i-would-rather-be-a-fairy

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

silly little sketch of athena dealing with a young lovestruck odysseus

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

Thinking about when Milo has to get up early for work and Sweetheart has the day off, Im talking about getting up before the sun kind of early.

Milo silently grumbling, whining, and cursing up a storm all because he doesn't want to get up, let alone leave Sweetheart. He just wanna stay curled up with them in his arms with Aggro and sleep in until it's time to get up.

Milo trying his hardest to get out of bed without too much movement so as to not wake Sweetheart who's peacefully asleep with Aggro curled up next to them.

Milo who's stumbling around in the dark, silently cursing up yet another storm as he gets ready as quietly as possible without waking Sweetheart because he's so keen on Sweetheart getting as much sleep as possible since he knows how much of a toll their job can be.

Aggro waking up from Milo's silent commotion and begins meowing his head off demanding food, only to be scooped up by Milo who tells him to be quiet and that he'll feed him soon, before taking him out of the bedroom with him, when he starts meowing loudly again.

After he's made sure he has everything is ready for work and that Aggro is cared for, he goes back to the bedroom to kiss Sweetheart goodbye, only for Sweetheart to sneak attack him by wrapping their arms around his neck and try to pull him back into bed.

Sweetheart who's whining and begging for Milo to come back to bed and to not go to work, all while still trying to pull Milo fully back into bed.

Milo has one knee propped up on the bed while having one foot planted on the bedroom floor and is leaning over Sweetheart, his hands planted beside them. While he's yet not fighting in pulling away from them, he's covering them in countless kisses, equally whining about how he doesn't want to go to work as well has to, promising to Sweetheart that he'll be back before they know it.

Unfortunately for him, Sweetheart knows exactly what to say and where to touch, making it more difficult to leave. It's not that he wants to leave his hot-lookin' mate willingly, its work that the problem.

From the kisses, touches, talking, and that look, Sweetheart gives him is enough to seal the deal before he sends a text about how he's gonna be an hour late, phone placed back on the nightstand, and ensuring the bedroom door is closed to keep Aggro out. He's back to crawling back on top of Sweetheart, giggling mid-kisses about how much of a bad influence they are but that he also has to make it up for having to leave them alone in their shared bed.

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

Milo shifting after work because he had to much energy, and Asher that came home with him because they had plans to hang out anyways

Asher also shifting and immediately bolting out the back door, pausing for a second to sniff at Aggro, who was sitting in his cat tree on the porch (Aggro affectionately swiping at his nose)

Milo and Ash both wrestling in the backyard finally getting to relax after a long day of suits and high-class pompousness. The sound of playful snarling and whining reaching Sweetheart and Baaabes ears as they enter the front door

The two of them smiling at their wolfen partners as they grab snacks and drinks to take outside (they sit on the porch and play chess for a while)

Eventually, there's a scrape of claws against wood and a snout pressing into Sweethearts side. They're met with a wide wolfy grin, and a tail wagging so hard Milo's whole body is shaking as he licks a stripe up their face and chuffs at them

Similarly Asher is practically crawling into his Baaabes lap. Fully body wiggles as he tries to nuzzle under their arms

Two pairs of content mates enjoying their night in a rare moment of peace

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

happy 7 years of being into the light 🌟

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

Shaw Pack Headcanons!

☆ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄ ⠄⠂⟡ ･ ⠄ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ .☆

~ Wolves! ~

• David likes playing puzzle games on his phone. Candy Crush and QBlock: Wood Block Puzzle Game go double platinum.

• Milo thinks the brand Supreme is tacky.

• Asher still struggles when trying to read an analog clock. He can, it just…takes a while.

~ Mates! ~

• Angel forces David to make them Instant Ramen when they’re sick. The nostalgia they get from the taste makes them feel better and hearing David’s grumbling about it always makes them laugh.

• Sweetheart chews on the inside of their cheek when they’re anxious; a bad habit they’ve had since they started working for the department.

• Baabe got really into entomology for a short period of time and now they just randomly bring up bug facts, unprompted.

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

i have made an au

Next

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

hello!! can i pls request a xiao drabble or one-shot (whatever works for you) like its late at night and xiao sneaks in after a particularly bad night and reader just holds him?

it's like you feel him in the throes of your sleep. you stir, the cool breeze gently caressing your skin. you're facing away from the window when you wake up and you turn over to find xiao by your bed. he's sat on the floor, head in his arms as his tired eyes look up at you.

