I’m just trying to sleep and offer you a kindness.”
“Sure.” Zerah says, nearly good-natured and joking. He’s not naive, not at all— you sometimes forget this. Perhaps— perhaps he’s too knowing. The facade slips for a moment, and you see something flash in his eyes that you recognize—
Want.
It’s one you’ve never seen him wear. It makes something in your chest tighten and jolt like you’ve been struck by something electric and live.
You start to say his name, the name you gave him, but he’s already slipped lower. So quickly does he pull the blanket back to bully your legs open and lay between them. He tucks into you with his cheek over your collarbones, cold and smooth. He wraps his arms around your middle. Zerah feels lighter over your chest— or maybe just weighted wrong. Regardless, the move steals your breath, and you’re frozen as he settles on top of you.
He wraps the blanket over the two of you and tangles you together.
“Zerah—” You try to say something, anything.
“Your heart is pounding.” He says, crumbling the fabric of your nightshirt over your chest. “Calm down and go to sleep.”
“You really expect me to?” You laugh, cautiously brushing your hand over his shoulder blades. Zerah shudders.
“Yeah.” Zerah never lays down at night, never sleeps or rests like this. You feel too shocked to move, afraid that if you shift or stir too much, you’ll frighten him away.
Instead, you tentatively stroke a hand over his hair. It’s soft— perfectly silky and shiny. When you scratch behind his ear, his breath catches in the prettiest way. You savor the sound, thrumming on your insides. Zerah buries his nose in the hollow of your throat, the cold wash of his breath fanning over your skin.
“You’re silly.” You laugh, gasping when Zerah drags his nails down your sides. You jolt and squirm with it.
It’s a wonder how you ever fall asleep that night. It must be the motion of Zerah’s fingertips, rubbing over your ribs over your nightclothes. Maybe it’s the odd weight of him that presses over your chest. Perhaps it’s that you’ve become increasingly comfortable with your companion, and his recent proclivity for proximity is something you’ve come to welcome. Enjoy, even.
...
You find the perfect peach sometime later— in the lush valleys near Pardis Dhyai. Zerah is only a pace behind you, and you’ve taken his hand in your own during this part of the trek. His skin feels cool against your own, a blessing in Sumeru’s heat. You want more of him, but you’ll settle for his name, a promise, and the chill of his contact that he’s been giving you more frequently.
There’s a little market set up with wares from the villages of the jungle and the outposts of the desert, congregating by a stream. You both poke around at stalls for a while, side-by-side, never straying too far from one another.
When you do orbit beyond Zerah’s reach, he’s quick to snatch you back. He grumbles under his breath— “stay put” and pinches the skin of your wrist. When you yelp and bat at his shoulder, he only smiles— the smallest, tiniest thing that’s all for you. He pivots within the crowd, always keeping such a particular amount of distance between him and the next person. It’s intentional; when someone brushes to close, Zerah flinches like he’s been burned.
Not you, though. Never you anymore.
It makes you giddy.
There’s a fruit vendor on the outer edge of the market. The stall is overflowing with produce from across Teyvat— though the best of it is all Sumeru’s local specialties. There’s a box with beautifully stacked zaytun peaches, perfectly pink and swollen. Ripe with the heat, and still green and lively near where it once grew from its stem. You inspect them carefully, Zerah hovering near your back. The shade from his hat slants enough to keep you cool.
You pick out a handful of them, one by one. Four in total. Enough to snack on for the next few days. The merchant kindly bundles them for you in beeswax wrap and twine and hands them to you with a smile. Zerah bristles behind you and lays a hand on your lower back. If he really was a stray cat, he’d be hissing. Maybe scratching.
You cow him with a gentle smile before passing the merchant a few coins, throwing in a bouquet of beautiful Sumeru roses and cecilia, all the way from Mondstadt. How could you pass up such a beautiful arrangement? You hand the flowers to Zerah, who fumbles them for a moment before cradling them in the crook of his arm. There’s a flush on his cheek— rosy and pretty.
“We’ve found them.” You tell him as you practically drag him from the market into the meadows beyond, deeper into the jungle. “These are perfect.”
“... The peaches?”
“The peaches.” You blop down on a stump and begin to unfurl the wrapping. “Look how pretty they are— and just ripe enough.”
You poke around in your bag for a knife as Zerah settles next to you. He minces for a beat before you lean into his side.
He stills.
