#neuvillette about to cry me an ocean

[jar-of-maise]

She takes his hands gently, cradling them in a manner that made Lyney unsure of how to respond. Those hands could never lie. They shook with an awful tremble, like the last flutter of a dying butterfly's wings.

“I’m sorry for loving you,” she says softly, her eyes filled with unshed tears. 

That was the burden of the unsaid, you never once thought that nightmares could be dreams too, until they were there in front of you.

Dread settles in Lyney's chest, it drops like a heavy stone into a still pond, sliding in without resistance. It sinks to the bottom of his chest where it's weight aches with a dull pain, “Don’t say that," he clears his throat awkwardly, "please, don’t say that.”

She stares back at him, unseen dread haunting her dull eyes, “What?”

Lyney swallows thickly, his breath shuddering in his chest, rattling like fragile marbles in a glass container, “don’t say things like that,” he whispers.

She drops his hands, where they hang like dead weights. She searches his eyes for something she can't find, for something she won't find. It was like the sun, desperately trying to reach the moon, yet finding only it's reflection in the burning daylight, “Things like what?”

She does not want to know the answer to that question. But a burning sensation compells her to ask. Perhaps, with a single word, an entire tragedy could be rewritten.

Looking at Lyney now, she knows that the feeling is mutual. That is an awful realisation to come to, she turns her head away to avoid looking in the mirror.

Lyney, the other half of her, the mirror that she never needed to look in. Lyney, who was the only one who could attune to her soul. Her Lyney who had never been lost for words like he was now, who'd never fumbled or been uncertain.

"Things like what?" She cries, when met with silence. Her hands twitch uncontrollably, and then she's lunging forwards her hands reaching out like desperate claws which latch onto Lyney's shoulders.

These hands of hers were gentle, they were kind. So now, seized by grief as they were, her fingers could not quite grasp the hatred that she wanted them to.

They were strangers to force yet they exerted a violence that was comparable to a monster, "tell me!" It's not a scream, by the time the words drag out of her mouth, it's a mangled, broken tangle of words.

"It's not fair, it's not fair," she says hoarsely, "why do you- you can't-You don't get to do this to me!" She yells, and it's a sound that wretches at Lyney's heart.

"Answer me! What things?! What things shouldn't I say?" Her hands were not made for violence, they were crafted with love in mind. But they tightened on Lyney's shoulders, trembling all throughout.

“Things,” Lyney finally chokes, blinded with tears, “that make it sound like loving me was a mistake,” his hands reach up clumsily, with none of the dexterity or reflex they usually moved with.

She was silent, tears streamed down her face in long, ugly rivers. They fractured her face and drew shadows across her face that did not belong there.  

“It’s not a mistake. This wasn't a mistake,” Lyney whispers desperately, not trusting his voice, yet continuing treacherously.

This is a one way path, a lonely dark road with no return tickets, “you loved Lyney, just plain Lyney. You would never lie," he pauses as his voice wavers, "you didn’t take me by accident, you chose me…didn’t you?” 

“I don’t know,” she admits, lowering her head, she had never admitted defeat. Giving up was not an option, yet she could not conquer this mountain. The shadow of its height, and sheer slopes rendered the fire in her heart cold and frigid.

“I don’t know you. Do I really love Lyney? Who was I in love with?” She asks herself, there is no reply.

This is another question that she doesn't want to know the answer to. But perhaps there is no answer, she's left grasping for strings that have already been broken. The gray cannot be defined, nor described, and in the face of such uncertainty, she doesn't know what to do.

Neither does the magician standing before her. His face is the image of forced apathy, like a puppet with no strings.

"Lyney..." Regret, and immutable yearning surge into her chest, where they mix together like a tapestry woven wrong. The strings are tangled, and the only remaining option is to cut the fabric entirely.

"Perhaps the greatest tragedy of it all is, the more I talk to you, the less I know of you..."

[dustofthedailylife]

How to Steal the Duke's Heart 101

→ Masterlist || → Taglist -> Next Part

Pairing: Wriothesley x (gn!) Reader

Summary: The moment your verdict was decided as guilty you were brought to the Fortress of Meropide - despite being innocent. Little did you know that the trip to prison would make you meet the love of your life.

Tags: Fluff, kissing, you're in prison (but innocent), some violence (not graphic), swearing

A/N: Due to me being utterly normal about Wriothesley I had the idea for this fic - who am I kidding I would commit a crime for this man.

“According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique d’Analyse Cardinale, the defendant is declared… guilty.”

The voice of Chief Justice Neuvillette was ringing in your ears as he read out the verdict. Your verdict.

You couldn’t believe it. You knew you hadn’t done what you had been accused of, that the eyewitnesses had lied the moment they had opened their mouths, that the evidence had been tampered with, that you had been framed for the crime – but you were innocent. And no one was ever going to believe you. 

After all, the device that had handed you the fateful false verdict was treated as infallible in Fontaine. You now at least had proof that its reputation was nothing but hollow words. But what use was the knowledge other than just a bittersweet confirmation for no one but yourself? 

And before you knew it, guards were escorting you out the back of the Opera Epiclese in handcuffs. Roughly dragging you along with them into a big elevator. Down – deeper and deeper into the depths of the ocean.

You had heard stories of the Fortress of Meropide before – the secluded place where all criminals and outcasts of Fontaine resided. The place no one had ever come back from to tell the tale. At least not in one piece.

You weren’t sure how you felt on the way down the elevator but you would describe it as something akin to hollowness.

The glances the guards threw your way out of the corner of their eyes literally screamed disgust. You were nothing more than a dirty criminal to them after all – someone who was to be shunned and banished from society for all eternity. And if you really had done what you were convicted for, you wouldn’t even blame them for their disdain.

When the elevator arrived at the bottom the doors opened with a mechanical hiss. The scent of machine oil, iron, and damp moldy cellars immediately pricked at your nose and it was the exact opposite of what you’d call homely. 

The guards turned you in at the reception, where a rather unpleasant woman took your mugshots before handing you over to yet another rather unfriendly man who led you even further down into the Fortress.

With every new step you took, you tried to come to terms with the fact that the sight of damp, stone, and ironclad walls as well as the lingering industrial smell was going to be your life from now on. 

And the dawning realization of that was painfully pulling a tight rope around your throat. You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry and most of all, you wanted to run away and pretend like all of this was a bad dream. But you couldn't.

Instead, you were trodding behind the man who was escorting you and silently began to cry as big beads of tears soon began rolling down your cheeks.

"Crying won't help you anymore, sweetheart." The man remarked almost mockingly as soon as he looked back over his shoulder at your defeated frame. "Should've thought about that before you did some shit."

No. You’re wrong. I'm innocent.

At least that was what you wanted to spit back at him. But it was as if any fierceness or strength to stand up for yourself had left you the moment you set foot into this prison. You simply had no strength left to fight.

You soon arrived in a gigantic circular room. The contraption in the middle almost looked like a giant engine, elevators were going up one level on one side and even further down on the other side of the room. The ceiling was so high up that you almost couldn't make it out at all. The light was dim and the only real light sources were yellow lanterns whose light was bouncing off of the copper-colored iron pipes, crates, and frames that lined the entire room. Gloomy would probably be the best way to describe it.