"xiao..." your words are quiet. for a moment you think it gets lost in the darkness of the night but then he closes his eyes. and a tear follows, glistening upon his porcelain skin like a pearl.

the moonlight filters into your room in flutters as the curtain dances with the breeze. you try again. "xiao..."

you're sitting up now, hands reaching out for your lover. your fingers find their way into his face. at the very first touch of your fingers, xiao shivers and then he breaks, quiet sobs wracking through him.

"my love," you whisper, trying to get him off his knees but he doesn't get up. instead, he looks up. his eyes are bloodshot, pale skin flushed cherry.

"i have failed them all. i have failed everyone." there is a quiver in his voice that no one else has ever been privy to.

"you have not," you argue. "you have loved and you have lost. wars are cruel. even to a yaksha such as yourself, my alatus."

in a beat - one xiao might consider a moment of weakness. but one you consider a step to kindness toward himself - xiao rests his head upon your thighs, his arms circle around you waist. your fingers are in his hair, at the nape of his neck. you give a squeeze, and he melts into you.

"you are a warrior, my love. but you are not the enemy."

you lean down pressing a kiss into his hair. and for the first time in a while, xiao feels like the air has finally entered his lungs.

wrote this very quickly and its not proofread lol hope you like it anon <333

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

Reblog to give a trans person a fresh and perfectly ripe mango wait huh

It's the wikipedia image??? How big could it be

What

Huh???

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

one bed, fall in love ; tartaglia

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which a storm, a full inn, and one very cursed bed situation lead to unplanned closeness and an accidental confession that leaves both tartaglia and y/n wondering if the cold outside is easier to handle than the heat under the covers. ↷ tartaglia (childe) ; genshin impact

↳ an order of iced matcha latte + hot chocolate from anonymous in the comeback cafe event ! (author's note: too fluff, you might die...)

IT ALL STARTED with the storm.

Not the metaphorical kind—though Y/n would later argue it became one—but a very real, very violent Liyue thunderstorm that tore through the sky just as they arrived at Qingce Village after a week-long commission. Their clothes were soaked, boots sloshing with water, and their skin chilled to the bone.

The village innkeeper, an old woman with too many cats and too few rooms, greeted them with a sympathetic look and a teapot.

“Only got one room left, dears,” she said, eyeing the state of their drenched clothes. “But there’s a bed. Big one. Cozy.”

Childe blinked, “Only one bed?”

“Very cozy,” the old woman repeated, with a smile that made Y/n suspicious.

-

THE ROOM WAS nice.

Warm. Scented with cedarwood and rain. The bed—singular—took up most of the space. And there was absolutely no couch. Just one wooden chair with a wobbly leg and a fur rug that looked like it might house fleas.

Childe stared at the bed like it was a battlefield.

Y/n crossed her arms, “Well?”

He raised his hands innocently, “You take the bed. I’ll take the floor. Easy.”

She squinted, “You’ll freeze on the floor.”

“I’ve slept in snowbanks. I’ll live.”

“Not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

She hesitated, and he raised a brow.

“...You don’t want to share with me?”

That shut her up.

He grinned—cocky, annoyingly handsome, and all-too-knowing.

“Thought so.”

-

THE COMPROMISE WAS ridiculous: both of them on the bed, facing opposite directions, blanket line drawn in the middle like a sacred barrier neither could cross.

And it worked.

For three minutes.

Then he sneezed.

Then she shifted.

Then the blanket tug-of-war began.

“You’re hogging the quilt.”

“You’re the one wrapped in it like a burrito!”

“You could’ve asked!”

“You’re on my side!”

By the time the lightning outside cracked like a god’s whip, they were both facing the ceiling, arms flat at their sides, blanket shared in a tense truce.

Childe exhaled, voice quieter, “This is... cozy.”

Y/n turned her head slightly, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he smirked.

“Don’t start flirting just to mask the fact that you’re awkward.”

“What if I’m flirting because I’m awkward?”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed pink.

They lapsed into silence for a while, the thunder outside growing distant, the fire in the hearth burning low.

Then—

“You talk in your sleep, you know.”

She blinked, “What?”

“Last night at camp. You mumbled something like ‘mmh… his dumb face… so punchable… but kind of nice…’”

“Excuse me?”

He laughed—loud, smug, unbothered.

She sat up, flustered, “That’s not even—! You’re making that up!”

“Swear on my Hydro Vision.”

“Ajax—!”

He choked.

She froze.

He sat up too, suddenly very still.

“...What did you just call me?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

It slipped.

She never called him by his real name. Not even when he teased her to. But now, caught in this ridiculous storm-bed-chaos, she said it without thinking.

He blinked, and in the low firelight, his expression softened.