You unsheath your small paring knife, brushing it flat against the fabric of your trousers to clean it. Zerah watches you with rapt attention as you examine each peach until you find the most perfect of the bunch. Pink like an early sunset, with just a bit of give when you squeeze it. You gently pull off the leaves at the top and discard them.
“... You really got the peaches,” says Zerah with an exhale. His shoulders are drawn up.
“Of course I did.” You laugh and knock your head into his bicep. “I’ve been looking since I promised you. Just took a while to find the best ones.”
Zerah makes a noise, something between a grunt and a whine; it’s one you’ve never heard him make. (He’s— he’s been making more of these little noises lately. The other day he actually whimpered while you were detangling his hair with your fingers.) Half a growl even maybe— like a stray who doesn’t know whether to bite your hand or lick it clean.
You feel woozy with it.
Maybe your companion has been getting under your skin more. Vulnerability is a hell of a thing, and receiving any of it from someone as drawn up and closed off as Zerah is an intoxicant in and of itself. The little glimpses of him you’ve come to covet, revel in— catalog and keep. Your research for Lord Kusanali is paramount, yes, but you find it far easier these days to moon over your companion— regardless of whether or not he knows.
“You there?” Zerah asks, taking the paring knife from your hand, then the peach. He cradles it in his palm.
“Y-Yeah, I’m here,” You laugh, shaking your head. You’re lying.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Zerah says and it sounds like he’s pouting. “Tell me how to cut this.”
“Sure,” You respond; you feel like you’re dreaming. It must be the heat getting to you. “There’s a pit, you have to cut around it.”
Zerah digs the blade in. Juice squirts from the incision, stickying his fingers. He frowns, grimacing, “Like this?”
“Just like that.” You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you do anyway. You smoosh your cheek into his bicep.
“You’re being weird.” Zerah snaps, but the bite of his words doesn’t reach you.
You lean closer to him, a smile curling your lips. You feel mischievous, you want to get under his skin— he’s gotten better at holding his own against you, rather than running he tends to contend with you. You can’t ruffle him like you used to, which is truly tragic. Wretched, even.
“Am I?”
Zerah rolls his eyes, huffs, but he can’t hide the flush that’s traveling from his cheeks to his neck. He doesn’t push you away. If anything— he leers closer. He’s combative with you, he always has been, but this feels different. He’s not sparring with you, he’s not running off when you take a joke too far or rib him too close.
He’s retaining proximity, and handing you a slice of the peach.
“Is this right?” Zerah asks as he passes it to you. It’s— it’s juicy, and drips down in between your fingers.
You eat the piece whole and nod, turning away. Your stomach is in knots— it’s almost unpleasant.
“You don’t look like you enjoyed that.”
“I did—” You lie, then tell a truth. “I’ll be honest, it’s not really what I’m focused on. I want to know what you think about it.”
Zerah’s grip tightens around the peach, bruisingly. The flesh gives way around his hand, and you jolt to try and save it.
Zerah jerks it out of the way with a scowl, but keeps his face close to you. Nose-to-nose. Cold breath washing over your lips.
“... Why are you so invested in me eating a stupid peach?” He asks with a lilt in his voice you’ve never heard him use before.
“Because they’re tasty.” You lunge for the peach again, and Zerah pulls it out of the way. “You should enjoy something that tastes good and makes you feel that way.”
You hike yourself up on the stump, on one knee, and stretch to try and grab the fruit from him. The peach bursts with the pressure of his grip, pink flesh spilling from between his fingers. Liquid nectar slicking his palm, trailing down his wrist.
Zerah frowns down at you— you’re sprawled out across his lap— you— you must look obscene.
His cheeks are so red. There’s heat coming from his— chest. Lower abdomen, but only there. You can feel it against his side, feel the thump and whirring of parts that are surely not entirely human.
“Why do you care if I care, Zerah?” A grin curls across your face when you say it.
“Shut up.”
“But, Zerah—”
He’s shaking. Trembling. He tears a chunk of peach from the mess in his hand, intact enough to not fall apart when he shoves it against your lips. He presses, pushes— all you can smell is ripe, sweet fruit and that perfume he always carries with him. You almost kick your feet.
You open your lips, just barely— enough for Zerah to push the morsel inside, and for you to give the lightest suck to his fingers when they withdraw away.
If Zerah were human, he’d be panting. You are.