The pungent smell of oil and damp cellar was hanging in the air here as well and probably even more prominent than it had been before. Only now it was also mixed with what you thought was old sweat and… tea? The smell of the latter seemed oddly out of place and you couldn't make out where exactly it was coming from. All you knew was that it was probably the only pleasant smell you had encountered down here.

Taking the elevator up one level again the man you had been following this entire time led you into a side hallway that looked more like a vent pipe. The dimly lit room that was lying behind it was only furnished with a bunk bed and a barely functioning lantern. He unlocked your handcuffs before roughly shoving you into the room with a smug grin on his face.

"Make yourself at home." He chuckled mockingly before turning around on his heel and leaving while whistling a tune to himself that eerily echoed off the stone walls.

You lay down on the bed, exhaling in defeat. Your throat still felt like someone had painfully tied it shut and tears were dangerously pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

Now what?

You had no idea what to do here aside from sitting your time off. Where do you get food? Were you supposed to work and if yes, where do you have to and when?

You closed your eyes as a single tear escaped from the corner of your eyes, rolling down your cheek, dampening the pillow you lay on. 

All you heard around you were wet droplets falling from the ceiling onto the wet stone floor, distant voices from down below, and your own breathing. The only thing that drowned these sounds out were the thoughts in your head. 

Now that you had a quiet moment to yourself after everything that had gone down today, the realization about your situation was beginning to seep in for good. This bed, these walls, the oily smell… this was going to be the rest of your life now.

And that’s when you broke down and started crying once again.

Eventually, you must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing you knew was waking up to the smell of food wafting through the air vent in front of your room. 

You got up from the bed, took the elevator down, and followed the smell. Soon you found yourself standing in front of a Cafeteria, where fellow inmates were queuing for lunch. Or was it dinner? You’ve barely even been here a day, but the distinct lack of daylight already made you lose track of time.

You sighed and walked over, queuing for some food as well. You didn’t have any appetite but you knew you had to eat something and your grumbling stomach was screaming for food, appetite be damned. Much to your dismay, the food needed to be paid for, well, at least the stuff that looked digestible.

You ordered the only free option and sat down with the bowl of grayish, funky-looking liquid whose consistency was more akin to that of wallpaper paste. It didn’t look appetizing, but at least it was free and would prevent you from starving.

Just as you were about to lift the first spoon of gooey pap in your mouth, someone sat down at your table, making you halt your movement for a brief second. 

He placed his tray on the table with a loud bang before plopping down on the bench right in front of you. His food looked tremendously more high quality than yours. Your mouth began watering from just looking at it. Freshly made roast potatoes with rosemary, fluffy pieces of baguette with salted butter, a big juicy piece of meat – grilled to perfection, and a glass of mousse au chocolat.

He leaned forward, supporting himself on the table with his elbows, folded his hands and intensely looked at you with his piercing blue eyes. It seemed like he wasn’t in a hurry to start eating any time soon.

You pretended to ignore him and began eating. The soup, which could vaguely be identified as lentil soup, left a slimy feeling on your tongue and tasted completely bland. Every fiber of your body told you to spit it back out again but with enough willpower, you actually managed to swallow it. Not without pulling a grimace first though.

“You’re new here.” The stranger in front of you observed with curiosity.

You looked up at him, nodding slowly shoveling another spoonful of goo in your mouth before going back to ignoring him. You weren’t really interested in trying to make connections here. All you wanted was to get out of here again – even though you knew deep down that the likelihood of that was nearing zero.

“Adapting well?” He inquired, still not in a hurry to touch his food.

You suspiciously looked up at him. There was just something about this guy that was off. He didn’t quite fit in here at all. He was admittedly very handsome. He looked well groomed and his attire was way too pompous to be an inmate - or maybe he was some rich guy who got some sort of special treatment down here. Every other inmate was avoiding your table and people looked at him with an almost reverent look in their eyes. If it wasn’t for the scars that seemed to cover the majority of his body already, this just further confirmed your gut feeling to avoid this guy at all costs in the future.

“I’ll take that as a no.” He chuckled, eyeing you further with a smirk plastered on his lips.

“What do you want?” You asked, now slightly annoyed.

“Just trying to strike up some friendly conversation. You know, seeing how lost you were while ordering food, not knowing about tickets, and just dashing around like a scared blubberbeast, led me to believe that no one gave you a rundown of how this place works. So, allow me?” He remarked with that same smirk.

When you wordlessly motioned for him to continue, he began explaining the workings and rules down here in detail. Unspoken rules, general rules, what and who to avoid, how jobs worked, work times, payment and money, general daily schedule, and a lot more. There was simply so much you were beginning to feel lightheaded as soon as he had finished speaking and you could feel the lump in your throat grow in size with every minute that passed. You would never be able to live here.

“That should about cover the basics.” He finished explaining as you swallowed thickly.

You opened your mouth in order to speak but he swiftly lifted his finger to shut you up. 

“No need to say anything. I know it’s not easy to adapt to a new environment. Especially not one you feel trapped in. But that feeling will fade eventually. Trust me.” He threw you a genuine smile before lifting himself up from the bench and pushing his tray with the food in your direction, pointing at it with an offering gesture.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Meropide.” He said, before striding away.

“Wait-” You jumped up from the table causing him to halt in his tracks and turn around once more. “What’s your name?”

“Wriothesley.”

After this strange encounter with the mysterious and admittedly attractive man, you didn’t see him around for a long while. This came as a surprise because you’d assume someone with his looks and attire would stick out like a sore thumb wherever he went. But it was as if the ground itself had swallowed him.

You wanted to see him again, mostly because you thought you could learn from him for your life down here. And despite your gut telling you that he was a walking red flag you had developed a strange curiosity for him.

You had begun working at the ship dockyard where a big window was offering a view into the ocean. You could somewhat make out the sky and time of day from there and it was the only thing that kept you from going completely insane in here. All you had done was sleep, work, eat, and repeat since you came here. Some people had tried speaking to you and some asked what you were here for, but you didn’t have any interest in conversing with them – especially not after you had tried telling someone that you were innocent and they had just laughed at you. Needless to say, you had no desire to connect with people – although he was the only exception seeing as you were craving to talk to him again, as much as you tried to deny it.

Today you were working at the docks again and found yourself longingly staring out of the large window. Your mind drifted off and you wondered how it would feel to simply swim back up to the surface where your lost freedom lay.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” A familiar voice reached your ears from behind. 

“Wriothesley!”

The man in question walked up to you and came to a halt right next to you. He looked out through the window himself before looking at you from the corner of his eyes with a slight smirk.

“Still longing for the surface?” He inquired, crossing his arms over his chest. “It never fully goes away but once you get used to the Fortress you’ll find yourself unable to want to leave.”

“Is that so?” You ushered quietly, scoffing. You were simply unable to believe him, not when your freedom had been taken unjustifiably. 

“Thank you for the food the other day, by the way. I didn’t have a chance to thank you yet.” You attempted to divert the topic.