“Say it again.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

“No!”

“Say it or I’ll roll over and steal the blanket.”

“Ajax.”

Silence.

He smiled, slow and stunned and sincere.

“You really do like my dumb face.”

Y/n groaned, flopping back into the bed. “I hate you.”

“Nah. You love me.”

He said it as a joke, but the silence that followed was different this time.

Too still. Too heavy.

When she didn’t respond, he turned to face her.

Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes soft in the firelight. But her lips were trembling—just slightly.

“...You weren’t supposed to know that,” she whispered.

His heart skipped.

All the humor drained from his face.

She didn’t look away, though. Brave even in her nervousness.

And he could’ve laughed. Could’ve made a joke.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted closer, pulling the blanket around both of them like a shield.

“You love me,” he said, in a quiet tone that felt sacred.

She didn’t deny it, and when he reached for her hand under the covers, she let him take it.

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

"Aiming for the Heart"

When Childe offers to give you a private archery lesson, you expect a serious training session. But between missed shots, stolen glances, and a little too much hands-on guidance, you start to wonder—who's really teaching who a lesson?

Featuring: Childe (Tartaglia) x Reader

Tone: Flirty, Playful, Romantic

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm amber glow over the field just outside Liyue Harbor. The breeze rustled the grass beneath your boots, but all you could feel was the smug grin tugging at your lips as you twirled the bow in your hand like it was second nature.

“Sure you know how to use that?” Childe asked, arms folded, leaning against a tree like he had all the time in the world.

You didn’t even look at him. “Please. I could shoot the apple off your head from here.”

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing. “That so? Sounds like you’re already aiming to kill me. Dangerous little thing.”

You nocked an arrow, stance already perfect — at least, in your mind. “Dangerous is boring. I’m more like… devastating.”

He pushed off the tree, making his way toward you, blue eyes gleaming with that familiar spark — the one that said you’re fun to play with. “Devastating, huh? Big words for someone who hasn't hit a target yet.”

You turned your head slightly, your smirk wicked. “Give me a real target, and I’ll show you.”

Childe’s lips curved into a slow, amused grin. “Oh, I’ve got a target for you.” He stopped behind you, voice dropping near your ear. “But you’ll need a little help with your form first.”

You rolled your eyes — dramatically, of course — but didn’t move as his hands found your arms, adjusting your posture with annoyingly gentle precision.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “But you’re too stiff. Relax a little. Archery’s about flow, not force.”

“I’m relaxed,” you said, even though your muscles were definitely not relaxed with him this close.

“Sure,” he said, his breath brushing your neck. “You’re vibrating with confidence.”

You exhaled, narrowed your eyes at the target. “Bet I can land a bullseye on the first shot.”

“And if you don’t?”

You tilted your head, throwing him a side-glance full of mock challenge. “Then you can keep playing teacher, sir.”

Childe grinned like he’d already won.

“Deal.”

You raised the bow, but your smirk only deepened. “You sure you want to make bets with me, Childe? You’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Behind you, he let out a soft laugh — smug, smooth, and entirely too pleased. “Oh, I love a little disappointment. Gives me an excuse to spend more time with you.”

You scoffed, but didn’t pull away as his fingers slid down your arm, correcting your elbow again — unnecessarily, if you were honest. You were cocky, not clueless.

“I’m starting to think you signed up for this lesson just to get handsy,” you said, tone light and mocking.

“Starting?” Childe echoed with a grin. “You really are slow, huh?”

You turned your head just enough to catch his expression. That usual flirtatious glint was there, but his eyes had that faint undercurrent of sincerity—barely noticeable, but it lingered. Just for a second.

Your pulse jumped.

“I’m faster than you think,” you said, voice low. “But I’m letting you catch up. You’d be lost without me.”

“Oh? And here I thought I was the one guiding you.” He leaned in, his voice like a smirk made sound. “But if you want to take control, sweetheart, be my guest.”

That nickname made heat crawl up your neck — which only made your glare sharper.

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. That’s what you call someone when you’re trying to distract them.”

He hummed. “Is it working?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you focused on the target down the field — a simple circle pinned to a wooden post. Wind direction, angle, tension — all lining up in your mind, even while Childe’s presence hummed just behind you like static.

You loosed the arrow.

It flew clean.

But it hit the edge of the bullseye — close, impressive, but not quite perfect.

Childe let out a low whistle. “Oof. So close. That’s… what, two centimeters off?”

You lowered the bow with an exaggerated shrug. “Still hit the mark. I’d say that’s a win.”