“Is this fun for you?” He asks, voice sharp. He rips another piece of fruit and repeats, not giving you the time or the space to get a word in.
You’re not sure what response you’d give him, if you could. Fun, isn’t quite the right word. It’s diminutive, perhaps derogatory to him in some way. You feel nothing less than adoring. You’re basking in the attention he gives you, in the quiet but entirely mutual aware of the feeling that’s metastasized from begrudging research partner to this.
Zerah feeds you like that for long enough for your limbs to grow heavy. The chunks he’s tearing out of the peach are getting smaller (like he’s savoring this too, lengthening whatever this exchange is by drawing out the length of time that he can feed you this single peach). They’re more messy.
Juice and pulp coat around your lips. You feel sticky— you’ll need a bath after this. Or at least to wash your face. Zerah’s armguards glisten with the sap they’ve soaked up. He’ll need washing up too.
“Wait—” You catch him by the wrist and force yourself. “You haven’t had any, have you?”
“No.” Zerah swipes over your lips with his thumb. “You’re filthy.”
“It’s your fault,” You lean closer, crawling into his lap.
He stiffens.
For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far. Perhaps the line for him is at ‘lap sitting’ and not at ‘hand-feeding fruit’, and you’ve misjudged the situation. Is this exploratory for him? You don’t know enough about him to make confident assessments of his experience, but perhaps... Perhaps this business with the peaches was innocent. Perhaps the proximity you now have, settled in his lap with your hands on his shoulders, is passing something you hadn’t anticipated.
You’d only been close to cuddle for warmth, right? He only touched you out of a kindness or ease— perhaps a favor to be repaid. Sitting in his lap, sticky and panting—
Before you can backpedal, recant, disengage, Zerah wraps his peach-soaked fingers around your jaw and drags you to kiss him.
It shocks you; a little gasp slips from your lips that Zerah swallows in kind. His hand that was holding the last remnants of the peach and its pit slides along your waist, around your waist to drag you closer. He licks into your mouth and it becomes abundantly clear you panicked assessments were horribly wrong.
He licks the inside of your teeth, sucks on your tongue— it’s obscene. It’s messy, in a way that makes you bury your hands in his hair to tilt his head at a better angle. Bring him closer— hands still frigid but the center of abdomen feels scorching against your own.
You feel drunk when he pulls away, gasping and bracing yourself on his arms. Zerah’s exhales feel too-hot against the skin of your jaw as he drags his lips there, biting, as his nails rake down your sides.
“Is that really the most effective way to eat a peach?” You ask him.
Zerah pulls away, grabs your cheeks, and stares. When you try to speak, he tightens his grip so your lips squish together.
“Really?”
“It’s an honest question.” Your words are garbled.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe, but perhaps I make a fair point.” You fish to the side, within the discarded beeswax wrapping, and grab another peach. “I’m sure kissing me— pardon, ravishing me—”
“Shut up—” Zerah kisses you stupid and quiet again.
“You’re interrupting.” You speak through your headrush and hold a fresh, untouched peach in your palm. “As I was saying, I’m sure ravishing me as you have decided to isn’t the prime way to get a taste of this peach. Get it from the source.”
You hold the whole peach, squeeze it lightly, and take a chomp out of it. No knife required— not slicing, nothing pretty. Just flesh parting around teeth and the juice of it dripping down your chin and wetting your palm. You chew, swallow, and hold the untouched side to his lips. The fruit is sweet, so sweet— the flavor if it lingers on your tongue. You’re sure Zerah can smell. Even if he doesn’t need to breathe, you can feel his heavy inhales and exhales. Maybe his breath is where that smell of his comes from, like incense and crushed petals of a flower you can’t identify clearly.
His hand squeezes around your hip. Hard enough to bruise— harder, and it makes you remember your companion’s strength. He doesn’t have muscles that match with it quite right. It makes you forget.
You gasp when he tugs you closer and takes a bite from the peach, all the way down to the pit. His cheeks remain flushed, stained seemingly, as he chews, and swallows. You watch the bob of his throat as he does.
You’re entranced by him. It’s lovely to be so overt about it.
“... How did you like it?” Your voice sounds dreamy and half-there as his hands slide up and under your shirt.
He thinks for a moment— studying you. Palm skimming down your ribs, stopping to count them. You can feel him do so. The other presses fingertips over your lips, pushing inside your mouth to run over your teeth.