“Don’t mention it.” He waved dit off with an unwavering smile. “It is almost time for lunch, have you eaten yet? We could head to the Cafeteria together. My treat.”

“Oh, you absolutely don’t have to, I have enough credits for food now that–”

“Please. I insist.”

And so you found yourself sitting at the table with Wriothesley again, with the most exquisite meal that tickets could buy down here. 

You were surprised he was able to fork over nearly four thousand credits to buy the meals as if they were nothing. And especially since he treated you to such a meal as well, while everyone else down here held onto their credits as if their life depended on it. And of course, you also didn’t miss the stares of the others again when you sat down with your fancy meal.

You carefully eyed the food and then Wriothesley as if you didn’t deserve to be treated to something like this. He looked back at you with a genuine smile as he continued nibbling on his baguette.

“Anything wrong?” He asked with curiosity.

“No. It’s just… why–?”

“Why am I treating you to something?” He raised an eyebrow in amusement as if he had read your thoughts. You nodded slowly in reply.

“You’re interesting. That’s all there is to it.” He admitted with a smirk.

“I’m interesting? Me?” You raised your eyebrows in surprise. “You say that when you’re the one I could say that about. You don’t look like you fit in here at all, you have a truckload of credits to spend, and everyone here looks at you like you own the place.” 

You paused for a second, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’ve been here for a long time already, haven’t you?”

“You… could say that, yeah.” He replied with a chuckle, dipping his baguette into the rich sauce on his plate.

“Why are you here?” You continued prying.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He replied with a smug grin before he continued eating.

You couldn’t quite decide if he was a red flag you should run as far away from as possible or if you wanted to get to know him closer. But either way, your first priority for now was not letting the food go to waste so you began eating the heavenly-tasting meal.

A silence settled between you two that was surprisingly pleasant as you both quietly ate with the occasional glace thrown at each other. 

Once you were both done he took your tray with him to put it into the tray cart before turning back around with a smile.

“Same time tomorrow?” He asked.

“U-uh… yeah, sure. I don’t see why not.” You stammered a bit taken aback, still confused as to why he wanted to hang out with you so much. You were a nobody with nothing to your name – not even a criminal record technically.

“Great. See you tomorrow then.”

And with that, a habit would slowly form. You would meet up for lunch each day and not long after, also for dinner. He often picked you up at the docks and bought a meal for you and only sometimes you were able to deter him from doing so and insisted that you bought your own since you were genuinely beginning to feel bad even if he seemed well off. 

You sometimes sat down for a long time talking even after you both had finished eating. You chatted just about anything and as it would turn out you two seemed to share similar interests. You found out he really loved tea and had extensive knowledge in that regard. And it just so happened that you too were a fellow tea aficionado. Not only that though, you two shared a similar taste in music, books, food, and more. After a couple of weeks had gone by it felt like you had already been friends for the longest time. And much to your surprise, not once had he attempted to ask you why you were here or pried into your private life.

On another such day, you were just heading out of the dormitories towards the Cafeteria to meet up with him. But before you could arrive there someone forcefully yanked you behind some iron crates. You crashed against them with the back of your head with a loud bang, momentarily losing consciousness as pain shot through your system.

"What kinda big shot are ya, huh? What're ya sitting for?" A man yelled at you aggressively. 

As soon as you got a grasp of your surroundings again, even though now extremely dizzy, you saw a big bulky guy with a missing front tooth who was pinning you against the boxes by your throat with an iron grip. He was accompanied by two other, less muscular guys who were staring at you in the same aggressive manner. His lackeys, you assumed.

"I have- I have no idea… what you're talking about." You struggled the words out due to the applied pressure on your vocal cords.

"What're ya here for, asshole?!" The man yelled at you even louder now, a few beads of spit flying right into your face through his tooth gap.

"I… I didn't do anything. I–" You gasped breathlessly as you clutched your hands around the hand around your throat, trying to alleviate some of the pressure being applied to it.

"Bullshit! You don't land here for twiddlin’ ya thumbs counterclockwise. And if the Duke's got the eye on ya already, ya've to be some VIP or some shit!" The toothless man spit on the ground between your feet.

“Duke?” You asked confusedly. 

“Tch, don’t fuck with me here, shut ya trap. Now, tell me. What’ve ya done? Be honest or I might’ve’ta polish your visage a lil’.” He viciously cackled in unison with his two lackeys who were cheering on him.

“I didn’t. Do. Anything.” You bit back through clenched teeth, putting a strong emphasis on each word. And before you were able to react, a stinging pain shot through your system as a fist connected with your face, sending your head flying back against the crate once again.

You immediately began to see stars and could feel your consciousness quickly fade away. The ringing in your ears and the accompanying dizziness from the impact was overbearing everything and all you could make out before you passed out was a flash of white light and pleas for mercy. Then everything faded to black.

The next thing you knew was waking up with a bandage around your head and an intense migraine. You felt like a horde of boars had trampled over you. The omnipresent pain got worse when you instinctively tried to sit up on the bed you found yourself on.

You hissed in pain and immediately felt a pair of big hands push you back into the fluffy bedding.

“Stay.” 

You recognized this voice. You had heard it so often in the past couple of weeks that, despite your delirious state, you had no issue placing it.

“Wriothesley.” You uttered weakly with your eyes still closed.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

He took hold of your hand with a reassuring squeeze and the feeling of his warmth on your skin made you feel tingly all over and the all-present pain immediately felt like it was being alleviated ever so slightly. Out of all people you were glad it was him by your side.

“What? Where?” You rasped, attempting to slowly open your eyes.

“We’re in a separate room at the Fortress Infirmary. Someone roughed you up real good and you fell unconscious. I arrived just in time to prevent worse. You’ll probably have a nasty bruise on your face for a while and you’ve got quite the concussion as well as a cracked rib. But nothing some bed rest and a good cup of tea wouldn’t be able to fix, hm?” He tried to reassure, brushing a strand of hair out of your forehead.

"Your Grace, here is the medicine you asked for." A guard suddenly came rushing into the infirmary with a small satchel that he handed to Wriothesley before quickly leaving again after a courteous bow towards the man by your side.

You furrowed your brows in confusion at the display of submissiveness of the guard towards a fellow prisoner when you've been treated with nothing but disdain and… wait a minute.

Your Grace. The looks he got from the others during lunch and dinner time. The Duke. It's him?!

The memories suddenly came rushing back to you – how you had been slammed into the metal crates, how the toothless man had mentioned the Duke while threatening you and how his fist had then ultimately painfully kissed your face.

You didn't have all the puzzle pieces to connect everything into a clear image yet but it was enough to feel that there was an epiphany just mere millimeters out of your range.

You startled and sat up on the bed with wide-blown eyes once more as pain shot through you again from the abrupt movement. Pain so bad you thought you would have to throw up for a second.

"I-I… your Grace? The Duke? It's you! He meant you and– who? W-what?! I-I– he threatened me and I-I'm innocent. I don't belong here I–I'm innocent–" You incoherently stammered nonsense because your mouth couldn't match up with the speed at which your thoughts were racing.

Just who was he?