He walked around in front of you, slow and casual, hands behind his back as he looked at the target and then back at you.

“That wasn’t the deal,” he said, smiling like the cat that caught the canary. “You said bullseye. You miss by an inch, you miss by a mile.”

You raised a brow. “Says the guy who dodges spears like he’s dancing. Pretty bold coming from someone who dodges commitment, too.”

He laughed. Actually laughed — head tilted back slightly, arms loose at his sides.

“Touché,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “But hey, I didn’t dodge this. I offered to train you, didn’t I? That counts as commitment.”

“Oh please,” you snorted. “You just like watching me struggle.”

Childe stepped in closer — not quite invading your space, but toeing the line. “Wrong again. I like watching you pretend to struggle. You’ve got a whole act, don’t you? The bratty confidence, the smug attitude…”

He tilted his head, gaze softening just slightly.

“But it’s all just cover, isn’t it? You’re trying so hard not to let me see how much you like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and that was exactly what he wanted — you could see it in the way his grin curled just a bit higher.

You crossed your arms. “Cocky much?”

“I learned from the best,” he said. “Now…” He leaned down just enough so your faces were close — not kissing-close, but enough to make it feel like the air between you changed. “How about another shot?”

You rolled your eyes again, but your pulse betrayed you. “Only if you stop breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy.”

He grinned wider. “No promises.”

He didn’t back off — of course he didn’t.

Childe stayed right where he was, like your words meant nothing, like the spark of heat in the air between you was a game he’d already mastered.

“Y’know,” he said, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up — bold and deliberate, “for someone so mouthy, you’re awful quiet all of a sudden.”

You met his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch. “Just trying not to yawn. Your flirting’s getting predictable.”

That earned a soft chuckle, low and smooth. “Ouch. Brutal.” He stepped even closer now, and this time he was in your space, body barely brushing against yours. “But if I’m so predictable, why haven’t you moved away yet?”

You raised your chin, refusing to break eye contact. “Because I like the view.”

That caught him off guard — just for a beat. His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise that vanished behind a slow, amused smile.

“Careful,” he said, voice like velvet, “you’re starting to sound like me.”

“I’m better at it,” you said, grinning. “Wanna bet?”

He tilted his head, and you saw the shift — the brief softening in his eyes. Less teasing now. Something a little more real beneath the charm.

“I don’t think I need to bet,” he murmured. “I already know how good you are at getting under my skin.”

And that?

That actually made your breath hitch.

Just slightly.

But enough for him to notice.

You hated that.

Loved it, too.

He stepped past you then, suddenly — breaking the tension on purpose, like he knew dragging it out would only make you want it more.

“Alright, hotshot,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s see you try again. I’ll even keep my hands to myself this time.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Liar.”

Childe laughed. “Only when it’s fun.”

Still half-dazed from the closeness, you took your stance again, forcing your focus back on the target.

“You get one more try,” he said, circling back around, his tone lighter again but still laced with that undercurrent — that awareness between you. “Then I decide your prize.”

You snorted. “Who says you’re in charge?”

He grinned, stepping close behind you again — not touching this time, but close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off him.

“Oh, I’m not in charge,” he murmured, voice low. “I just make the rules. You’re the one who breaks them.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smirk this time. “Damn right I do.”

You lined up your next shot, but your arms felt just a little less steady than before. Not from strain — from him. From the lingering warmth of his presence, from the words still echoing in your ears. Under my skin.

You hated the effect he had on you. Hated how much you wanted to hear more.

The arrow flew.

Thump.

Dead center.

Bullseye.

You lowered the bow with a smug little toss of your hair. “There. Happy now?”

Childe let out a low whistle. “Well, well. Look at you.”

He walked forward, boots crunching softly in the grass, stopping just in front of you. His eyes flicked from the target back to you, a glint of something proud—and maybe a little impressed—shining in his gaze.

“You earned that one,” he said, voice quieter now, more genuine.

You blinked. “What, no sarcastic comment? No snide remark? You feeling okay?”

Childe laughed under his breath and looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’m just… caught off guard. That was a damn good shot.”

You grinned. “Told you I was devastating.”

His gaze returned to yours. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You really are.”

For once, you didn’t have a smart reply ready.

He stepped in closer, slower this time—not with swagger, but with something gentler. He lifted a hand like he was going to touch your cheek, then hesitated. Fingers hovered, close but not quite making contact.

“I could kiss you right now,” he said softly, eyes locked with yours.

Your pulse stuttered.

“I know,” you replied, cocky on instinct—but your voice came out quieter than you expected.

He smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Of course you do.”

But he still didn’t move.

Didn’t close the gap.

You could feel the moment stretching, charged and delicate, like pulling the string on a bow just before release.

Then, just as you leaned forward—

He pulled back.

Not all the way, just enough. His hand fell back to his side, and his smile turned rueful.

“I want to,” he said, more to himself than to you. “But if I do, I’ll forget why I started all this in the first place.”

You frowned. “Started what?”

Childe looked away, toward the field, eyes distant for once. “I told myself I wasn’t going to get attached. Not again. Not like this.”

That threw you off-balance more than any flirt ever could.

You shifted your weight, tone quieter now. “And yet here you are. Teaching me archery like some lovesick idiot.”

He laughed, short and surprised. “Yeah. Idiot’s right.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything more. You watched his jaw tighten slightly, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes anymore.

“I’ve done some… ugly things,” he said finally. “Things I can’t take back. But you look at me like I’m more than that. And it’s terrifying.”

You stared at him, your earlier smugness slipping away.

“Then stop running,” you said simply.

He looked at you again, really looked. And for the first time, he didn’t try to charm you, didn’t smirk or flirt or deflect. He just looked like a man standing on the edge of something real.

“Just one more lesson,” he said softly.

You raised a brow. “Archery or emotional damage?”

He snorted. “Bit of both.”

This time, when he stepped forward, there was no pause. He cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing your skin like you were something precious. And yet, even then—

He didn’t kiss you.

Just rested his forehead against yours.

Quiet. Close.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Then die happy.”

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

The day Angel heard David laughing, head thrown back and smile lines visible as he laughed from his chest, they fell in love with him all over again.

His whole face lit up, changing his intimidating demeanour, and he looked like he went back in time ten years with how youthful he looked - like he was a teenager again, laughing without a worry in the world.

They didn’t know a lot of what was behind it, but David had a lot on his shoulders, they could tell. The leader of the pack, the company, and the burden of a legacy on his shoulders. He’s been so focused on helping others he didn’t leave much time for himself, hence, he didn’t laugh as much as he should. He didn’t smile that much either, and even if he did, it rarely reached his eyes. He looked like he lived five years older than his actual age sometimes.

Angel decided it would be their mission to change that.

They wanted to see those smile lines and hear that laugh again. The kind that is genuine and involuntary, the kind that you only do out of pure happiness.

But little did they know, David had already smiled more than he ever thought he would again.

When Angel was asleep, he’d smile as he stroked their hair as they lay on his chest, still in disbelief that they loved him.

When they weren’t looking he’d smile, admiring their beauty and the way they seemed to put their heart on their sleeve all the time.

When David came back from work to find Angel on the couch, asleep, waiting for him, he’d lean down with a smile and kiss their forehead. He’d take the advantage of the quiet moment and whisper words of love to them.

Angel just hadn’t seen it.

But now they do.

The longer they dated, the more David smiled. He never intended to hide it before, but now he does it so much that Angel sees it everyday.

His smile lines are carved deeper now, and Angel traces them with their fingers when they’re sitting on his lap, waiting for him to finish work. They were beautiful.

They hear him laughing a lot more too. A deep chuckle from the chest as he shook his head, catching them eating ramen again. It didn’t take a lot to make him laugh now. Angel would sometimes revisit old habits on purpose to hear him laugh again, not that David knows.

Somewhere in the distance a little empathy demon watches, giggling before fading away.

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

on the ethics of drinking your friends (what's the big deal???)

part of my Modern Vampire Marinette AU (intro | tag)

(Support me on ko-fi if you'd like!)

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

“ AND STILL, YOU CAME ”

FERAL XIAO — a beast who was never meant to be seen, and yet you found him . . .

gender neutral reader / feral xiao x reader / emotionally scarred / aggressive trauma response / desperate under the surface / he says he’ll kill you but you’re the only one who’s ever spoken gently to him / turning him soft

masterlist | intro post | carrd . . . a/n: been searching for a fic like this about xiao for so long, so I decided to just make it myself!! I think it's perfect with his lore. (btw dw!! part two of my last post is coming after this)

Ruins bore no name here. Time had long since scoured the stonework bare, ivy veining over toppled columns like bloodless threads on a withered corpse. What lingered of the ancient structure slumbered beneath the cliffs of Minlin, swallowed by bramble and a fog thick as mourning veils. Locals spoke of it in hushed tones, whispers of madness, of vanished travelers, of the god who once ruled here and went mad beneath the weight of his divinity. Even so, your footsteps carried you forward.

