#sev.scribbles

[moonsglare]

“lyney. what is that on your shoulder?”

your words are flat, tone more statement than question, and a sheepish look graces lyney’s expression. the boy—young man, you correct yourself—shifts almost awkwardly on his feet, his eyes darting from side to side as he clearly tries to think up of some explanation for what in the world you’re seeing right now.

“well, father and i went out on a mission,” he begins. “it was supposed to be just reconaissance on a rogue fatui alchemist, but the target somehow figured out we were tailing him. i went after him, but i was careless. he… he managed to get the upper hand and threw some sort of potion at me. father took the hit instead, and i managed to restrain the alchemist. but when i looked back at father after that…”

he gestures awkwardly to his shoulder, whereupon a little black-and-white rabbit toy sits, and you raise a brow.

“she turned into a marketable plush toy?”

lyney scratches the back of his neck. “uh, well. yes, i’d say.”

you sigh, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose. today will be a long day indeed. after a beat, you open them again, and study the toy—which is, apparently, the fourth harbinger and more importantly your husband—again.

it’s a little rabbit, about the size of an average child’s toy. its body is mostly white, with patches of black at its hands, feet and the tips of its ears. its expression is one of utter unamusement, eyes half-lidded almost in annoyance. but in truth, it is those very eyes that assure you of the truth of lyney’s story—little crimson Xs that gaze at you with an intensity you would know anywhere.

“arlecchino?” you try hesitantly, the toy’s tiny ear flicks in response. you almost snort—archons above, it really is her. your husband really did get turned into a marketable plushie that you’re quite sure regrator wouldn’t hesitate to mass produce. instead, you shake your head, dropping your hand down to your side. “i take it you asked the alchemist for an antidote already?”

lyney nods. “i did. he said there wasn’t one—“ your eyes flicker briefly with panic, and lyney hastily elaborates, “—b-but he said it would wear off in a few hours! and he’s still alive, so if the worst comes to pass…”

you exhale slightly in relief. “right. well, i suppose i’ll take her off your… shoulder.”

you reach out unsurely to the little toy, palm open. its round head looks down at your open hand from lyney’s shoulder, before standing on its stubby legs and jumping. the plushie is remarkably soft, and you resist the urge to squeeze it. you bring your hand to your shoulder next, and the toy clambers onto it, settling comfortably with one tiny paw braced against your neck.

“comfortable?” you ask, glancing down. you get a sharp nod in response, and another flick of an ear. the absurdity of the situation gets a chuckle out of you, before you reach out and ruffle lyney’s hair. “alright, i’ll take it from here. go ahead and rest, lyney.”

the young man relaxes, nods, then heads off, looking the slightest bit glad he no longer has his father over his shoulder—literally. you, on the other hand, breathe out a slow exhale, moving your hand up to scratch beneath the toy’s chin instinctively, like you would a cat. it softens against your touch, slouching almost, a stubby leg kicking lightly against your collarbone.

you laugh softly. “i suppose i should spend the rest of the day in the office, before the younger children catch sight of such a cute little toy.”

the toy stiffens ever so slightly, ear flicking again, and you take that as an ethusiastic yes with another giggle before heading off to your shared office.

paperwork is, objectively, boring. however, little things can make it more interesting. like having another person to do it with, or in your case today—a sentient plush toy. toychino (as you’ve taken to calling her) ambles around your desk like a little helper, gathering papers and bringing you pens. sometimes she taps her little foot against a specific line, and you make a note to speak about it to her later, when she can actually—hopefully—talk again.

in truth, you’re barely keeping it together. toychino is giving you such vicious cuteness aggression it takes every ounce of self control in your being not to squeeze her senseless. time seems to drag on endlessly, and after what feels like an eternity of torment, the sun finally dips below the horizon, granting you and toychino a moment of reprieve. you bring her back with you to your shared room, setting her down against the pillows as you get changed.

you can feel her eyes on you, ever-present, even as a tiny toy. when you head back to the bed in your night-clothes, her gaze feels intense, despite her expression being almost comically perptually unimpressed. you flop onto the soft mattress, rolling onto your back and taking toychino in your hands, holding her up like a cat from under her small arms.

you can’t help but crack a smile. “you’re quite cute like this, you know. i might miss toychino.”

the toy does nothing but give you a silent, withering glare, ears dropping a fraction. like a pout, kind of. it makes you want to explode into a billion pieces, and you can’t smother the laugh that bubbles from your lips.

“i’m definitely getting a little copy of you made,” you murmur affectionately, rubbing her cheek with your thumb. “my beloved marketable plushie.”

you bring her down to your lips to press a kiss to her soft, cotton-filled head—

—and a plume of white smoke bursts in your face, before a solid weight drops onto your body, forcing a startled ‘oof’ from your lips.

you cough and wave a hand to clear away the smoke (thankfully tasteless, scentless and sensationless), blinking to clear out your eyes. when your vision finally refocuses, you’re looking into bright crimson Xs, shining like cut rubies.

as the final vestiges of smoke clear, there appears your husband—in all her full, human glory. her handsome face is set in an unamused expression as she looks down at you, though you know her well enough to be able to see the fondness lying behind it. she leans in, large, warm hands intertwining with your own and pressing yours into the mattress to pin you down.

“wife,” she rumbles, and you resist the urge to preen and expose how much you’ve missed her voice today. “you’ve had a lot of fun, haven’t you?”

you breathe a small laugh. “most certainly.”

she huffs softly, nosing along your jaw to your neck, and pressing a nipping kiss to your pulse. she’s warm, intensely so, and you feel that heat start to spread throughout your system as well.

“you had your hands all over me today,” she murmurs after a beat, shifting a little higher to whisper her next words into your ear. there’s almost a slight hint of mischief to her tone, but you’re starting to get a little too hot to be sure.

“it’s my turn now.”

(she ends up reminding you for the rest of the night why human arlecchino is a far better option than toychino. however, you still get a replica toy made, much to her utter dismay.)

[riondays]

you admire nagumo yoichi.

not for his handsome looks (very few things interest you, of which men are the least), nor his talent for espionage (you’re tied with him for top of spy class), but for having a desire and pursuing it. it sounds a little corny, but it’s true. it took everyone quite by surprise when the prodigious son of the nagumo family decided to cut ties with his roots and pursue assassination instead, rather than the family tradition of spying. your own father had many things to say about the whole situation, and none of them pleasant. you don’t agree but you don’t voice it either—it’s pointless anyway.

he warned you about even speaking with yoichi, lest you develop some foolish ideas about becoming an assassin yourself, but yoichi is your friend—perhaps your only friend—and you can’t help but disobey your father just this once.

you’ll miss him, you muse idly as you walk down the hallways of the JCC. or, you think you’ll miss him. you’re not quite sure how ‘missing someone’ is supposed to feel. the crowd flows around you like water as you slip from shadow to shadow like a fleeting minnow, just a hardly noticeable brush of shoulders or flutter of hair. barely a presence.

supposedly, that’s your ‘gift’, as your father puts it. anti-perception. negative presence. a ghost. it’s funny—you find it more a curse than anything else, not that he’d know, given that he never asked. he always saw you as a way to boost his standing at the JAA. ticket to success first, daughter second.

but it’s fine. ghosts don’t feel anything anyway.

you find yoichi at the cafeteria. he’s sat at a table with two other people—a white haired boy with a serious expression, and a teal-haired girl chattering away. the cafeteria is abuzz and packed with students at this hour. as you navigate the crowd you brush shoulders with another student, and he drops his JCC bowl all over the floor. he swears, hurtling around to try and find the culprit, but his eyes sweep right over you as you’d expected and he eventually decides to call it quits.

well. it wasn’t like he was missing out much with the JCC bowl anyway.

you make it to yoichi’s table without any further incident. the three of them here are really digging in—yoichi and the boy have bowls of ramen, while the girl went for steak. you’re not really surprised yoichi has already made friends; and from their plates, powerful friends at that. he’d always been a social butterfly, of sorts. a charmer with a sharp tongue, only rivalled by the sharpness of his knives.