But before you got to properly ask that question a pair of soft lips gently connected with yours, rendering you speechless and cutting off the words that were spilling from your mouth relentlessly like water from a leaky faucet. He squeezed your hand a little tighter while the other gently found comfort on your cheek. Cradling it so carefully as if you're the finest piece of porcelain in the world and could break any minute.

The gentleness of his touch, the warmness of his lips, and the smell of Earl Grey on his breath made your body explode into a sea of fireworks. It wasn't until this moment that you realized you had developed feelings for Wriothesley that went beyond the casual acquaintance you met up with after work for food in the prison cafeteria. It was just that you had been too occupied and lost in your own thoughts about your predicament to realize it.

Your curiosity and cravings to see him more and more often weren’t just born from a place of loneliness. Your heart had craved for him all this time.

Your hands found comfort in his hair as you leaned into the kiss more, prying a low chuckle out of him and you felt him smirk against your lips.

"I know you are." He whispered against your lips when he separated from you again.

"What?" You asked in confusion, already forgetting what he was replying to.

"That you're innocent."

"N-no I don't mean just in this case… I didn't commit any crimes I was sent here despite being innocent I-" 

You didn't even realize you had started crying until he gently wiped a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

"I know." He reiterated firmly.

You looked up in his face and his eyes were filled with nothing but sincerity. He must be the first person you ever encountered who didn't see the sentence of the Oratrice Mechanique d’Analyse Cardinale as infallible and unquestionable.

"How?" You quietly breathed out in disbelief.

"I knew it on the first day I saw you. My beliefs were just further confirmed when I talked to you for the first time. I've been working behind the scenes to get you out of here again ever since." He admitted, wiping another stray tear from your cheek.

That's why he was gone for days after your first meeting and suddenly arrived again behind you at the docks.

"You went above ground?" You rasped, making the question of who he actually is even bigger.

He nodded, taking your hands in his and placing a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

Is that why he also said you would find out who he is soon enough that one day? But you still didn't know… who actually is he?

"How are you allowed to go out? Who are you?"

"You still didn't figure it out?" He smirked. "I'm Wriothesley. Warden of the Fortress of Meropide." 

And at that moment everything fell like scales from your eyes.

His attire, the looks of other prisoners, the abundance of tickets to spend, randomly disappearing for days, the Duke… the Cryo Vision dangling from his shoulder despite not being allowed to carry any in here.

He was the one who saved you earlier.

He must've noticed your glance because he squeezed your hands a little tighter and reassured you: "They won't ever bother you again. I took care of it."

You didn't dare ask what he meant by that and simply nodded in acceptance.

"I can also tell you that things are going well. I pulled some strings and you might be out of here by the end of the week again with no criminal record to your name."

But what if you actually didn't want to leave anymore? At least not without him.

"Will I be able to see you again?"

A question that spilled out of your mouth before you could properly think about it. But the deafening silence that followed told you everything you needed to know. He rarely left the underground and was occupied down here most of the time so the possibility of you and him seeing each other again was low.

"Certainly." He replied after a while avoiding looking into your eyes.

A white lie. He wanted you to return to your old life again, out of the confines of this prison you had unjustifiably been thrown in. He didn't want to keep you here only for the selfish desires of his heart that he had unplannedly given to you along the way. Maybe he would find a way to be with you once you returned, maybe he didn't – But that didn't mean he couldn't indulge in what you had for the remaining time you were here with him.

And that's when he pulled you closer once more, one hand resting on your waist, gently massaging your skin through the fabric of your shirt while reuniting your lips as if it was the last thing he would ever get to taste.

And maybe, if it was what it took to see him again, you wouldn't mind actually committing a crime.

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments, and asks about Genshin or my fics are always greatly appreciated and motivate me! Maple dividers are mine - do not copy.

[osachiyo]

☆ SWEETER THAN HONEY ! ๑'ꇴ'๑

ꕤ Genshin impact men + their favourite body part of yours, part one 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ

PAIRING ✧ Ayato, Kaeya & Neuvillette x fem!reader (seperate)

CONTENT WARNINGS ✧ Not safe for work content (mdni), oral sex , overstimulation, talks of anal but no anal actually, degradation, name calling, petnames, pussy slapping, fingering and etc

AUTHOR'S NOTE ✧ this one won the poll so here it is! Feel free to request other characters for this series! Happy reading <3 I don't own any of the artwork used.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !

KAMISATO AYATO ✿𝅼

If you asked him what body part he liked most about you, he'd laugh it off, cupping your face with a large gloved hand and looking at you with his ocean blue eyes, " I love all of you equally, my dear. But if I had to choose, it would be your eyes." You felt your cheeks grow hot as he stared at you with his loving but mischievous eyes. His lips curl up into a grin when you tore your gaze away from him, struggling to come up with a response. To be completely honest, you weren't really expecting an answer like this but you should've, knowing how romantic your husband could be at times. "I love how your eyes light up when you talk about something you're excited about- or when your eyes gloss over when you're feeling particularly emotional. They're absolutely stunning." He continued, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as he kept going on about why your eyes were the prettiest to him. "They shine like glittering jewels, I could stare at them forever.." he mumbles, gently pulling you even closer for a sweet kiss, his lips moulding perfectly against your own.

When he said he loved your eyes, he also meant how they roll back into your skull when he's between your thighs, the soft flesh decorated with so many red, blue and purple bruises, his teeth marking you as his own. His now bare hand coming in contact with your sweet cunt, slapping the soft flesh as you cry out for him so deliciously, making his cock throb in his undergarments. You muttered out a string of curses when he started rubbing your clit, soothing the stinging flesh before slapping it once again, your juices going everywhere. You scream his name once he finally, finally indulges in you and shoves his tongue inside your gummy walls, still making eye contact while eating you up. He could see how your pretty eyes gloss over with unshed tears and how they roll back slightly when he hits a certain spot. He humps the bed, unable to go on without some release as he watches you fall apart on his tongue and fingers completely.

"Keep shedding those beautiful tears for me, darling. You look the most stunning when you're sobbing my name out."

KAEYA ALBERICH ʚ ✮ ɞ

It was a lazy Sunday morning with your fiancè. You were perched atop his lap comfortably while he read a book and occasionally playing with your soft hair, his nose buried in it as he inhaled the sweet scent of your shampoo. You were playing with the hem of his shirt when a thought came into your mind. You paused for a bit then leaned back, smiling up at him as you admired his beauty. His dark blue hair was tied in a messy ponytail, matching his complexion beautifully. God he was beautiful. "Honey, I have a question.." He finally looked down from his book and raised an eyebrow at your playful tone. "And what would that be, darling?" You smiled at the nickname, "well, what is your favourite body part of mine?" He chuckled softly at your question, the slight dimples showing on his cheeks that you loved so much. He closed the book and placed it aside, wrapping his strong arms around your smaller figure as you waited for an answer. "well?" you inquired. He merely hummed, thinking for a bit before answering, "let's see, I'd say your smile is the prettiest thing I've ever seen in my life." He looked down at you, your gaze softened at his answer. You saw the look of pure love and admiration in his blue eyes, staring at your own reflection in them. "god, you're so cheesy, y'know that?" you slapped his chest gently, laughing at the way he pouted. "Whaaat?~ It's true!" He scoffed, clutching his shirt, where his heart would be to show you how hurt he was. "well..i guess your ass does look pretty ni- OW!!!"