Wind stirred the trees restless, circling like breath from something snoring just out of sight. The lantern in your grasp flickered at your hip, casting unsteady shadows across the moss streaked walls. You hadn’t meant to stray this far from the trail, but the pull had been undeniable; an invisible string winding into your chest, plucking something deep behind your ribs. It wasn’t a voice. It was a hum, thrumming low against your heartbeat, and it asked only that you listen.

Soon, the corridor narrowed. Then came a breath, a sound so low and guttural that it was almost animalistic. Beyond the final archway, the air shifted, heavy with the scent of rust and ancient stone. When your fingers brushed the wall, dust fell away to reveal carvings: clawed talons, coiling beasts, a sigil wrapped in iron chains. Something had lived here, or died here, perhaps both.

The corridor opened into a cavern, hush settling over it, broken only by the slow drip of water and the soft glow of fungi clinging to the ceiling like scattered stars. Below, a shallow pool mirrored the pale light, sending ripples over iron bars sunken deep into the floor. Behind them, hunched in the furthest corner, was a man. Or what was left of one.

At first glance, you took him for a beast. Too lean, too sharp, limbs curled tight, hair falling in tangled, sage-dark knots across his face. Thick shackles clasped around his wrists, wrought from iron that shimmered with faint sigils. Seals, still active, still pulsing with containment. A muzzle was plastered over his mouth, forged from the same cursed metal. He didn’t move, but the weight of his gaze struck all the same, piercing the dark like a blade sliding clean between ribs.

A growl vibrated from his chest, ragged and low, somewhere between warning and wound. You startled, but didn’t back away. There was no true malice in the sound. Only pain. When he finally raised his head, you saw the color of his eyes—gold, but not the gentle hue of fireflies or autumn fields. Starless gold, fierce and ancient, the kind that remembered ruin, the kind that burned without warmth.

“Leave.” His voice scraped like gravel, coarse from disuse. “Go now. Before—” He choked on the words as his body shuddered, then lunged just far enough for the chains to snap taut and yank him backward. The force dragged him to his knees, spine arched, breath torn in broken bursts. Still, you did not flinch.

“You’re hurt.”

His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, sweat glinting despite the chill. “I said go,” he snarled. The muzzle warped his words, saliva stringing at its edges. You took a step closer.

His entire frame recoiled like a wounded thing. He thrashed, slamming his shoulder against the bars, wild with panic. But in the midst of the fury, you saw something else. Not rage, not madness, but fear. His hands trembled where they met the ground, not from wrath, but restraint. And that tremor said more than any growl ever could.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said gently.

“I will,” he grounded out through clenched teeth. “That’s what I do. That’s what he made me do. I—” His words faltered, voice cracking like splintering ice. “I don’t get to choose.”

“I believe you,” you whispered. “That you don’t want to.”

No reply came, just the rasp of breath and the soft clink of chains. But as you studied him, you began to see more than just shadow and weaponry. A jawline, high cheekbones half obscured by matted hair, the silver web of scars across his collarbone, thin and branching like frost on a window. He had once been something else. Someone else.

“You should hate me,” he said at last, voice hollow. “They all do. They scream when they see me. Or they don’t get the chance.”

“I don’t hate you.”

His head jerked, disbelief lighting his face like a spark. Anger, sorrow, and something else flashed in his eyes. “You should,” he said, almost a plea. “You have to.”

“What’s your name?” you asked.

The question hit him like a blow. “That’s not—names don’t—” A swallow. “I don’t have a name. Not anymore.”

“Then I’ll give you one.”

“No.” His voice broke. “No. Don’t. Don’t make me something I’m not.”

You knelt by the bars, closer now than anyone had dared in what felt like centuries. The space between you was thin, filled only with breath and stillness. “Then I’ll come back tomorrow, and maybe the day after that.”

His head whipped up. “Don’t.”

“I will.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I trust you not to.”

“You’re stupid,” he spat. “Naive. You think kindness will undo what I am? What he made me into?”

Your hand rested just inches from the rusted bars. “No,” you said. “But maybe it will remind you that you were more, once, and can be again.” A silence thicker than smoke settled between you. Then you stood, his breath caught, and you turned away.

“Wait,” he said, but too softly for you to hear. The word broke apart behind his teeth, something like a sob, or maybe it was only the wind through the cracks in the stone. He pressed his forehead to the ground once you were gone.

Prayed you would never return.

Prayed that you would.

It began again with footsteps. Softer this time—not the cautious tread of a stranger stumbling through forgotten ruins, but the quiet return of someone who remembered the way. They came like the first stirrings of spring through wintered trees, patient and inevitable, brushing against the silence with the grace of thawing snow.