“It was good.” Zerah tugs the fruit from your hand and sets it aside. “I’ll have more of it later.”
“‘Weally?” You exclaim, around his fingers. He jabs the inside of your cheek and your squeal.
“Yes, really.” He sounds softer, for a moment. It makes something in your ache in the best way. “I understand why you wanted me to try it.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, then.” You goad him on. “Why?”
“You’re insatiable.” He groans, bouncing his leg and you subsequently. “Is this not enough?”
“It is ‘enough’,” You assure him (you want to eat him alive.) “Call me greedy, I suppose. I’ll take whatever you give me, Zerah.”
“Are you a glutton, then?”
“Only a scholar. Perhaps a foolish, lovesick one, but nonetheless.”
“... Lovesick?” Zerah’s voice trails, awed. His eyes shine as he grips a hand over his chest. He looks like he might throw up if he’s even capable of such a thing.
“Of course.” And sweetly, you press your sticky lips to his cheek. “I thought that much was obvious, I apologize.”
“Lovesick?” He repeats, this time more incredulous. “Don’t toy with me.”
“I promise, I’m not.” You want to reassure him. “Do you think I’m this shameless with everyone I meet?”
Zerah deadpans. You bat at his chest with a smile on your face that hurts, it’s so wide and full and carefree.
“I can’t be sure.” He huffs.
“Zerah—”
You gave him that name. He lets you use it. That should speak volumes, but perhaps you’ve been negligent to what that means, how he thinks of you. Perhaps you should’ve realized, earlier, what his increased proximity has been communicating to you now.
Fools, both you. Both learning the steps, the lay of the land, just as the Lord of Dendro requested of you. Perhaps not for Sumeru’s changing, cleansed, landscapes, but for each other. An outcast and an inhuman stray.
You kiss him again, just as he leans closer to give you the same, grabbing at the cloth over your heart.
Notes: Yet another fic with my oc in mind but it reads like an x reader (I’ve been inspired what can I say lol), speaking of inspired this was inspired by the song Angel With A Shotgun by The Cab (specifically the nightcore version), fun fluff with the reader constantly threatening the Traveler (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑
Back to Masterlist A
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ♡ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
“Ehehe, Paimon believes that Paimon’s miles better than- Traveler, who’s that?” Paimon shrieks as she hides behind the traveler.
Huh. That’s not the reaction I expected, but I’m not surprised by it.
I am approaching them as I wield my sword after all.
I thought our first meeting would be different, and nothing like this. But I know what I must do. “Traveler. You have crossed a line that should never be crossed. The Wanderer…” I trail off, the venom in my voice creating a tense atmosphere.
The Traveler steps back slightly, shielding Paimon from me. I don’t give them a moment to ponder my words before I’m lunging forward with my drawn sword. The Traveler manages to parry my blow, but I manage to cut off a small strand of their hair.
I grasp the strand and hold it in my open palm, smirking all the while as I ignore Paimon’s frightened squeals.
“Funny, I thought you were a person of many titles. ‘The Honorary Knight.’” Our blades run along each other as my sharp blade attempts to slice through their neck.
“The Captain of the Watatsumi Island Special Operations Unit.” With a grunt I lower myself to the ground and swipe beneath the Traveler’s feet. with my agile one’s. They dodge my first foot, but they trip over the second one that makes a swift follow up. They fall to the ground, but before my blade can slam down on them they’re quick to roll over.
I groan when they use the element of geo to knock me down from behind, but I quickly recover with the assistance of the wind. “The Outlander.” I encase the Traveler and I in a circle of Ice, the pointy edges almost piercing Paimon. That’s when the Traveler’s eyes truly darken, and a sadistic smile makes it way onto my lips.
“The First Sage of Buer.” The Traveler’s eyes widen and they falter for a moment at my words, and I take the opportunity to freeze a slippery path below their feet. Paimon yells for the Traveler to watch out, but it’s too late.
They’ve already fallen into my trap.
I never cared for Signora, but I mimic her technique as I enclose the Traveler’s feet where they stand. The strong gust of wind I’m summoning has Paimon struggling to stay in our enclosed arena as I make my way over to the struggling Traveler.
They’ve grown stronger from their experiences in previous nations so I can’t underestimate them; it won’t be long before they break free from my icy prison. I can’t help but chuckle when I realize they’re using a similar method to the Anemo Archon to escape the ice.