speaking of, that was the reason you’d come to see him. he’d left a knife at your family dojo, and you’re here to return it. you draw the knife from your jacket pocket, pinching the blade between two fingers for the sake of being polite in front of his friends. between you both, you could throw the knife at yoichi and he’d laugh in that boyish was of his, flashing a smile full of teeth. he’s always so lively, even as his eyes remain as dull as a dead fish’s. yoichi is odd, to be sure, but he befriended you despite your oddness as well, so it works out.

you stand behind him now, and you reach out with your free hand for his shoulder. he’ll startle just a little—because everyone does when you approach, though yoichi far less than most. your mouth opens, forming the shape of his name—

—when your other arm rises on reflex, and the sound of metal on metal rings out in the cafeteria. your brain takes a second to process, and when you finally regain your senses you’re looking into the most intense eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. molten gold and sunbright, narrowed in suspicion. it’s the teal haired girl, and she has her steak knife against yoichi’s in your hand. if you weren’t already holding it, her knife would be at your throat, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of your own heartbeat in a way you’ve never been before.

she’s absolutely breathtaking.

yoichi’s cheery voice interrupts your shameless staring. he’d been shoved to the side on the bench by the girl when she’d lunged across the table, somehow sensing your sudden presence. “didn’t expect to see you somewhere crowded like this,” he hums, before his eyes land on his knife in your grip. “oh, is that mine?”

you nod wordlessly, and yoichi pats the girl on the arm. “ease up, akao. this is my friend i told you guys about.”

“your friend always shows up unannounced?” akao snorts, but draws back and drops into her seat again, eyeing you up and down. “barely noticed her.”

“few people do,” yoichi replies. it’s as much a compliment as it is a fact. “i’m surprised you did.”

akao stabs at her steak again, but her golden eyes, once hostile, now turn curious. “i just saw the thread and followed it.”

a thread. you’d heard about it before, the way some people can see the ‘threads’ or ‘pathways’ to a kill. another rare ‘gift’, much like your own. your heart flutters at the thought. a thread, a tie, a bond. for a brief moment she saw all of you, in a way no one ever has before, your life laid bare for her taking. it was beautiful, breathtaking, transcendent. you want to feel it again.

the thread of death and the red string of fate—in your world, how different can they be?

“hey, you alright? you’re spacing out,” yoichi says, waving a hand in front of your face. you blink back to reality, and he peels his knife out of your grasp, and frowns when he sees the chip in the blade from where his friend had struck. “you just came here to give this back, right?”

you almost say yes, but akao is still watching you, intensely enough that you feel little shivers run up and down your spine. your heart is in your throat, and you swallow to collect yourself before answering. your father will hate this, but if he has a problem with it, he could try and kill you about it. (he won’t, because you know he’s nowhere near skilled enough to do it. not like her.)

“yoichi.”

“hm?”

“how do i transfer to the assassination course?”

“haah—?”

you learn one transfer and dead father later that her full name is akao rion (and the third friend is sakomoto taro, although he’s less high on your list of priorities) and you engrave it in your heart where she belongs, and where she stays forevermore.

[moonsglare]

ever so often, arlecchino finds you outside in the house's sprawling garden surrounded by the children. at any point, you could be showing them any manner of creature you've somehow managed to grab (gently, of course). just the past week it was a crimson finch that had accidentally flown into the window, and before that it was some lizard (green horned, she can almost hear you say indignantly) that had unfortunately not managed to scurry away from you in time. the children all watch with rapt interest as you cradle the little critter in your palms, softly relaying the assortment of miscellaneous facts you have stored somewhere in that brain of yours. it's an endearing sight, and one that arlecchino indulges in whenever she has the time, or feels the fatigue of staring at inane documents press against the backs of her eyes.

today, however, she watches sat beneath the shade of a willow tree, one leg crossed over the other and fingers curled around the handle of her teacup. it is a rare day of reprieve, and she spends it here in the mild fontainian mediterranean sun, her typical uniform shed in favor of a billowy white shirt and slim-fitting, high-waisted breeches. something has piqued yours and the children's interest, and all of you gather near the garden wall. she can hear the children whisper excitedly as you crouch down, and then they gasp as you stand up.

she raises a brow in interest herself. whatever it is your holding, it seems a little larger than your usual finds. however, with the crowd of children around you, it's difficult for her to actually see what it is you're holding. you spare her a glance over your shoulder, then a minute tilt of your head. a wordless invitation; come. and she does, easily, a thorny bloom to the sun, setting her teacup down with barely a sound and rising to her feet. her heels have been traded for something more casual, and her typical imposing stature has reduced somewhat--though the children still obediently part when she approaches.

"anything of note?" she asks. she studies your face carefully; from the curl of your lip to the creases at the corners of your eyes to the slope of your brow. of all things, she finds it is mischief that inhabits your expression, and she mentally prepares herself for whatever ridiculously endearing thing you're about to show her.

that 'ridiculously endearing thing', as it turns out, happens to be a rabbit--a rather plush, black-and white rabbit, sitting perfectly content in your arms. you're supporting the creature with one hand beneath its chest and the other beneath its hind legs, holding it close to you. some of the children gently pet the downy fur along its back, and the rabbit's black-tipped ears twitch in response, almost pleased.

"we found a little guest beneath the hedge line," you answer, glancing down affectionately at the creature. "the children were hoping they'd be allowed to keep it."

arlecchino snorts. "the children, or you?"

"rude," you shoot back, though the smile on your lips is still present. "come now, we've already thought of a name."

"is that so?" she drawls, her eyes narrowing a fraction at the rabbit. its own eyes, previously closed in contentment, open, and almost seem to challenge her. her fingers twitch behind her back.

"it is," you say, and there's a lightness to your tone that arlecchino knows is a harbinger of some form of mischief. her eyes meet yours, and they gleam with mirth. arlecchino wonders if the sun is ever envious of the way it is outshone. "would you like to hear it?"

she sighs, looking away. "proceed."

"thumper seems rather cute, no?" you answer innocently, batting your lashes, and internally arlecchino cringes. thumper. a name from a popular children's book, one that even a woman as cruel as the former knave would keep in stock in her library. a name, famously, that was attributed to the companion of the book's titular character, bambi.

bambi, which was also the name of the spider she once had as a child.

you notice her brief foray back into her memories, and draw her back with a soft laugh. thumper's ear twitches, and the little beast nuzzles closer against your chest. "no? well, we could always name him after you. you both seem to look quite alike, wouldn't you say? hm, how about per--"

"thumper is fine," arlecchino cuts you off, exasperation underlining her tone. there is an almost-scowl on her face, though the relaxed line of her shoulders gives away her true feelings. "the... creature, can stay. so long as it is properly cared for."

the children whoop and cheer, and your eyes soften into a thankful, tender look. thumper, now thoroughly loafing in your arms, wags his stubby little tail. perhaps he is somewhat cute, arlecchino muses, extending a hand to smooth down his fur--

--only for the traitorous little beast to lean away, cracking open an eye to glare almost witheringly at her. you coo as he presses close, and arlecchino's eye twitches. she doesn't know if rabbits have the capacity to make smug expressions, but she's willing to swear upon the tsaritsa's name that the damn creature is making that exact expression at her right now.

in hindsight, it's been a while since she's had rabbit stew.

[moonsglare]

arlecchino with a flirty s/o but with a twist :3, Arlecchino gets fed up with it and fucks her until she can’t think straight :33

ouhhhh anon……….. i’m about to be so deranged—

cw. rough sex, breeding, overstimulation, dacryphilia, degradation (slut, whore), belly bulge

“still want to run that mouth of yours, darling?”

arlecchino’s voice is a haughty sneer from behind you as she keeps you face down in the pillows with a firm hand on your neck, while the other holds your hips up and in place for her to ruthlessly ram her cock in and out of your sopping cunt. you can only manage choked whimpers and moans as each vicious drive of her hips fills you up to the brim, her thick cock forcing your tight walls to open around her.

she’s wrung so many orgasms from you at this point, your thighs slick and glossy with your own cum. there’s a wet spot on the bed from where it’s trickled down your legs and from when she made you squirt. you don’t even remember how long ago that was. your body feels like a raw nerve—each touch she gives you burns like fire but you just can’t get enough.