He remained still in his chains. The memory of your voice lingered like the sweetness of a forgotten lullaby, one he had not permitted himself to dream of. Dreams were dangerous things, after all. He knew this better than anyone.

When you appeared at the entrance of his prison once more, light wrapped around your figure like a misplaced sunbeam breaking into a tomb. In your arms, a cloth bundle was cradled against your chest, tied with a ribbon the color of old blood. Red—like orders barked through gritted teeth, like shackles that seared his skin, like the stains on his conscience. Yet somehow, in your hands, the color seemed gentler. Like the ribbon of a child’s gift, not a soldier’s command.

“I brought you something,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “It’s not much.

He didn’t look at you. If he stayed still long enough, maybe you would vanish like all the other foolish ghosts who thought they could reach him. Maybe you'd realize what he was and leave him to rot among the stones and silence. But you were already kneeling, already unwrapping the bundle with fingers as careful as if you were handling something sacred. From the folds emerged a small wooden container, simple and worn. Steam curled from its seams.

“It’s Almond Tofu. My favourite. I thought you might like it too.”

He bared his teeth, slow and deliberate, the muzzle pressing against his cheekbones with the motion. “I told you to stay away.”

“And I told you I don’t listen very well,” you replied, calm as though he hadn’t just threatened to maim you.

“I could tear your eyes from your skull.”

“If you wanted to, you would’ve done it already.”

You stood, walked past the shattered threshold of his cage, ignoring his previous words. As though you weren’t walking into the belly of a creature who had once been made to devour dreams and leave behind husks. The metal of the muzzle clicked faintly as Xiao’s breath hitched, chains groaning beneath the sudden tension in his limbs.

He said nothing as you sat down beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed the boundary of his karmic debt. And then, without asking, you reached toward the clasp of the muzzle that had seared skin and spirit alike. He flinched, not from fear, but from disbelief.

It did not burn you.

Your fingers brushed the iron like it was no more dangerous than a breeze on stone. With a soft click, the clasp gave way. The muzzle slipped free and fell to the ground with a hollow sound that echoed louder than it should have. Xiao blinked. The air against his lips felt strange, wind against skin that hadn’t felt the sun in years. He said nothing, but the silence was no longer sharp.

You lifted a spoonful of the tofu, steam curling from the trembling surface. “Here.”

“I don’t eat human food,” he muttered, though his gaze followed the spoon with the reluctant intensity of a starving animal who refused to beg.

“Then pretend. Just one bite.”

He stared at you like you were made of thorns and light. Then, without breaking the stare, he leaned forward and took the bite. The taste bloomed on his tongue like a long buried memory, soft, sweet, subtle as snowfall. It was nothing like the raw meat the god used to feed him between commands. It was gentle, kind. As if food could carry emotion and this one had been made by someone who’d never once tasted cruelty. His brows drew together.

“Well?” you asked. Another beat of silence.

“...More.” A smile tugged at your lips, and you didn’t hide it.

The second bite came easier. Then the third. And by the fifth, he was sitting straighter, eyes no longer wary, but puzzled. He couldn’t understand why something so simple had shaken the dust off a corner of his soul he thought had died centuries ago. And when the last bite was gone, he looked at the empty container with the quiet devastation of someone realizing a miracle had a limit.

He looked at you then, truly looked, and hated that something in his chest gave way when he did.

You began to talk. Not of this prison or the god whose voice still echoed in his bones, but of the world beyond these walls. You painted it with your words, each one a brushstroke: ships that floated among clouds, skies blooming with lanterns during moonlit festivals, gardens that glowed like constellations, and markets alive with the scent of dumplings and the sound of laughter.

He didn’t interrupt. Not once. His eyes remained fixed on your face, as if the movement of your lips could become a lifeline. He drank in every word like a man parched, terrified to ask for more.

When you told him about the wind on the Jade Chamber’s terraces, his fingers twitched.

When you spoke of honey lotus pastries, his mouth parted ever so slightly, as though tasting them from memory he never had.

And when you said, barely above a whisper, “I’ll take you there one day,” he turned his head from you.

“You wont,” he said, but the words no longer bled bitterness. They sounded tired, soft.

He didn’t stop you when you placed the empty tofu dish beside his chains, didn’t growl when you stood, brushing dirt from your knees. Didn’t speak when you turned to leave, but his eyes clung to your back. When the echo of your footsteps began to fade into the cavern, his voice cracked into the silence.

“...Bring more tofu.” It was the first time in four hundred years he had asked for anything.