The Traveler uses the wind and earth to chip away at the block of ice encapsulating their feet. Unfortunately for them, my resolve won’t yield so easily. “You should’ve kept to yourself; stop butting your head in place it doesn’t belong. The Wanderer is not an individual to be messed with, and neither am I. If you ever lay a hand on him again, I will not be so merciful. Maybe I should give you a demonstration of what’s in store if you dare to play with magic.” I don’t wait for a response as my blade slashes down to scar the Traveler’s arm. Paimon’s scream is as piercing as the beginnings of frostbite that nip at the tips of my fingers.
My blade stops mere millimeters from my target.
How frustrating.
My blade is stopped by a hand and a strong gust of wind, and I look up to come face to face with the man I’m currently fighting for.
My entire demeanor shifts as my eyes light up and my heart pounds loudly with joy in my ears. “Wanderer!!” I engulf him in a hug, and he grunts. “What did I tell you about attacking people over stupid rumors you hear about me!?” Wanderer scolds me harshly and he wacks the back of my head.
I let out a cry of dismay before I pull away enough to stare into his eyes. The ice around us ceremoniously breaks and the wind slows to a calm, soothing breeze. A beautiful flurry of snow now surrounds us, and Paimon flies over to the Traveler to check up on them as the ice encapsulating their foot finally breaks.
“But- but this time they said you died!! They said the Traveler successfully put an end to-“ “Don’t listen to rumors you dimwit!” Wanderer wacks me again before he pulls me roughly against him.
I sniffle as he soothingly smoothes my hair back. I feel more than hear him chuckle as Paimon screams at the both of us. “Tell that small floating child to shut up. They’re giving me a headache.” Wanderer bursts into raucous laughter at my words while the Traveler sounds unamused and quite angry.
“Rest now. I’ll explain the situation for you, but don’t get your hopes up.” I allow myself to finally relax knowing Wanderer is actually safe and not deceased like I previously thought he was.
The last thing I feel are his soft lips against the crown of my head.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ♡ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“And that’s the gist of it. So? How do you feel? You almost lost something valuable to someone of extraordinary power, yet all you can do is stand there with that dumb look on your face.” Paimon’s loud voice wakes me up from my restful nap, and I stir as the unconscious world fades from my mind.
Damn. I was having a good dream too.
“You’re being too loud.” Wanderer scolds Paimon as I shift in his arms. Paimon continues shouting nonetheless, and I fully wake up with a disarming yawn. My blurry eyes finally focus and the Traveler and Paimon’s annoyed expressions are the first thing to greet me.
“What?” I ask. “What do you mean, what!?” Paimon asks incredulously. “Well, I told them the basics. You really need to stop acting so irrationally when things concern me, Y/n.” Wanderer’s words are rough yet sincere, and I know he’s right. With a sigh I remove myself from his arms to stand and bow before the Traveler. “I apologize for attacking you based on false rumors, but if you so much as try to lay a hand on Wanderer I-“
WHACK!
“I apologize.” “That’s better.” I refuse to rub my head even though Wanderer’s smack left a stinging sensation.
“THIS GIRL IS RIDICULOUS!” Paimon screeches.
“Everyone, calm down and try to understand where the other is coming from.” Wanderer’s blunt words cause my lips to quirk up into a blatantly smug expression. “Oh? That’s surprisingly reasonable coming from you.” I taunt Wanderer. His eyes burn holes into mine, and I send a flirtatious wink in his direction.
He returns to stand by my side from his previous position, and he huffs as his hand purposefully bumps against mine in a silent question. I intertwine our hands in a comforting answer. “Huh, it looks like I wasn’t the only one who missed the other.” I muse.
I take joy in Wanderer’s flushed cheeks and annoyed expression that acts as a face to mask the bashful feelings that lie underneath.
Paimon looks so flabbergasted it causes me to laugh. She sputters as she tries to find the accurate words to say that truly expresses her exasperation with Wanderer and I. In the end all she does is stay silent, for once, as she turns to the Traveler to take the lead.
“Ah, that’s more like it. Thanks Paimon. Traveler, I apologize. I have nothing against you personally, but I owe many things to Wanderer. He’s special to me in a way no one else ever will be. Anyone who wishes or inflicts harm upon him will meet a fate worse than death, by my own hand.” I spit out the last sentence and Wanderer gives my hand a squeeze in warning. The traveler quirks a brow at my words, but they continue to remain silent.