He wasn't lying when he said he loved your ass, the soft flesh jiggling with each brutal thrust of his hips against your own. Your face was buried in the pillow, staining it with your unending tears and drool as your fiancè pounded you into the sheets exactly how you loved it. "Yeah you like that, fuckin' slut? You like it when I- mmh- fuck your brains out?" You couldn't answer him, the way his cock was hitting your sweet spot repeatedly. The only coherent thought in your head was how good he was dicking you down. His hand came down against your reddened ass, the hit stinging bad, making you jolt up, pleas and cries falling from your swollen lips as he rearranged your guts so damn deliciously. His thrusts slows down, greedy hands spread your cheeks open to get a better view of your soaked cunt swallowing his cock. He groaned at the lewd sight. His gaze fell on your puckered hole, twitching slightly as he licked his lips. You were about to whine for him to go faster when a glob of spit landed on your other hole, dripping down to your aching pussy.

"Ahh fuck, think I should take this hole next, sweet girl? It'd hurt? Aww, of course it would hurt! You need to experience a bit of pain to get good things in life, no?"

NEUVILLETTE ༊࿐ ⊹ ˚.

If someone asked you how you started dating the leader of the Marechaussee Phantom, you wouldn't even know how to answer. Honestly, all you knew that he was your type and he was hot as fuck. So here you were, sitting on your boyfriend's lap as he did some 'very important paperwork', as he called it. You sighed dreamily, bored out of your mind as you hear the scribbling of his fountain pen meeting the high quality paper. You tried to adjust a bit, getting more comfortable on his thighs as you looked up at him, taking a moment to appreciate this man. You hummed, catching his attention as his gaze snaps from the paper to you. You smiled at him, making him sigh and put the pen down. "Do you have something to tell me, dearest?" You pondered if you should ask the question before looking at him again, "well..yes. I have a very important question to ask you, actually." He merely gave you a questioning look before motioning for you to continue. "Sooo....I wanted to ask, what part of me do you like the most? As in like body part.." He deadpanned, "that's the very important question you wanted to ask me?" "Mhm! So what is it?" He leaned back in his seat, "Hmm.. I'd say your breasts are quite the sight-" "NEUVILLETTE!" You screeched, shocked by his answer. He merely raises an eyebrow, confused as why you were 'squealing like a little piglet.' "I didn't expect you to be so blunt..." You mumbled shyly, resting your head against his hard chest, playing with the intricate design of his coat.

Oh your breasts were quite the sight indeed. He couldn't help but stare at the two bouncing mounds as you tried your hardest to ride him, your hips and legs were hurting from slamming down repeatedly on him, pussy gushing on his cock. But he didn't care, all that was in his head right now was how fucking tight your cunt felt around his throbbing cock and how pretty your tits looked, glistening with a thin layer of sweat covering them. Delicious, he thought to himself as he took one nipple in his mouth, making you slow down before a harsh slap against your other tit snapped you back into reality. You whined to him to take the lead to give you some relief but he refused. He kept suckling and biting the bud until it was left raw and sore, before moving on to the next one with equal eagerness. Oh don't you worry though, he'd massage them nicely after.

"Oh archons, you feel so good. Mmm...yes darling, keep bouncing. Maybe I should impregnate you, fill you up with my seed, hmm? I bet you would look so pretty with a swollen belly and tits full of milk, yes?"

©sachiyoh— do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated♡

TAGS ☆ @lxverss @stygianoir

[cavalierious-whim]

Rains of Solace (NeuWrioLette)

Neuvillette shows up at Wriothesley's door, drenched in rainwater, seething in silent fury, and requests to have his hair brushed as a way to calm down. Part of 'by the strange pull'.

Read here on AO3. You can also, follow me on Twitter, and here on Patreon!

--

Wriothelsey opens his door to find Neuvillette standing on the other side, drenched. He lacks his usual scent of ocean salt, doused in freshwater instead that drips to the concrete. Rain; it must be raining outside. Neuvillette isn’t the type to get caught up in it. 

Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don’t cry. Wriothesley thinks about this stupid nursery rhyme more than he’d like, but never before has it been standing at his door. 

“Come here,” he says without a second thought, pulling at Neuvillette’s wrist and tugging him through the door. Wriothesley doesn’t ask questions, he just guides Neuvillette’s face into the crook of his neck. He kicks the door shut and drags his hand down Neuvillette’s back. No questions, no demands. “Beloved,” he says, stealing Neuvillette’s preferred endearment, dropping his usual tease. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

It isn’t; Wriothesley’s alpha is displeased at Neuvillette’s sour scent. It curdles his blood and stings his nose. It’s his job to soothe him, to protect him, to—

No, no. Neuvillette isn’t some weeping omega. It almost makes it worse, to see such a strong man so woefully desolate. Wriothesley itches to fix whatever it is. 

Wriothesley pulls back and tilts Neuvillette’s face up. His hair is tangled. Everything about him is a mess. Looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Wriothesley thinks he hasn’t seen such exhaustion on this man in years, maybe even a decade—not even in the aftermath of his accidental rut. 

“Let's get you cleaned up, hm?” Distress wafts off of Neuvillette in waves but he nods against him. Wriothesley sighs, entirely at a loss, and leans forward to plant a kiss against Neuvillette’s forehead.

It is clinical; Neuvillette goes through the motions as Wriothesley strips him and throws a towel over his shoulders. He steals a shirt from Wriothesley’s closet and it hangs off his frame. Neuvillette pulls the collar to his nose and inhales, breathing in and out. 

Any other time it’d make heat curl in Wriothesley’s gut, instincts wild at seeing him buried in his clothing. But now, all he feels now is the acrid sting of inadequacy. Wriothesley cares a great deal for others, but this, he is unaccustomed to. Neuvillette isn’t just one of his people, he is his partner, and Wriothesley’s alpha craves to settle his nerves. He hears how Neuvillette’s blood pulses, too quickly, rampaging through his veins.

But Wriothesley doesn’t push, doesn’t try to tip the scales. Neuvillette is deathly calm—the sort that can easily snap back. And even though he chose to come here, even though he breathes in Wriothesley’s scent to calm his nerves, there is no knowing how his alpha would react. 

Wriothesley has been there and dealt with those silent, raging instincts. His method of madness is duking it out in the ring. Neuvillette is quieter. Sterner. He’d never bloody his fists, not unless it was something truly unthinkable, or the intent was to roughhouse for pleasure. 

He’s about to peel away when Neuvillette’s fingers wrap around his wrist. “A brush,” he says. His voice is soft. Uneven. “Do you have one?”

“It isn’t fancy like the one you have, I’m sure—”

“I would like for you to brush my hair.” 