“arle, m-more, please—“ you beg, and she scoffs, drawing back until only the tip remains inside before slamming forward, filling you brutally. it forces a howl of pleasure from your throat, and she tightens her grip on your neck.

“tch, such a greedy slut, aren’t you?” she growls, leaning down to whisper the words in your ear. her teeth scrape the shell of your ear and you shiver at the sensation. “always so desperate for a cock to fill you up, hm? was that why you felt the need to throw yourself at those men?”

you whine, doing your best to shake your head, though it’s difficult with the way she’s forcing you down against the sheets. she loosens her grip a little and stills her hips, giving you some respite for a moment.

“no?” she asks, with faux curiousity, and you don’t have to look at her to know that her lip is curled up into a look of disapproval. “are you sure?”

“don’t want theirs,” you manage to gasp out meekly, turning your head to look into her eyes. they’re dark, dangerous, but you find yourself drawn into them all the same. “jus’ want yours.”

arlecchino stills, but then the hand on your nape tightens and she’s shoving you even deeper into the sheets, and rutting into you like never before. her cock bullies your g-spot with each thrust of her hips. she grunts as your cunt tightens even more around her length, and the hand on your hip travels lower to your belly, feeling the way her dick makes your stomach swell ever so slightly before going down to your clit to rub harsh circles on the stiff nub.

“fuck, baby— wanted this cock so bad, hm?” she growls into your ear, “my pretty little whore.”

“y-yours!” you cry, fat tears starting to well in your eyes as your brain turns to mush in your skull with each drive of arlecchino’s hips. her front slaps against your ass, the sound of skin against skin ringing out around the room. anyone unfortunate enough to be walking by would surely know what was happening.

arlecchino grins at the sight of your glossy eyes, and in a brief moment of affection presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “shh, baby, just take it, yeah? such a good whore for me.”

you sink your teeth into the sheets below you, feeling the coil in your core wind tighter and tighter. arlecchino grunts above you, her relentless rhythm faltering, and you know she’s close. broken pleas for more and of her name slip from your lips, and it makes her shudder, jaw clenching.

“you’re mine, sweet thing,” she snarls, ghosting her teeth along the slope of your shoulder. “mine, only mine. ‘m gonna mark you from the inside with my cum, breed you full of my baby, hm?”

the thought flashes across your mind like a lightning bolt—a vision of yourself round and swollen with her child—and the coil in your core snaps. you cum with a scream, cunt clenching so tightly you nearly force arlecchino out as you squirt for a second time. arlecchino hisses, hips stuttering before she plants herself as deep as she can go and spills into you. you feel her release fill up ever corner of your cunt and even press against your womb.

you must have blacked out because when you come to again, you’re lying on your side with arlecchino next to you, panting, still buried balls-deep inside you. she presses soft kisses against the back of your neck, while her hand strokes your belly, over the bulge she forms in your stomach.

“my sweet girl,” she mumbles. “my love, my wife…” she whispers sweet words into your ear, gentle praises a far cry from how she’d fucked you just before. “you did well. rest, now. i’ll take care of you.”

[moonsglare]

“your kitten is awake.”

your words are grumbled into your pillow, but with the way you feel the spiderweb of threads on your back quiver, you know your dear goldweaver has heard you. beyond the cocoon of your bed you can distinctly hear a little creature sneaking about—of chests being opened and couch cushions being rifled through.

“she needs enrichment,” comes the melodic, dry reply from your lover, the picture of golden elegance even in sleep, her all-seeing eyes shut, delicate lashes brushing the apple of her cheeks. “she will tire out eventually.”

“mm, after she has plundered all your wealth, perhaps,” you retort, shifting under silken sheets to gather her into your arms, slotting your face in the crook of where her neck meets her shoulder. she smells of rosewater and fresh laundry, the scent as delicate as every other little thing about her.

a sleep-touched laugh slips from her lips at that, as her hands find the smooth plane of your back. a kiss is pressed to your temple, soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wings. “if that is the case, then i shall simply weave us all more wealth.”

“you’re already overworked,” you counter with a soft sigh. “a little discipline is good for kittens, you know.”

aglaea’s hands find your face, and she draws back to meet your eyes. gold and irisdescent green, like the emerald leaves upon the boughs in the grove you once came from, peer into you as if examining your very soul. something in your chest—perhaps heart, perhaps coreflame—trembles at the touch, like a thread pull taut.

“so is a little love,” she says softly, and you know this battle is lost. for all of an orator you are at the grove, in this debate under rose-scented sheets, in a home draped in gold thread, your words fail. this is the great irrationality, that which exceeds the calculus of the universe; this, is love, and you are but a powerless butterfly carried upon a warm west wind.

“oh, alright,” you sigh eventually, smiling wryly. “but do not blame me if she ends up ripping your curtains trying to get to the—“

just then, you both hear the characteristic sound of fabric being shredded, and it is aglaea’s turn to sigh now. you simply chuckle, and release your beloved goldweaver from your grasp as she rises from the bed like the brilliant, aureate sun, and you wish in your heart that the dusk might never come.

irrational, the coreflame in your chest whispers, carried by the lightness of mirth.

in love, your own mortal heart corrects.

this time, there is no divine rebuttal. only the sounds of a waking home, unfurling from the chrysalis of sleep to greet the rosy-fingered dawn.

[moonsglare]

arlecchino has recieved many nicknames from you over the years. love and dearest are her favourites, though she does sometimes field darling as well. when you’re feeling mischievous, arlie takes the stage. and when you’re feeling especially tender, under the sheets with the warm hearth crackling away opposite the bed, perrie graces her ears as gentle as your embrace.

she thought, perhaps naively, that you’d run out of clever little ideas for yet more nicknames for her. but tonight, as you pick out your necklace from your vanity, you surprise her yet again.

“angel, can you help me with this?”

and arlecchino, fourth of the fatui harbingers, father of the house of the hearth, goes completely and utterly still. her hands, which were busy fixing her cufflinks, pause midair as she looks at you in the mirror with a thoroughly perplexed expression. when she finally finds her voice again, it’s uncharacteristically tentative.

“angel?”

you return her look in the mirror, head tilted at a questioning 45 degrees. “my necklace, i can’t clasp it on my own.”

“no, i—“ she huffs, mildly exasperated, but steps over to help you with the necklace. it’s a delicate gold chain, with an iridescent rainbow rose charm hanging from it. a gift she’d gotten you for your birthday. “what do you mean, ‘angel’?”

“what about it?” you ask with a smile, leaning back into the delicate touch of her warm hands against your nape. “it’s quite cute, no? unless you dislike it?”

“i don’t dislike it,” she corrects, her eyes in the mirror fixed on the way the charm rests delicately above your sternum. “i merely find it… unexpected. i’m afraid i do not see how it fits.”

you hum at that, turning in your seat to face her. you take one of her dark hands, then work on fixing her cufflinks which had previously been forgotten. they’re cast in silver, and encrusted with a single, shining gem. it gleams the same colour as your eyes.

“after you gave the children that… lesson—“ Arlecchino’s expression pinches ever so slightly in something close to guilt at the small bite in your words, “—they’ve all been telling me about those wings of yours that you keep hidden. Angel happened to be one of the many descriptors used.”

You conveniently leave out the part where the children added ‘of death’ behind it. To your uses, it is blissfully unnecessary, despite how accurate it may be.

“I… see.”

You pat her hands once you’ve fixed both cufflinks, intertwining your fingers with hers as you stand from your vanity stool. Arlecchino’s expression is caught between bewilderment, surprise and the barest hint of mirth. You press a gentle kiss to her cheek, then squeeze her hand.

“Well? Shall we go, angel? Our reservation is in twenty minutes.”

Arlecchino clears her throat, then nods. Turns her gaze slightly to the side so she doesn’t have to see what she knows is an abjectly self-satisfied grin on your face at the delicate flush on her pale cheeks, her body betraying her at just how she really feels at this new nickname.

“Yes, of course. Let’s go, dearest.”