A beat of silence passes before the Traveler finally speaks up, “Okay. I don’t completely understand.. everything, but I can see you don’t personally have any ill intent against me. You just seem to be very stubborn.” I guffaw at the Traveler’s words as Wanderer laughs. “That’s the perfect description for her.” He dodges my elbow, and before we know it the tense atmosphere is broken as Paimon fails to hold back a delighted giggle.
“Paimon’s still angry with you, but if you buy Paimon food she’ll forgive you!” I chuckle at Paimon’s words. “Okay, how do you feel about sticky honey roast?” I tease. Paimon gasps before adamantly agreeing to my proposal.
I don’t miss the way the Traveler’s gaze follows me with evident concern in their eyes.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ♡ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Once everyone is full from the good food the atmosphere is much lighter, and everyone finally relaxes their tense body language.
“So, how do you two know each other? Paimon’s never seen the Wanderer so… so…” Paimon fails to think of a sufficient word to describe his current demeanor. “Docile?” I jest. Paimon laughs, in agreement with my suggestion, and the Wanderer scoffs.
“Anyway, you seem to know a lot about me. Why’s that?” The Traveler doesn’t beat around the bush. Wanderer also looks a bit curious as he waits for my response. “That’s on a need to know basis and you don’t need to know.” My words cause the once cheerful atmosphere to become tense yet again, but my fit of giggles is quick to dispel the atmosphere. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Gosh you should’ve seen your face!” I laugh and motion towards the Traveler’s now dumbstruck expression.
“I’ve seen you around. I’ve been to every nation of Teyvat, and I often see you around and am privy to all the rumors surrounding you. That’s how I know about all your endeavors.” I surmise. The Traveler elaborates on their question by saying, “But that doesn’t explain how you know about me being the first sage of-“ “Paimon, how’s the sticky honey roast?” “Mmmm, Paimon loves it! Y/n’s a good cook Traveler!” Paimon gulfs down another serving of Sticky Honey Roast, and I can’t help but softly smile at the scene.
When I look at Traveler our eyes meet. They study me for a moment before changing the subject. Whatever they saw in my eyes must’ve quelled their worries enough to dismiss their unanswered question.
It’s not like they aren’t used to unanswered questions anyway.
“Y/n has always been like that. Quick to anger with matters involving me. It began a few months after our meeting….” Wanderer trails off, and I recall the time I destroyed an entire treasure hoarder camp after we were both caught by surprise and Scaramouche took a hit intended for me, which resulted in him needing repairs by the doctor.
Ugh, the doctor.
“I hate that Doctor.” I grumble under my breath. Wanderer snorts and the Traveler’s eyes shoot in my direction. “You know the doctor?” Traveler asks, clearly fishing for information. “I said that doctor, not the doctor. There’s clearly a word difference there.” I smirk at their now furrowed brows. “I see why you two get along now.” A beat passes before I double over in laughter. “She’s usually more friendly. You two just got off on the wrong foot.” “The wrong foot? That ‘foot’ was more like a sword!” As the others bicker I calm myself down enough to speak.
“We’ll definitely be seeing more of each other in the future. Then, you can make your own judgment of me. You can decide whether I’m someone you’d like to keep around by your own means. As long as you don’t hurt the one’s dear to my heart, I see no reason as to why we can’t get along.” I extend my hand towards the Traveler to shake after my little monologue, and I feel satisfied when they only take a moment of hesitance before shaking my hand.
“Alright. It’s a deal.” “Great! Now, Paimon’s eating the Traveler’s share of food!” The Traveler maneuvers their plate of food around Paimon as Paimon attempts to eat their share of food, and I giggle at the scene before me. “How gluttonous.” I hear Wanderer murmur under his breath.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ♡ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Once Paimon and the Traveler give Wanderer and I time to “catch up,” it’s silent.
but it’s a comfortable silence.
I blissfully sigh as I sip the last few drops of tea remaining in my cup. This tea tastes especially good since Wanderer was the one who brewed the cup of tea for me.
I smirk as I recall the other’s flabbergasted expressions since he only brewed one cup.
“You really are…” I turn to study Wanderer’s conflicted face as he tries to articulate the message he wishes to convey. I sit in silence as I patiently wait for him to voice his thoughts.
It’s funny since I’m not a very patient person, but for him I’m effortlessly patient.