Wriothesley stills at the request. Seems intimate. And not that they aren’t—Celestia knows they’ve both transcended the ruse of two alphas having fun. It never was that but they held that initial boundary, hesitant in the beginning despite their interest. But Wriothesley knows what he wants. He looks at Neuvillette and thinks mate instead, and even his alpha agrees. 

Still. There is a sort of hesitance cradling Neuvillette’s tone that gives him pause. 

And, as always, Neuvillette reads his concern as easily as he does any book. “It will calm me,” he continues. “My instincts, while similar, have their differences.”

“Because you’re a dragon.” Wriothesley has always known, and he knows he isn’t just a dragon, but the dragon. But there’s no point in hashing out those details at such a vulnerable time. 

Neuvillette’s mouth parts in surprise. Then he licks his lips nervously. “I…well, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. But yes. It is… we are often solitary creatures until it comes to our—partner.” Wriothesley doesn’t miss the way his words jerk, as if he’d rather call him something else. 

Later. A thought for later. 

“So… brushing your hair,” says Wriothesley instead.

“I am angry,” admits Neuvillette. And Wriothesley knows. He can smell the acrid tang of it, thick as it drips from him. “But I am also full of sorrow. And to feel your hands in my hair… it will soothe the hatred that pools in my veins.”

Warmth spreads through his chest. His alpha purrs, delighted. And Wriothesley—well, he didn’t think he could fall in love more with this man, but he’s been proven wrong time and time again. It cuts deeper; this love. Every fucking time it leaves a wound that he doesn’t want to heal. And so he won’t. 

“Yeah,” says Wriothesley, forcing his tone to be steady. “Yeah, okay, let’s—the bed?”

He needs the closeness. Wriothesley. He needs to be close, to brush Neuvillette’s hair out of the way and bury his face into his neck. Later, when Neuvillette is calmer, sleepier, bundled in his sheets. When he’s drowned in his scent so thoroughly that he smells like Wriothesley, that everyone will know that Neuvillette is his.

The small things. It’s always the small things. Any other alpha would run at the thought of being scented by another. Neuvillette craves it, seeks it out. He’ll burrow into Wriothesley’s clothes, his sheets, even his skin without a second thought. He demands it on some nights, spooning Wriothesley from behind, sleeping with his nose firmly locked in his nape. 

“Wriothesley.”

“Right,” mutters Wriothesley. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

Neuvillette shouldn’t be the one comforting him but he tugs Wriothesley’s hand to his face and kisses his eternally busted knuckles before they retire. 

Wriothesley’s brush isn’t fancy. It’s old, the handle is cracked, and it’s one of the few things he kept when he came to Meropide all those years ago. A gift from an old sibling he tries not to think about. He’s fond of it, though, despite the missing and crooked bristles.

“This’ll just make your hair a mess,” he muses. Neuvillette says nothing as the brush snags halfway down, and so Wriothesley keeps at it, brushing out his hair in measured increments. He detangles clumps with his fingers, tips brushing against Neuvillette’s back.

It feels as though a century has passed when Neuvillette breaks the silence. “It was a case so similar to yours.”

Everything reels to a stop. They have shared many things except for this. Never this. Neuvillette knows that Wriothesley hung up his old name and started a new life the moment he stepped foot into this place, and so it remains in the past.

But. But.

Clearly, it weighs heavier on Neuvillette’s mind than Wriothesley thought. “I…”

“I uphold the law. That is my job. So rarely do I question the decisions of the Oratrice but your case—” He pauses and sucks in a breath. “That was the first time,” he whispers, “that I questioned the justice of Fontaine.”

Wriothesley swallows around the lump in his throat. He presses his palm against Neuvillette’s back. “It was premeditated.” Wriothesley remembers the blood that dripped from his fingers and how his alpha roared in satisfaction. He meant what he did. He sought out death and committed murder in cold blood. He has thought long and hard about his crime and has come to terms with it.

“But was it wrong?” asks Neuvillette. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It matters not. That is done and in the past, but this—a child, Wriothesley. And the worst part of me wishes I could have been the one to rip his parents to shreds. But, I cannot. And the boy has been sentenced. There is nothing that I can do, my hands tied as I force myself to watch on in silence.”

Wriothesley doesn’t ask for the details but he can glean an idea. “And so, the rain,” he says quietly. He dips forward to lean over Neuvillette’s shoulder, nose pressed against the juncture of his neck. Neuvillette smells sharp and angry; like gunmetal and the air before a brewing storm.  

Neuvillette tenses under his hold. “Ah. So you know.” He sounds rueful, vexed even. 

“I’ve known since the beginning.”

Neuvillette looses a bitter laugh. “How can I be so powerful and yet so useless?”

Wriothesley kisses his scent gland sweetly and Neuvillette crumples. “It’s okay,” he says, stroking his hair, chest against his back, holding him close. 

It is not okay. It will never be okay. Justice isn’t fair and never will be, a hard lesson that Wriothesley learned a long time ago. Neuvillette is childlike in so many ways and he wears his grief like a cloak over his shoulders. 

Neuvillette doesn’t cry. He rages instead, his pulse hot and hard underneath Wriothesley’s mouth as he kisses a tender spot on his neck. He smells like a tempest, all salt-brine and fury. His alpha ripples underneath his skin, and Wriothesley thinks not for the first time just how beautiful this dangerous man is.

But, it rains outside, a grand deluge because even for all his anger, Neuvillette will never raise a hand. The law is absolute. He’ll stew and seethe in self-pity and misery, but he is tied to his duty. It is another type of strength. Quieter. Soft-handed. Wriothesley loves this part of Neuvillette too, the old, beleaguered alpha who’s had centuries to train himself to rear back.

Wriothesley pulls away with a hum. He curls his fingers into Neuvillette’s hair, parting the strands, carefully easing out the knots. The tension eases from Neuvillette’s shoulders. When the tangles are gone he braids Neuvillette’s hair, tugging at the strands gently. It’s messy. He’s out of practice. “I had sisters,” he explains so quietly that he barely hears himself.

Neuvillette pets the braid when Wriothesley slides it over his shoulder. He shudders as Wriothesley’s fingers ghost the topmost knob of his spine, dipping against skin that peeks out from Neuvillette’s borrowed shirt. Then Wriothesley dips forward and presses his nose there, inhaling deeply. His arms wrap around Neuvillette’s waist, a perfect fit as his elbows rest against his hips. Nothing else, nothing untoward. Just a moment to ground himself. 

“The boy,” he murmurs, “I’ll watch him.” 

“I know.” Because Neuvillette will too.

“I can’t fix it, but I’m here.”

A pause. Neuvillette’s fingers wring out the end of his braid. “I know.”

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Wriothesley already knows the answer—and even if he didn’t, he’d coaxed Neuvillette beneath the covers anyhow. And Neuvillette would give in.

Neuvillette finally tilts toward him and breathes a sigh of relief. And then, in a rare show of humor, meant to mask the pain, he says, “I’m dry now. I wouldn’t want to get wet again and ruin your hard work.”

It is a slow and sluggish process of dressing down. Neuvillette watches Wriothesley as he strips and pulls on his sleep clothes, mind somewhere else entirely. The bed is too small. For the thousandth time, Wriothesley reminds himself to fix it. The sheets are too thin and scratchy. He reminds himself to fix those too, arbitrary problems that he’ll forget the moment he has more paperwork.