And as she walks hand in hand with you on the way to the restaurant, trailing but a few inches behind you with her eyes resting on the way your profile glows in the setting sun, she can’t help but think—if she really is an angel, then her only god would be you.

[moonsglare]

“dearest, you really should be sleeping.”

arlecchino murmurs, fingers idly stroking down your side. her eyes are half-shut, face illuminated by the pale glow of your phone screen as you scroll away. her nose is half buried in your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets, and she’s so very close to dozing off.

you make a small noise of protest at her words. “just a minute…”

“you’re worse than the actual teenagers in our house,” she adds dryly, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “pray tell, what is it that has captured your attention so?”

“just this thing i saw on twitter,” you reply, distracted. “it says that the first animal that comes up when you search ‘animal’ is what your partner sees you as.”

arlecchino arches a brow at that. she’s not one to indulge in these online trends—she’s often simply far too busy. she knows they exist in a peripheral sort of way; the kids, especially the twins and somewhat surprisngly, noe, follow them with an unexpected faith. she doesn’t really understand the appeal, in truth, but she lets them do as they please, so long as it isn’t of any concern to their safety.

“oh? and what did your search yield, hm?”

you crane your head to look at her, nose wrinkled in slight distaste. “a bat.”

you show her a picture, and she snorts. it’s not a… terrible picture, but it certainly isn’t the most, well. flattering, in a sense. the unamused look on your face deepens, morphing into almost a pout.

“don’t laugh,” you say petulantly, lightly smacking her arm. she chuckles, a low rumble in her throat.

“it is quite amusing, you must admit,” she replies, drawing circles on the skin of your stomach, slipping beneath the oversized t-shirt—her t-shirt—that you’ve chosen to wear to bed. she pauses briefly, then adds, “and fitting, too, if you ask me.”

“fitting?” you ask incredulously, and she nods, a lazy smirk tugging on her lips. there’s an almost offended look on your face, and it makes her want to kiss you a little. well, a lot, really, but that would lead to other things and she really is too tired after a long shift on her feet at the wards to put you through the mattress tonight.

(next time for sure, though.)

“mm, fitting. you sleep at such atrocious hours, my dear, you may well be nocturnal,” she drawls, and you huff, bunching your shoulders stubbornly. “tell me, what time is it?”

“…almost one in the morning.”

she smiles. “my point exactly.”

“yeah, well,” you huff again, the slightest bit flustered. “it’s not like i stay up of my own volition every night. sometimes you’re the one keeping me up.”

she snorts at that, shifting lower to nose at the nape of your neck, warm breath spilling over your sensitive skin. “you’ve never complained before.”

“you—“ you stammer, flustered, then groan, dropping your phone on the bed. you don’t refute her though, and her smile broadens against your skin. “ugh, anyway— still, a bat is… i don’t know, weird? i guess? i was expecting something cuter.”

arlecchino hums for a moment, savoring the warmth of your body. she kisses the smooth skin there, over one of the many moles adorning your back like little constellations.

“perhaps they are not cute,” she agrees, “but i quite like them.”

you pause, turning your head to look over your shoulder at her curiously. “really?”

“they serve a vital role in their ecosystem,” she points out, eyes tracing the arch of your cheekbones, the slope of your lips. in the dark, she’s not really sure how much of you she actually sees and how much she simply knows to be there from years of drinking in the same sight of you. “insect control and the like. we would be worse off without them, no?”

“well, yeah,” you admit, lips curling upward. you’re so easy to convince sometimes—it’s terribly cute. “when did you learn so much about bats anyway?”

“you talk about them,” she answers simply, and you go still for a beat. she notes the way your breath catches ever so slightly before you let out a small, almost bashful sounding laugh.

“you remember?”

she almost rolls her eyes. what a silly question.

“it’s you. of course i do.”

something flashes in your expression, and then you’re turning in her arms to snuggle up against her, chest to chest. she lets you into the gentle castle of her arms with familiar ease, tucking your head beneath her chin as she runs her hand up and down your spine.

“smooth talker,” you say, voice muffled against her collarbone. she only hums in response, finally letting her eyes drift shut. she could stay like this forever.

“only for you, my dear.”

[moonsglare]

“are you sure you have everything?”

lyney huffs a bit of a strangled laugh, but nods. he’s somewhat used to your fussing, but it still feels a little… not exactly embarrassing, but a warm heat makes its way from his chest to his cheeks nonetheless. he holds the magic pocket bag closer to his chest as you fix the fastenings of his fatui cloak yet again, fiddling with the clips and ensuring they’re secure and not about to fly off in the harbor wind as it blows freely around them all.

“i’m all set,” he assures you, then glances over at lynette. she’s still a little woozy—it is the break of dawn, after all, since father prefers moving under the dense cover of darkness, and though lynette is awake she’s certainly not ecstatic to be awake. as a result, she’s the next target of your fussing; you gently pat her cheeks to wake her up a little more, and she lets out almost a small, mewling noise before snapping out of her drowsy daze.

“you can rest a little more on the ship, lynette,” you say, and the young woman nods. “if you get seasick, i packed some medicine. and i made some food if you get hungry; it won’t last very long on a ship, so remember to eat it, okay? oh—i also packed earmuffs, be sure to wear them if it gets too cold, alright?”

“understood,” lynette answers, leaning into your touch as you pat her hair. she’s always been more physically affectionate with you, though she tempers herself when the familiar sound of boots and metallic heels on stone tiles echo behind all of you.

“i take it everyone is prepared to set off?” comes father’s calm, even tone. behind her is freminet; he isn’t dressed for travel, since he’ll be staying in fontaine, but followed along to see them off. she’s dressed somewhat similarly, but unlike lyney and lynette who seem to drown in their cloaks, father wears it like a mantle—the fur broadens her already broad shoulders, and she looks more like a king than ever. and yet despite that, you simply turn and stride over to her, your hands reaching out to smooth down the lapels of her cloak.

“just double checking,” you hum, though there’s a little bit of a sigh in your voice. “i think i packed everything.”

father offers you a mild look. “the children know how to pack their own things.”

“i know, but i wanted to help,” you reply, and lyney swears he sees the hard lines of her face soften imperceptibly. there’s a slackness to her normally tense posture as you do all your last minute checks—cufflinks? i have them. hand cream? yes. ID? all settled, dearest—and lyney has to marvel on the sway you have over their typically unshakeable father.

“we should head out,” she says gently, taking one of your wrists in a tender, dark hand. a brief flicker of stubborness flashes across your expression, before you sigh.

“ah, before i forget…” you produce a tiny pouch, and then place it into father’s open palm. she regards it curiously, tilting her head. there’s a rustle of plastic inside, but also the clack of a few hard objects hitting each other. “coffee candies,” you explain, “for when you feel sleepy.”

“thank you,” father says, her tone as warm and soft as it always is with you. she accepts the pouch, and slips it into one of her cloak pockets. “i will remember to have them.”

you huff. “you better. i’ve already told lyney and lynette not to let you skip meals, as you’re so prone to do.”

“is that so?” father asks mildly, glancing at them both, and it takes quite a bit to not shiver under her questioning gaze. lyney truly has no idea how he’ll convince father to eat later on this trip, but he figures dropping your name a few time should do the trick. he hopes.

“it is,” you say firmly, and then your tone softens again. you look up at father, and lyney cannot see your expression from here, but he knows the same is reflected in father’s—loving, with a hint of departure’s sorrow. “be safe. come home.”

“alwaus,” father answers, and lyney, lynette and freminet have the sense to look away when she leans down to kiss you chastely. they only look back up when father steps over to them, leaving you and freminet on the other side of the dock. she levels freminet with a look. “do not forget your duty, freminet.”

he nods resolutely, hugging pers a little tighter. “of course, father.”

(just a few moments ago, she’d pulled him to the side and gave him a direct order, as the fourth fatui harbingers and the knave.

“you will protect the house with your life,” she had said, her tone brookering no argument, though it wasn’t as if freminet was looking to argue. and though father has said ‘the house’, freminet had lived long enough there to know the truth of her words.