The chains didn’t feel quite as heavy that night.

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

Xiao pondered the nature of the bond that tied him to you. Companionship? No. It was something more intense, intimate, perhaps even tender.

He couldn't stand this unfamiliar feeling gnawing at him from within. What he felt transcended the cold duty that once governed his relationship with the warriors under his command. Was it gratitude? Yes, undoubtedly, but it felt insufficient. It wasn't much like the everlasting debt he still repaid to Liyue, to Morax, even after centuries. His admiration for you was... peculiar. He didn't yearn to serve you, but to remain by your side.

Could it be brotherhood, then? The Yaksha breathed a sigh of relief. That must be it. He allowed that thought to soothe him for a while, for a fraternal bond would explain the warm hollow you occupied between his ribs, alongside the memory of those he once called siblings.

However, this certainty was fragile and shattered far too often. More than once, he caught himself helplessly staring at your lips as you spoke. An impulse whispered for him to just lean in, to capture your mouth with his, to consume you. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to consume. Your breath? The words you formed? The warmth you radiated? He didn't know what he would do once his flesh touched yours either. He concluded then that it must be the resentful echoes of fallen gods, eager to corrupt the only mortal who didn't see the Conqueror of Demons, but Xiao beneath the mask.

He tried to find a precedent in his memories, something to make sense of this new need. Once, observing Bonanus, he’d noted her mouth with detached curiosity—the curve of her smile hiding sharp teeth, the plump, rosy swell of her cheeks, the rhythmic motion of her jaw as she savored a pear. She’d looked so blissful that Alatus had briefly wondered if the fruit had sprung from some divine orchard.

Another time, his focus had snagged on Indarias’ lips. From them tore screams. Raw, ragged things that scraped the air. He’d watched the desperate workings of her throat around her sobs, the cords of her voice fraying under the weight of terror.

And the night his gaze fixed on Bosacius' mouth was to decipher a silent message amidst the chaos of slaughter. Flames devoured everything, and the roar of battle drowned out all sound. His brother was too far away. His words didn't reach, so he tore the cracked mask from his face so Alatus could read the silent scream his bloodied lips formed.

"Menogias is gone."

None of that resembled this.

Now he contemplated your lips and imagined in silence. Not screams, nor blood, nor divine fruits, but warm words that reminded him of the sun's texture on grass. A contrast so violent it ached. How could he call "sibling" the one who awoke in him something so alien to the yoke of duty, so unlike the love he buried with his own? The answer terrified him, for it tasted of freedom... and a Yaksha did not earn the right to fly untethered beneath the skies of Teyvat.

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

nsfw !

lovely putting their hands on vincent's chest, pushing him into the car seat, straddling his lap.

lovely taking vincent's chin in between their fingers, tilting his head up at the most perfect angle, so their lips fit together seamlessly.

vincent's breathing growing ragged, his pulse picking up, his body erupting into goosebumps at just the low-lidded look lovely is giving him.

their fingers sliding past his temples, into the wild mess of his hair, holding his head firmly in place. the gleam of the whites of vincent's eyes, unable to blink for fear of missing out on the deity on his lap.

slowly, so slowly, lovely lowering their mouth to his. a chaste kiss at first, gentle, almost innocent.

and then their tongue, brushing against his like fire. electricity sizzling between their lips, locked together so hard it feels like suffocating. vincent's breaths are shaky, shuddering, as lovely tastes him like they're drinking from the deepest wine.

their hips are moving on his, sending an ecstatic shock through his body. his brain is foggy, desperation growing, his hands moving on their own and seeking more. lovely's whimpers fill vincent's mouth, and he swears he can taste them.

vincent's mind blows blank when lovely traces their tongue against his fang and pushes. no thoughts, just pure fucking desire. he has to pull away before he slams them against the car door and fucks their brains out.

"don't fucking-- holy shit--" his voice is raspy, graveled with lust, and shaking. he can't keep his hands off them, though, his immortal fingers fisting in their clothes.

he's fighting ferality, fighting the beast in his blood that screams to pin them down and devour.

lovely looks at him, dark eyes and darker desire. their voice is liquid and mesmerizing when they say, "don't hold back. i want it."

the car rattles and fills with the coppery scent of blood, the lush smells of sex, as vincent worships what is his.

[i-would-rather-be-a-fairy]

Asher shifting and laying on top of you as a weighted blanket when you’re feeling anxious. He licks your face gently and his tail swished in slow movements. You can see in his eyes that he’s worried, but you stroke the soft fur on his head to reassure him.