The smell of another alpha in his bed doesn’t induce rage. Wriothesley relishes it, the way Neuvillette’s scent lingers, permeating the space. That’s what calms him on nights like this—but maybe in the future he should sneak above ground and use that spare key hidden in his desk drawer instead. 

He expects Neuvillette to curl into him, pressing his cheek into his chest, and cling to him like the sea creature he is. Wriothesley pulled close instead. Neuvillette guides his face to rest against his heart and Wriothesley doesn’t realize until that moment just how on edge he is. How his pulse races too, or how the sharp scent of his restlessness cuts through the air.

“I should be comforting you.”

“You are.” Neuvillette’s claws comb through his hair. The moment stretches and then he says, very softly, “I am sorry that I brought it up.”

“No, that’s—” Wriothesley listens to his heart and counts every beat. “You can. You can, no one else.”

Neuvillette’s claws rake across his scalp, gentle enough to make Wriothesley’s spine tingle. “I wonder at times,” he muses, “why is it that we work so well? Shouldn’t we be at each other’s throats? Even in my deepest anger, I only thought of you.”

The worst thing Wriothesley’s alpha has ever wanted was Neuvillette’s submission. And not for a gain of power. No, just to bask in Wriothesley’s scent, to drown in it. To care for him in return because it is two-fold; Wriothesely would do the same. Has done so, and will for however long he can. There is no need to sleep with one eye open in his presence; his trust in this man is absolute.

 “Why question it,” he asks. “Why worry about something so clearly meant to be?” 

Neuvillette’s fingers stutter before resuming their petting. Wriothesley’s eyelids flutter and he lulls into a doze, counting those heartbeats. Steady and strong. Neuvillette has calmed enough to smell like home, and Wriothesley folds himself into it. 

“Do you think it’s still raining?” asks Wriothesley hazy as he begins to slip under.

“No,” replies Neuvillette. “Not anymore.”

[lychniis]

⚘ — THIS PLACE IS QUIET ( AND I SEEK YOUR WARMTH ).

i. SYNOPSIS : it was an old hurt. it itches beneath your skin. it gnaws at your nerves and nags the back of your mind, wishing, demanding, pining so senselessly, so selfishly. you were human, a kinder part of you says, and why would and why should you feel so ashamed of wishing for something so necessary? or in which, you are starved, and he tries his best. ( neuvillette / zhongli x gn ! reader )

ii. WARNING(S) : angst and comfort, implications of touch starvation, moving away from home ( neuvillette ) past grief, food as a love language ( zhongli ), everyone is affection starved here, heavily self indulgent like guys kjhghj i had a slump and i feel sad so here feel sad with me, hugs and kisses. NOT PROOFREAD.

# masterlist

&& . neuvillette · ( it's a distance ; where you feel close yet so far )

i. THE FEELING SETS IN BEFORE YOU COULD COMPREHEND IT. It’s like a ghost — with its slow creeping, that gradual haunting that hovers over your head and turns your spine to ice. It’s in the way your hands shake, in how you wake up and miss that non existent warmth enveloping your body and wish for it through your blurry eyes ( you wish as much as you could, and you hope…hope it comes true ). It’s loneliness and it’s a bitter taste in every evident way.

Fontaine was new, despite years gone by and Fontaine was unfamiliar. The court held structures that made you feel small in its magnanimity, the waters were too clear a blue, the air smelled of distant smog. The most you have of home are the small things. A dish from your grandmother, a beaded bracelet from your cousin, all little somethings that lay scattered in your drawers ( and they were treasures, treasures that settle deep in your chest ). 

Then there’s Neuvillette. A friend perhaps, for you were not sure what he considers you — who made your chest ache a new kind of ache. He made you long for a few more lasting moments, for his hands enveloping yours. He gifts you shells he finds on the beaches and talks about spring water and sea life. And you listen, for the loneliness runs deep and the itch beneath your skin, it screams.

Sometimes you think you see him stare for a little too long. At you, at your back, into your eyes. You wonder, you let yourself hope, you unearth old optimisms and think he knows that ache, that he wishes it too. Then the veil lifts and you see Neuvillette — polite, kind, gentle Neuvillette, who loves his melusine daughters while his gaze on you was of caution ( you were glass in his eyes, fragile, breakable, human ).

Selfish. You’re being selfish. Stop being selfish. 

You tell yourself this every day, when you place his shells alongside your beaded bracelets. When you watch him stand in the rain, a stark and solitary figure in blue amidst grimey gray ( he looked so far away then ). So you long for it. You long for it silently as you turn over, starved, starved, starved as the silence grows clamorous and your ears ring and your chest feels heavy with lead and iron.

( You cry. You claw your hands into the bed. You try to feel something. You hug yourself in the dark. You tear everything apart till your palms are bloody and nothing is left, if only to justify feeling like an apparition in a world full of people.

You do none of these things ).

ii. LIFE MOVES ON AS IT ALWAYS DOES AND AS IT ALWAYS SHOULD. You do not. You cannot. You call out for them to slow down, you want to catch up. You run and run and run after them. 

Nobody stops and you are left behind.

iii. NEUVILLETTE FINDS YOU AGAIN, like the river finds the ocean and the stars find the night. He speaks to you, for he has no one else but the melusine and he tells you about the flowers growing beneath his window and the birds trilling in his gardens. The little, human things he found fascinating and beautiful.

“Doesn’t it feel lonely?” you ask him one day, when you gather enough courage to be daring, to be blunt. He looks stunned as he considers it. Perhaps it was never brought to the surface before, when the people of Fontaine content themselves with his distance.

“It does.” he admits. “But what place does my bias have in court?” None, was the answer, but you do not want to say that.

“Then why are you speaking to me?” You ask. Why would he, when he looks upon human company with indecisiveness?

Neuvillette has no answer to give, but you see the way his eyes soften and how hesitance blooms forth. You see yourself in him, at least bits and pieces of it. You see his pining. You see the melancholy. It's the steady beat, the coming and going of the ocean. Its the distant blue line in the horizon. “Oh…” you mutter.

“Oh.” he echoes. He almost sounds like he’s teasing you. You look away ( your heart is in your throat. You want to kiss him ).

"Then…can I hug you?" You ask. "Even if it's just this once?"

"A hug?" He echoes. “Is that all you wish for?”

"A hug." You nod.

Neuvillette seems lost, and a little unsure. But he holds his arms out in acceptance. Your heart leaps in response, and your chest feels full, brimming, overflowing, falling into arms ( you were tearing up. You could hear that sated part of you weep ). The scent of petrichor hangs heavy around him, and he was warm, warmer than you expected, like sunned out sand on a beach.

Then he melts.

Neuvillette hugs you back with the air of a man deprived. You wonder how long he’s gone without a kind touch — decades? Centuries? You aren’t certain of it, you can’t bring yourself to imagine being so lonely for so long ( it feels stifling, like you were drowning. What was it like for him? Was it acrid air? The relentless heat? A pursuit of something so far away? ).