“yes, father. i won’t let anything happen to mom.”)

and then, with the bellow of a horn, their little ship sets off into morning light. lyney watches father’s face carefully as the dawn breaks, casting the harbinger’s expression in shades of warm gold. she’s uncharacteristically unguarded in this brief flash of a moment—not that she would ever admit such a thing, even upon threat of death. but lyney knows love is most felt when it is leaving, and so even as she turns on her heel to enter the cabin, he knows she’s already counting down the days before she can return home—return to you.

[moonsglare]

“feixiao, this is… a lot.”

you blink down at the very generous spread of mooncakes on the table. you have honestly no idea how feixiao managed to procure at least a dozen different mooncakes, or even when, but it’s a little late to be asking questions now. feixiao only grins, pushing you gently by the shoulders to take a seat by the table.

“we’ll taste test all of them!” she says cheerily, plopping down on the seat next to you. “let’s start with the traditional ones…”

she reaches out, tenderly lifting a mooncake in her calloused hands. the upper side of the treat is decorated with a pattern reminiscent of a lotus flower, the pastry a delicate shade of golden brown. your fingers brush feixiao’s as you take the mooncake from her.

“this one’s got lotus seed paste filling,” she explains. “it’s on the sweeter side, and a little nutty.”

you nod at her elaboration, taking another moment to appreciate the intricacy of the mooncake, before taking a testing bite. and just like she said, a sweet but nutty taste blooms on your tongue immediately, the smooth texture offset by the slight crumbliness of the pastry. you find the balance of flavors quite enjoyable, and feixiao’s grin only broadens as she sees you enjoying yourself.

“good?” she asks, and you hum around your mouthful of mooncake. “then, we’re off to a good start then. finish that one up, and we can move on to the red bean…”

the mooncake tasting session continues for a few hours, the actual tasting broken up between little anecdotes from feixiao here and there. you learn that jiaoqiu’s favourite filling is red bean, while moze’s—surprisingly—is custard. feixiao is a lotus seed and salted egg enjoyer, which she admits is mainly because it used to be general yueyu’s favourite. as she feeds you a more modern version with cream cheese as the filling, she tells you of the time she, jiaoqiu, and a very reluctant moze tried their hands at making mooncakes. it went… fine, or so she claims (you make a mental note to ask jiaoqiu if that really was the case).

by the end of it, you’re very full of mooncakes, but also very satisfied. feixiao cleans up as you sit back in your chair, and you rest your chin on your palm as you watch her wash up some of the dishes in the sink.

“we should try making our own next year,” you say idly, already thinking about the kind of pastry and filling you’d choose. you’re so briefly lost in your own thoughts that you don’t notice the way her hands pause as they scrub the plates for just a second before continuing.

“next year, huh?” feixiao muses with a chuckle, her voice carrying a certain… weight to it, before she shakes her head and offers you a smile over her shoulder. “that sounds great. looking forward to it, baby.”

you beam back at her, and her heart jitters in her chest like a rabbit’s rather than a fox. “mhm! in the meantime, i can introduce you to some desserts from my homeworld… ah! you have to try sago pudding, it’s so good—“

feixiao listens as you ramble on about all the sweets and desserts you’re going to have her try, and she files each and every suggestion into a little niche in her heart. she may be the lacking general, but here with you, she never lacks for a reason to live—even if just to sit by your side at the dinner table and eat desserts.

[moonsglare]

thinking about mornings w arle mmmmm…….. she used to wake up before dawn, back when she was a harbinger. it was a discipline quite literally beaten into her as a child, her body waking on autopilot an exact half-hour before the sun rose every morning. but now she lets the sun rise fully, then hang in the sky for a while, before she slowly opens her eyes and returns to the waking world.

the first thing she does, of course, is turn to look at you. the tenderness of your sleep-touched expression, the delicate part of your lips as you roam in that blissful land of dreams. archons above, it has to be one of her favourite sights in the world.

yet funnily enough, despite also being from the house under that woman, you’ve always had a tendency to sleep in. she remembers having to roughly shake you awake so your entire dorm doesn’t get punished on your account. and even before her retirement, she’d be the one to rouse you from your sleep, regardless of how guilty she felt. you always looked so peaceful, and she loathed having to see the way the lightness of your expression harden as you wake up and shoulder the weight of both your responsibilities once more.

(she tried, once, to let you sleep in while she got a little headstart in her paperwork. she had slipped out of your arms and your shared bed with a soft kiss to your temple, fixing the sheets and her pillows before she headed to the kitchen to fix herself some coffee. not nearly fifteen minutes later, as she’s adding the milk to her coffee, you stumble into the kitchen, and arlecchino has never seen you so distressed before. her coffee is immediately forgotten as she spreads her arms wide and lets you fall into them, and the thing in her chest that she once thought could no longer feel aches as she listens to the sleep-slurred admission you breathe into her shoulder.

i thought i lost you, you had said, your voice so small and distraught in a way arlecchino never wanted to hear again. in response, she had held you tighter, and abandoned both her work and coffee to lead you back to bed and hold you until the warmth of her embrace burned away any of your fears.

i’m staying, she had whispered against your hair, as you slowly drifted off back to sleep. for as long as stars do shine.)

but now, retired as you both are, late mornings are a luxury you can both indulge in. well, most of the time. and mostly you, as a tiny smile starts to tug at her lips as she hears the tell-tale pitter patter of footsteps down the hall. she braces herself just in time before a tiny figure crashes onto her body in a fit of giggles. arlecchino lets out a faux groan as her daughter clambers all over her, a small mess of limbs, but catches the little girl just in time with a single arm before she can topple onto you and jolt you out of your sleep.

“let’s not wake your mother, hm?” she hums as she tucks the child against her, resting her chin on the her small head, feeling her chest warm at the sound of that childlike, delighted laughter. and when her daughter looks at her, it’s with your eyes, and it’s like she’s seeing all the reasons she fell in love with you all over again.

and for all her former discipline, if the universe asked her if she would like to stay here in this moment forever, the only answer she could ever give is yes.

[moonsglare]

maybe hot take but i do think it’s entirely possible to romance arlecchino even if you didn’t know her before clervie died, it’ll just take a really, really long time. the slow burn of the century, even. obviously there are things you have to be, like an ally to the house and a fatui member, but beyond that it’s really just a waiting game. it’s the progression from colleague to ally to trusted confidant before she would consider even looking at you platonically. and then maybe years of being just friends, at least to her, before she realises that maybe what she feels for you at this point goes beyond the bounds of friendship.

of course, when she realises this, she vanishes off the face of teyvat for a good month or so to go on a nice emotional crisis bender. maybe she even deploys you to some other corner of the continent to very pointedly avoid your presence because uh oh, feelings, and she has 0 clue what to do. sucks to be her, though, because she is also very pointedly miserable without your company. not in super obvious way—it’s arlecchino—but her kids and subordinates will notice that she’s slightly… off. always looking to her side where you’re supposed to be, but aren’t. it takes her a while and maybe a trip to that old broken arena, looking out at the vast sea before she finally reconciles her feelings with herself.

she loves you. not the same way she loved clervie, never the same way—but she loves you.

when she calls you back to her side she most certainly does not breathe a word of this to you. and it’ll take her even more time to do that step, carefully assessing your every action and reaction. she asks the children about you more, and they share knowing glances. your likes, dislikes. hobbies and even guilty pleasures. she almost unconsciously starts to court you, but plays it off as fortunate coincidences.

the director of this new play at the epiclese happened to give me two tickets for free. care to join me?

there’s a new item on the menu at hotel debord. i intend to try it; i believe some of the children may enjoy such things. however, a second opinion would also be valuable. shall we?

(the fact that the play is a romance one and the menu item is a couples’ special is a fact she conveniently avoids bringing up.)

i imagine she’d confess eventually in a surprisingly casual way. maybe you’re both standing on the shore, watching the sunset. the both of you talk about unimportant things, but it’s only with you that arlecchino wants to indulge in these unimportant things, if only to hear the sound of your voice. she’d say the words under the light of the pale moon, always having been more comfortable under the silver light than that of the sun’s. she won’t say the words outright, no i-love-yous, but something just enough.

you are valuable to me, she’ll say, watching the waves roll, as if simply stating another unimportant thing. but her body betrays her, the subtle tense of her shoulders and the way her fingers twitch by her sides. you are not expendable.

it’s fine, though, because you’ve known her long enough to know what she means. and when she finally kisses you for the first time it’s with the slightest hint of hesitance and uncertainty, but there is a sincerity in her that you could not deny if you tried. that night you walk back to the house with your arm looped in hers, and as she watches you watch the world she thinks she could never go back to the one she had before you.