“You really are something, huh? Stop.. worryingmelikethisdumbassyou-“ He coughs into his fist, his words coming out jumbled together and rushed.
I understand the meaning behind them regardless.
A goofy smile presents itself on my face, and I don’t dare hide it from him. He notices my expression, and it seems to give him the courage he needs to continue speaking. He takes a few deep breaths before he continues. “You may make an enemy of the wrong person one day. I… appreciate your loyalty and sincerity, but stop being a blockhead and rushing into things! Especially when it’s for my sake, you moron.” I predict his movements and dodge his swing this time around.
He looks visibly aghast that I predicted his movements. He comically glances at his hand as I reply, “Honestly Wanderer, when we first met I found you interesting. I don’t know what it was, but I was undeniably attracted to you. I think it was your energy? Like, I could tell you may not be a… ahem, pleasant, person to be around..” I shoot a glance in his direction. I admire the scowl he sports on his lovely lips. “But I had a gut feeling that there was more to you than what meets the eye; I just knew there was something.. inherently good about you beneath the surface. Call me a naive fool- wait no, don’t actually do it because I know you will!” I thankfully say that right as he opens his mouth to do just as I had said. He reluctantly shuts his mouth as he rolls his eyes. “Go on, before I change my mind.” He grumbles more to himself than me.
I feel a sense of nostalgia as I remember when the man before me went by the name of Scaramouche instead of Wanderer. “Anyway, I’m glad I followed my heart and basically forced my way into your life. We all know we wouldn’t be here together like this if I didn’t.” I giggle when he opens his mouth to deny what I said, but yet again shuts his mouth moments later.
“I guess what I’m trying to say with my long winded speech is…” I suddenly turn around to fully face him, and I engulf both of his hands within my own.
I feel my eyes prick with unshed tears as I recall a time I’ve done this before. “After learning about your past…” I close my eyes and recall the day of our reunion, the day the man who no longer referred to himself as Scaramouche finally confided in me. I was beyond grateful and really touched. He isn’t the type of person to tell someone something so personal of his own accord, and it makes my heart swell with my pride knowing I’m the only one he’s ever told.
“It’s clear to me that you’re not just a puppet. You’re someone with feelings; you have a heart. You may not be the best at expressing said feelings..” I snort when he crinkles his nose and his face conveys absolute disgust at my sincere words. “But just like anyone else in this world you deserve to be happy and to be loved. Others may not agree, and that’s okay. I’ve never cared for what others think. You are all that I adore, and if love is what you need, a soldier I will be. I know you have your own baggage to carry and your sins weigh heavily upon your conscience, so let me help you stand up tall and carry that burden. You don’t have to wander alone. …Although we all know you’re more than capable of loving yourself, if you’ll let me, I’d like to love you too.” I squeeze my eyes shut as my chest rapidly rises and falls with panicked breaths.
It took a lot of courage for me to say all of this to him. I hope he doesn’t misunderstand me and think I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe I am. I hope he doesn’t hate me for it. “Wanderer, I-“ My words are cut off by a surprisingly soft pair of lips against my own. I jump in surprise, then immediately feel embarrassed that I did. A cold hand rests against my cheek, and as I lean against it his lips retract from mine.
I look into his eyes, and all the words he needs to say are found within the depths of his irises. “You’re an angel in this abysmal hell.” His breath fans over me, and I can’t contain my smirk.
“Can I say it? Just this once?” I prompt. His eyes narrow as he knows where this is going. “We’re in the middle of having a sentimental moment and you choose now of all times to be like this?” “I’m not hearing a nooo…” “No.” “But Wanderer it’s literally the title of the fic-“ “I said no.” I let out a dejected sigh and concede with grace.
“Okay…” I mumble. Wanderer blinks at me with a blank expression.
Once.
Twice.
Then full belly laughter erupts from him as he throws his head back and covers his beautiful smile. I quickly reach a hand out to grasp the hand covering his expression of happiness in mine, and he weakly fights against me as his melodious laughter blesses my ears.
“Is that the Wanderer!?” I can hear Paimon’s loud voice outside the door as the Traveler hushes them.
I knew they were eavesdropping. I’ll have to lecture them on the importance of privacy later.
For now, I relish in the alluring sight before me as I feel a peaceful veil of comfort envelop me. This is the happiest I’ve ever seen you since we parted ways on that snowy night.
I know he’ll scold me for thinking this way, but I can’t help but feel that our fates have been intertwined.