“Neuvillette. You’re holding me too tight.” you whisper but you don’t care. The itch was gone and that weight was gone and despite being squeezed into a bone crushing embrace, you feel like you could breathe again. 

His hold on you relaxes. “My apologies. It’s just that…” A pause. You watch him think, pick out his words, make sense of this overwhelming deluge brimming in his eyes. He rests his chin on your shoulder. “This is nice.” he tells you.

It was.

&& . zhongli | rex lapis · ( i love how strong you are ; why can't i be too )

I. THERE WAS AN EMPTINESS IN THE FOOD YOU make. It lacks its cohesion, its warmth, the silent ‘i love you’ whispered when you take the first bite. You read over those recipes left behind with feverish obsession, down to its blotted corners and the ink splattered edges. You try again and take another step. And there was that absence, that hollow chest and you feel like breaking, falling apart, tearing into your heart with bloodied, phantom hands. 

( Why couldn’t you do it right? )

Sometimes you wonder what Zhongli would think, when he sees you like this, hunched over the counter with a grip too tight as defeat hangs strong from your back. You wonder if he pities you, when he holds you aloft to his chest, if he thought this was pointless, childish, unnecessary. But he says nothing, his presence soft comfort and his touch, steady reliance. You tell yourself to calm down. You take a dep breath. You let it go.

It’s been years. Months upon months, weeks upon weeks, days upon days. You're taking too long, they say. It happened ages ago, they say. You feel slow, vulnerable, picked apart as they point out the disparity and talk about them with such ease. You could hardly bring a word out of your mouth without stopping, without pulling yourself together, without thinking of the way the warm life in their hands faded.

The pain never left. It festers like a dull ache at the back, like a forgotten itch that blooms on bad days. It stays, evolving through the tides, changing itself while it's claws stay obstinate in clinging on.

The pain never left, it was still there and with every failure to emulate that old, comforting taste, it shows it's ugly face and smiles.

There is an emptiness in the food you make. It lacks its cohesion and warmth. 

You feel the same way.

Empty.

II. ZHONGLI USUALLY COOKS DINNERS when time permits. He prepares soup from fresh bamboo shoots and Springvale boar. He folds his dumplings with practiced ease. He wipes away the residual grains of rice from your cheeks with a soft smile. To him, it's as easy as breathing, with centuries of practiced ease stemming from a fleeting interest.

"Are you hungry?" He asks when he spies you poring over papers. Stacks and stacks of it, teetering above you like mountains of yore. You looked so small there, half buried beneath your anger, your sadness, the knowledge that that time of the year slowly creeps forth like a prowling beast. You wonder what flowers you should take when you go to wash their grave. Maybe silk flowers. Maybe lilies. Maybe nothing at all.

( No, you cannot do that. )

You look at him and nod. You help him set the table and season the last of the meal. When he brings the food over, you wordlessly dig in. It tastes good. It tastes warm. It tastes like what Zhongli feels like — grounding, subtle, welcoming.

You don't realize you're trembling till he kisses your forehead with a gentle "I'm here." ( there were no tears. you don't think you have any left ).

III. "SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH ME." You tell Zhongli one day, lifting the pot up to the stove. “Zhongli, is there something wrong with me?”

“It’s all a matter of perspective. You are a little more upset with their death anniversary a few days away. But I don't think something’s wrong with you.” A straight laced answer, as you come to expect. Zhongli was direct, as direct as his contracts, with little room for fine print and lies steeped and gilded in gold. He was the clarity in polished gems. You know you could trust his word more than anything else in the world.

Your silence draws a concerned gaze. He grasps your chin and turns your face to him and his touch; it feels like warm pinpricks and you lean into it despite it all. 

“I still can’t help but think there is something wrong.” you admit. “I cannot get their recipes right…i miss them…i miss their food, i miss their hugs, and our talks, and their jokes…” you falter, then shake your head. “It’s been years.” you know that. 

Years. 

Years dedicated to recovery and mending your broken heart of losing the few good things you felt you had. But with every trickle of lacquer between the fissures, a new one seems to obstinately grow and you’re left with a sticky mess of gold and shattered pieces in your hands.

“Zhongli…how do you do it? How do you live knowing you won’t see her again?”

Guizhong was always an open secret between the two of you, the moon to his sun, the most gentle of gods. He spoke of her fondly, with the lilt of her lover and he looks at you and whispers those words; she would have loved you, did you know that. She would have loved you just as much as I do. Guizhong was sacred, just as much as they were. A someone lost to tragedy and a someone you idly think of with an enduring sadness ( that poor woman ).

Zhongli’s hands cease chopping the vegetables. You think you asked the wrong thing.

“I miss her every day.” he admits. “I see her in the Glaze Lilies by the marsh. I see her in the ruins of Guli plains. I see her in Liyue, in its finest details, in its motifs that she crafted with such care…” he pauses. “It’s an ache that will never go away, dear heart.”

His brushes her hand over your chest, above that beating organ nestled in your ribs. “It will never go away. The world, your life, the way you wish to live it; it will all change along with it. Maybe it will be too minuscule to notice, maybe the shift will be a large one. I could never recreate Guizhong's brilliance much like you cannot recreate their recipes to the perfection your memories entail…but I will say this: never berate yourself for letting yourself feel.”

The tears prick at your eyes. You rarely cry. You never try to. You always push them back for the world has little need for them. 

“I’ll be next too.” you realize.

“You will.” he nods. There is a sad smile on his lips.

You break ( You’ll be next. You’ll leave him to walk this road, you’ll leave him with this pain that he must live with. You’ll leave him ). “I’m sorry.” you gasp, your throat constricting and your vision blurring. You think your screaming, as your vocals stress and strain and snap and quiver like they’re being pulled too hard and fast like a rubber band. “I’m so sorry—”

Zhongli kisses your lips, then your forehead. 

“It’s alright.” he assures you. “Love, let me have you while I can…as you will have me.” 

You press your face into his chest. Zhongli smiles as he hands you a bowl of his soup. He feeds you when your hands shake too much. He whispers comfort in your ears. And you grasp his fingers when you are done, kissing his knuckles with a shaky sigh. He promises to help you pick out the flowers. He offers to help you wash their grave.

“I’ll try to stay.” you whisper. “For as long as i can” and you will. You want to. You need to.

Perhaps you should try cooking again tomorrow. Perhaps you should make something for him, something despite it’s imperfections.

Something he can remember you by.

Zhongli shuts his eyes. He looks golden against the setting sun. 

You’ll keep that promise.

❪⠀🎬⠀❫ AINE SPEAKS ;;

this whole thing was fueled by slump-based feelings. it's a little more personal, a little more messy but i kind of like it. but yeah, feelings are hard sometimes so i'll write them out instead.

if you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill this form up!

taglist — @x-zho @dustofthedailylife @meimeimeirin @silentmoths @crystalflygeo @ofoceansandtombsanew @ollieink @hleb-chan-sky @thesparklingwriter @taciturned-loqua @localplaguenurse @khxii-i @laughterofthetombs @yuellii

AINE | 2023. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.