[moonsglare]

feixiao has known since she was first freed from her shackles by that verdant general that her life would end on the path of the hunt, either by her enemy’s claws, or her own. she has known, ever since she felled the first wolf-beast with her blade, that there would only be one way her story would end. could end. and that’s with her weapon in hand, on a vast battlefield as she chases the abominations of abudance across the galaxy like the reignbow’s own lux arrow wrapped in mortal skin, flesh and bone.

feixiao has known, always, that she will die for the hunt. after all, what is a hunter without it?

but when you hold her in the night, warm palms cupping her pale face and thumbs brushing over the arch of her cheekbones, your voice so achingly soft and frail and pleading, something in her shifts. her resolve does not falter—a loosed arrow can never be stopped until it hits its target—but she relents, in a way. lingers in the sanctuary of your embrace for a second longer, lets her coat hang in your closet a day longer, lies in bed with you a day, a month, a year longer. she is stil flying, still an arrow in the sky, but she finds herself slowing down and watching the way the stars in your eyes pass by. it’s… nice.

feixiao has known, always, that she will die for the hunt.

and while that remains true, she has learned, now, that for whatever number of years she has left, she will live for you.

[moonsglare]

the people of the springs are well known for their parties. they last from dusk until dawn, the pools of warm, healing water echoing with the sounds of music and merriment. humans and koholosaurs alike participate in the festivities, and for a moment, the thought of conflict is the furthest from anyone’s minds. even more so now, with the end of the war, to the point where the people of the springs—or more specifically, mualani—are comfortable enough with sending an invite to the speaker’s chamber.

you recieve the letter from one of the staff members that same afternoon, skimming through it as you head back to the bedroom. your eyes rove over the swirly text written in mualani’s easy hand, rather engrossed in her promises of freshly prepared metzli snacks to notice mavuika coming out of the shower, hair damp and sticking to her shoulders, which happen to be painted with an assortment of hickeys and lovebites.

“whatcha got there?” she asks, head tilted in curiousity. you hum, looking up from the invite, and hand it off to her to read. sunburst eyes pass over the invite for a few seconds before she nods. “sounds fun. do you wanna go?”

“we’d have to bring swimwear,” you point out, and mavuika shrugs.

“fine by me. unless you’re not comfortable? if so, we don’t have to go.”

you shake your head. it’s not about that, but if mavuika is certain, then you don’t see the harm. “no, no, i’m alright. just thought i’d ask.”

your archon lover hums, running a hand over her wet hair until it begins to glow, and you see the water evaporating from the flame-bright strands like she’s some sort of human-shaped kettle. it’s always an amusing sight—especially that little lick of hair that always stubbornly sticks up, despite her best efforts to keep it down. it’s almost unbearably cute. once her hair is dry, she’s zipping into her bodysuit, and then with a kiss on your lips she’s out the door.

“be ready by the evening,” she calls, mounting flamestrider with a grin you can tell is on her face by the way her eyes crinkle through her helmet, “i’ll pick you up.” she’s gone in the roar of an engine, and you watch fondly as her figure gets smaller and smaller in the distance. you know she’ll always come back, after all.

the hours pass by faster than you thought, and soon enough, you’re waiting outside the arena for your ride. the little knapsack on your back contains both you and mavuika’s swimwear, and tucked beneath your arm is a helmet just like mavuika’s. when she arrives she greets you with a quick kiss, her own helmet pushed up just far enough, before urging you onto the back and asking you to hold on. you do, arms wrapping around her slim waist, and then you’re both ripping down the path to the people of the springs.

the party has just started when you both arrive. mualani, already in the water, excitedly waves you both over. a cursory glance around shows a surprising turnout—somehow, the hydro user had managed to wrangle xilonen, chasca and kinich to join in on the fun this time. all of them give polite—and lazy, in the case of xilonen—nods to you and mavuika. you slip your bag off your shoulders and rummage around for your swimwear.

“let’s change and join them in the water,” you suggest, and mavuika complies with an easy smile, a hand resting on the small of your back as she guides you both to the changing rooms. they’re rather small, with a capacity of one per stall, so mavuika takes her swimwear and head to another stall while you take a separate one.

mavuika’s bodysuit peels off easily enough, perhaps thanks to the many open panels. she’s done in a few minutes, while you’re still busy changing. the marks from earlier this morning are still present on her skin, but it’s a little party between friends; nothing too scandalous. after all, it’s not as if natlan doesn’t know about their archon and her lover.

mavuika steps out of the changing room and is immediately greeted by a whistle from xilonen. the blacksmith is submerged up to her chin, no doubt indulging in the pleasant warmth of the spring. her eyes like emeralds twinkle with amusement as she takes in the absolute state of mavuika’s shoulders and neck.

“you two sure know how to have fun, huh?” the feline woman teases, and mavuika rolls her eyes as she sinks into the water next to her. “keeping the missus happy like it’s your day job.”

well, mavuika wants to say, but before she can, you emerge from the changing room, and everyone takes a moment to stare. if mavuika looked marked up, well—you look like you’ve been mauled. ajaw, who somehow managed to escape timeout, shrieks as you lower yourself into the water from the stepladder, the clawed state of your back on full display.

“what the hell?” the little dragon yells, his voice shrill, “did you wrestle a tepetlisaur or something? or a bear?”

chasca snorts from her perch on the rim of the spring, idly swaying her legs in the water. “‘keeping the missus happy’?” she echoes xilonen’s words, “more like our archon is the one being kept happy.”

“we should thank you for your service, then,” kinich quips dryly to you, flicking ajaw away into oblivion as he does so. you chuckle good naturedly, settling in next to mavuika, who, to her credit, hasn’t yet combusted into flames in embarrassment. a chorus of quiet laughter rumbles around the pool, before mualani returns with saurian crackers and drinks and everything is soon forgotten.

“this is why i pointed out the swimwear,” you giggle, leaning against mavuika’s shoulder as you nibble on a saurian cracker.

mavuika sighs, but a wry smile pulls at her lips. “yes, i’m starting to see that now.”

and yet, she can’t bring it in herself to find any regret for coming. because here, with you, and surrounded by friends—this is where she should be, where she wants to be. it has been so many years since she could take a well-deserved breath, without the weight of a nation on her shoulders. and she’d choose to be here with you over and over—even if that meant natlan finding out their beloved archon was a total bottom.

[moonsglare]

as a member of the cloud knights, feixiao has always had a habit of waking up early. a soldier always has things to do, and it’s best to get a head start before the rest of the world stirs. the artificial sun of the yaoqing sends delicate, rosy trails of light through the window, like a fisherman casting his net—and catching not only her, but you as well, cuddled into her side as you are.

her hand strokes idly up your arm as she lays there for a while, watching you sleep against her. there’s a peaceful look on your face, the kind that makes her just want to stay in this bed next to you forever, or wish that the sun would never rise, so that this moment would last for the rest of her shortened lifespan.

she offers you a smile when you finally stir, her calloused fingers toying with your hair. “mornin’,” she rasps, leaning down to brush her nose against yours. you manage a soft, muffled sound in response, eyes only half-open. your head tilts and your lips brush hers, the most chaste of kisses, and she feels her heart beat like a war drum in her chest.

“morning,” you mumble into her mouth, before resting your head on her shoulder, still teetering on the edge of wakefulness and sleep. a soft ‘love you’ slips from your lips unbidden, almost indecipherable were it not for feixiao’s foxian ears. the rings on her left ear tinkle as it twitches, her expression turning achingly fond as she presses her lips to your temple.

feixiao is known by many titles—the merlin’s claw or the great general, to name a few—but her favoured one has always been the one she gave herself: the lacking general, for she lacks in rivals, regrets and worries. and now, as she looks at you in her arms, relaxed and content, with the morning sunlight kissing your skin, she knows she will never lack for love, either.

[moonsglare]

sara has been poisoned.

you know this because she has been sick longer than any fever lasts for, but more so because you’ve spent nearly the entire past decade of your life studying poisons in sumeru. the anatomy of a poisoning is an old friend of yours; the poison, the poisoned organism, the injury to the cells, and the symptoms and signs—which is usually succeeded by death, although you are not so unskilled to undo the effects of a simple almond-based poison. no, the poison itself is not your concern, hastily and poorly concocted as it is.

no, your concern is the bastard who would dare do such a thing to your wife.

sara shivers as you pat a damp cloth to her forehead. her face is flushed with fever, sweat beading on her neck. her fingers grip and relax the bedding of her futon, eyes squeezed shut as the poison rips through her. you’ve already administered the antidote, but the aftereffects are still something sara must weather alone. it makes your heart ache. you are used to seeing your wife as a pillar of strength, so to see her reduced to quivering frailness brings out a grief in your heart you only experienced once, as your mother lay dying. you lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, squeezing her hand. sara groans, but some of the tension in her expression melts at the gesture.

just then, the door slides open with a soft sound. by the cadence of the footsteps—even, controlled, but with the weight of the house’s master—you know it is your brother, ayato. you do not look at him when you speak, your voice deceptively soft.

“have you discovered the culprit, brother?”

ayato hums behind you. “i have. one kujou kurose, a minor officer from one of the kujou branch families.”

“a fellow member of the kujou?”

“yes. though, he has made his disapproval of takayuki’s adoption of sara clear from the beginning. now that takayuki is out of the picture, i suspect he felt bold enough to make his move and get rid of her as well.”

you snort derisively as you brush some damp hair out of sara’s face. “he would commit treason out of jealousy?”

“the human heart is fickle,” ayato says evenly. “so, what is it you plan to do, sister?”

you tuck the sheets a little tighter around sara, then rise to your feet. you turn, and offer ayato a carefully measured smile—the smile your father taught both you and ayato to wear; the one that brings with it unrest. ayato recognises it innately, and a spark of amusement lights up his usually placid eyes.

“why, invite them to tea, of course.”

-

kujou kurose is a poor actor.

you learn this as you sit across from him at tea, listening to him ramble and rave about just how terrible it is for general kujou to have fallen ill. your hands squeeze your teacup tight enough that the glass might have cracked in your grip. instead, you grit your teeth and patiently endure his incessant blabbering, before insisting he have some tea.

“sakura blend,” you elaborate. “the petals came from the sacred sakura. it is intended to promote good health.”

kujou kurose idly strokes his beard and chuckles. “is that so? then let us drink to general kujou’s continued good health. please, pour some for me.”

you smile—polite as ever—and lean forward to lift the teapot. the collar of your kimono shifts with the action, and you can feel kurose’s eyes linger on the brief flash of your exposed collarbones. a stab of annoyance flickers through you, but you tamp it down. you pour his tea, then return to your seated position. kurose, to his credit, is not so barbaric to forget the etiquette of tea. he sips his tea from his cup slowly, expression smoothing out as the warm, sweet liquid tips down his throat. your smile does not leave your face. when he sets his cup back down, his expression is utterly calm, relaxed.

fool.

your own tea is untouched. you watch him carefully as you speak. “is the tea to your liking, my lord?”

kurose gives you a look. opens his mouth and tries to speak.

he fails.

you cannot stop the sheer delight on your face as you watch the man realise he cannot move at all. his eyes, once arrogant and deceptive, are now filled solely with fear. rage flickers across his expression briefly, but the fear resurges without mercy as he experiences what it is like to have no control over your body. as he remains stone-still in paralyzed fear, you raise your own cup to your lips and take a sip. the tea is warm and sweet—but to your seasoned palette of poisons, the subtle bitter hints of paralytic are obvious.

not that it bothers you. you’ve been ingesting your own poisons (in controlled doses, of course) since your first year at the akademiya to get a leg up on your coursemates in describing and documenting the effects of assorted poisons. suffice to say, you’ve developed a reasonable amount of tolerance to poisons, especially the ones you crafted yourself.

others, like kurose? not so much.

when you set your teacup down, there is nothing in his expression but despair. that dark, vindictive part of you howls with glee at the sight, and you give him your first true smile of the afternoon. when you speak, your voice is low, like a serpent slithering through tall grass.

“did you think i would not know, kurose?” you use his first name casually, as befitting your status both as a kamisato, and the general’s wife. “the walls have ears, kurose, and you have been so very loud.”

his throat bobs. you had given him just enough of a dosage to paralyze most of his muscles, but not enough to freeze the ones in his lungs or heart. at least, not yet.

“i know you poisoned my wife,” you continue, your tone hardly betraying anything. the conversation flows as if you were merely speaking of ther weather. “and i know it is because you are too much of a bitch to face her in honorable combat.”

if kurose could move, he would have flinched. but he can’t, so the best he can manage is a frenzied look of pure panic in his eyes.

“so you resorted to these… pathetic, underhanded methods you know sara would never dream of partaking in. and you thought, like this, you might win. and even if she didn’t die, you could not be implicated because of a lack of evidence, and that sara’s own respect for the law would let you walk free. but i’m afraid your cowardice is only matched by your stupidity,” you spit, unable to contain your vitriol any longer. “because if you think i subscribe to such restrictions, you are sorely mistaken.”

you have been away from inazuma for years, studying in the land of wisdom. and many have forgotten just who you are, but you are a kamisato. they call your sister a heron, sweet and beautiful. they call your brother a fox, cunning and charming. but you? you are nothing so warm-blooded. you are a snake in the grass, coiled in on yourself, fangs filled with venom. and archons help whoever is foolish enough to tread too close to your nest.

“make an attempt on my wife’s life again, kurose, and i will watch the light leave your eyes myself.”

and with that, you stand, forgoing a bow, and leave the trembling man in your living room with a swish of your silk kimono.

-

sara blinks as she looks down at one of her documents. she’s since recovered from her illness, and has resumed her duties as general. currently, she’s going over her backlog of paperwork that accumulated while she was unwell. and one of them is particularly odd—kujou kurose’s resignation letter.

“strange,” she mutters, and you look up from your embroidery to glance at her. you tilt your head in question.

“what is, dearest?”

“uncle kurose resigned,” she says, scanning over the document again. “he said he feels ‘too old’ to keep attending to his role within the clan. he’ll be… taking an extended trip to liyue to recuperate, apparently.”

you only hum at that. “mm, it is not too surprising. he is quite old, no?”

“well…” sara sighs. “he is old, yes, but he is also… tenacious. i didn’t think he’d resign unless he died. so it’s just weird, i suppose.”

you set your embroidery down with a smile, rising to your feet to pad softly over to her side. your brush her bangs away from her forehead and press a soft kiss to her temple. sara makes a tiny, surprised noise, a delicate flush settling on her cheeks as your hand rises to cup her jaw.

“you’re so caring, my dear,” you chuckle. “i’m sure he’s quite fine. it isn’t like he was threatened or anything—he’s still a kujou, after all. who would dare?”

sara sighs again, and leans into your touch. “you’re right.”

“i always am,” you quip, and sara rolls her eyes affectionately. she turns her head and presses a quick kiss to your palm.

“i love you,” she whispers, and your eyes soften. you lower your head to catch her lips in a soft kiss. she tastes like peppermint tea and sugar, the blend you made specifically for her. you breathe your reply against her lips.

“i love you too, my dear.”

[moonsglare]

every day, once a year, yelan takes a day off.

this is written directly into her contract with the tianquan. there are no exceptions, no special arrangements. on this singular day, yelan does not belong to the qixing; on this singular day, her leash and collar are abandoned, and she has free reign to do as she pleases.

what does she do? well, prepare for your anniversary, of course.

she hops out of bed, cleans up, tugs her jacket on and then slips out the door with the clink of her jade bracelet. it’s a clear day, and yelan tilts her head to the sky briefly, letting the golden sunrays warm her face almost like an embrace. you were never really a morning person, but the sun on your skin always suited you. she’d have to drag you out of bed to see it, but it was always well worth your grumbling in the end when you finally cave and offer her a smile which she would then steal with a kiss.

“ugh, yelan—“ you giggled, your hands on her chest gently pushing her back. your bracelet was cool against her skin, and the matching one on her own wrist hummed. she nosed along your jaw, pressing more and more kisses until she reached your neck. playfulness turned into something a little more heated, and her blood sang at the sigh she pulled from your lips. emerald eyes flicked up to you, teasing, challenging, and you managed a wry huff before tangling your fingers in her hair and tugging her back to properly kiss her again. it stung, beautifully, but yelan grinned all the way."

she shakes herself out of the memory, and steps into the busy street. liyue’s morning scene has always been crowded, and she blends into the throng with practiced ease. she follows the flow of the crowd down the wharf until she reaches the shop she’s looking for—a florist, tucked snugly between two other stores on the higher levels of the shopping district.

the owner, a midde-aged woman, looks up from tending to her orchids to smile at her. her eyes crease with familiarity at the sight of yelan as the spy steps into her store, fingers brushing the petals of a few flowers. the woman rounds the counter, and rummages in the storage for a few moments.

“the usual, i take it?” she asks, and yelan nods, leaning against the counter and tapping her fingers over the grainy wood. the shop hasn’t changed much, if at all, since she last came here with you.

you leaned down by a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, lips curving upward into a smile as you breathed in the soft, floral scent. yelan looked curiously over your shoulder, a hand casually resting on your hip. she asked if it was your favorite flower—you nodded, your other hand rising to just as casually cup her face from over your shoulder. “they’re quite pretty, aren’t they?” you hummed, and yelan took a moment to ponder the question. in the end, she said they were nowhere near as pretty as you, and took the light smack you delivered to her shoulder with an easy laugh.

the florist clears her throat, coaxing her out of the memory. yelan recieves the bouquet—white chrysanthemums—with a smile, settling it in the crook of her arm. the woman’s expression is measured, but there’s a slight waver to her tone when she speaks. if yelan really had to name it, it sounds close to… pity.

“yelan—“ she begins, but she only flashes the woman a signature grin, before slipping out the door as quickly as she came. she has other things to get, after all, and the clock is always ticking.

(or maybe her clock stopped ticking a long time ago and all this is just extra. maybe it cracked when the rocks fell and the earth buried—)

she dissolves back into the crowd as she heads to her next destination: wanmin restaurant. she can smell the chili in the air as she makes her way down the street again, a sharpness only wanmin seems to be able to make. when she gets there, xiangling is boisterously calling out orders while her father toils away in the kitchen, with guoba tirelessly maintaining the roaring fire for his wok. when she sees her, xiangling’s grin only widens, and she waves her over enthusiastically.

“miss yelan! welcome, welcome,” the young chef says cheerily. “here for another batch of dried chillies?”

yelan chuckles, shaking her head. “no, not this time. i’m here for a few rice buns. with a sweet filling, preferably.”

“ooh,” xiangling coos, nodding. “are you planning to go on an expedition? rice buns are both portable and satiating.”

“you could say that,” yelan says vaguely. the little chef is right, in a way, since she’ll have to hike a little to get to your spot—but really, it’s because rice buns have always been a comfort food of sorts for you.

“how can you not like them?” you asked defensively as you trudged along with her behind the group. there was a slight smear of filling on the corner of your lip, and your expression scrunched up a little more as she wiped it off. her jade bracelet was cool against your heated cheeks. yelan only shook her head, teasingly remarking that spice was a much greater wake-up call than sweets. you huffed at that, taking another bite of your rice bun. “not all of us are masochists, lan’er,” you grumbled, and yelan laughed softly. her nimble fingers encircled your wrist, tugging you closer so she could take a quick bite of your bun. it was sweet, sweeter than she’d like, but maybe that was because you were there. and somehow, that made it good.

yelan pulls herself out of yet another memory when xiangling deposits the bag of warm rice buns into her hands. they’re freshly steamed, and the scent of warm buns fill her senses. she thanks the chef, and disappears much the same way she came before the young lady can get even so much as a word in. in the back of her mind, she can almost hear you chastise her for it.

(she always hears you in the back of her mind. if not, where else—)

there’s only one thing left on her list, and it’s incense. it’s late in the morning now, so the crowds have thinned out—and without her cover, yelan takes to back alleys and rooftops instead. she sighs, relieved almost, as she slips into the shimmering, reflective cover of hydro, darting like a minnow between buildings like rocks, barely a blur in the eyes of anyone nearby. the secrecy isn’t strictly necessary for what she’s doing now, but she’s been so used to being unseen that being in the open feels… unsafe.

it doesn’t take her that long to reach wangsheng funeral parlor. the young lady running the parlor isn’t in today—instead, it’s her ‘assistant’, the elegant man shrouded in such thick mystery that neither her nor ningguang has been able to pierce. he greets her with a solemn expression, no doubt because director hu has told him the reason for her visit. “incense?” he asks again anyway to confirm, his voice low and soft. yelan nods absently, her nose stinging slightly from the intense scent permeating the parlor.

she watches as the man disappears into the back of the parlor for a moment, before he reappears with a delicately wrapped packet of incense sticks. she slides a pouch of mora his way, which he takes wordlessly. she tucks the packet into her little pocket dimension, then turns on her heel to leave. just as she exits the door, he calls out to her.

“safe travels.”

she doesn’t deign him with a response.

her feet take her out and away from the city, down the familiar path to the bleeding wound in the earth—the chasm. the land goes from valleys to large, curling momuments of rock, carved by the force of a falling star. she feels that familiar tug in her chest, the voice that calls to her, that tells her to forsake the surface as her ancestor once did. she listened to it, once. and—

“go,” you whispered, pushing her away. half of you was buried under rock, and she could only see one of your eyes; the other was forced shut by the blood that trickled down your face. yelan nearly screamed herself hoarse, but you grabbed her face and kissed her. it tasted like salt, and her heart lurched at the wrongness. your kisses had always been sweet. you slipped your bracelet onto her wrist, then pushed her again, and then the earth heaved and groaned, and it was the last she ever saw of you—

she turns her head and rips herself out of the memory and the temptation; she has other, more important places to be today. she has other days to chase down her demons. she skirts the side of the chasm, slowly ascending to the top. she passes by the memorial to the millelith, and leaves a rice bun and a few sticks of incense as an offering. they too, deserve to be remembered after all.

(she wonders if anyone else comes out here to remember them. she wonders who will come when she’s gone for—)

it takes her a while, but eventually, she reaches the highest point in the chasm. the sun has traveled across the sky by this point, the afternoon heat mellowing out into a slightly cooler evening warmth. the sky is alive with shades of gold when she finally stops, drawing to a halt right before a smooth stone, standing upright from the earth like a silent vigil. she kneels before it, producing three sticks on incense and inserting them into the censer before the stone and lighting them. she sets a rice bun on the plate by the stone, and saves one for herself. the bouquet of white chrysanthemums, she lays on top of the stone.

yelan takes a bite of her rice bun, letting the sweetness settle on her tongue, as the floral scent mixes with the incense, filling her lungs and settling on her shoulders. she tilts her head to the sun, and the warmth feels almost like an embrace. and when she closes her eyes, the wind in her hair feels almost like a caress. when she opens them again, she lets them rest on the stone—the headstone, and she offers it a smile.

sitting on the edge of the cliff, your legs swinging, you smiled at her, nearly blindingly bright like the golden hour. your pinkies were twined together, your shoulders flush with hers. there was a bouquet of white chrysanthemums on your lap, and just a few crumbs on the corner of your lips. your voice carried in the wind when you spoke.

“happy anniversary, yelan.”

“happy anniversary, sweetheart,” she whispers. the wind carries her voice as well, and she hopes you hear it, wherever you are now. one day, she’ll join you, but for now she takes another bite of her rice bun and breathes in the scent of incense and chrysanthemums.