#so its a little bit of everything :3c

[lovelyhan]

Hii!! minghao + "oh really?" / "yes, really." / "lying doesn't suit you, sweetheart." from the prompts enemies to lovers? :D

— rush hour ⟢

pairing: minghao x reader

summary: you used to be good friends with the newest dancer in your agency, but your competitiveness gets the better of you when he overtakes your spot as the top performer of the month—for three straight months.

word count: 6.7k words

tags: enemies to lovers, dancer au? unresolved sexual tension, smut

warnings: promiscuous behavior in public, graphic sexual content (minors dni!!)

notes: this . got really REALLY long :D like long enough to have its own header and everything LOL it probably helps that hao has been clawing his way back into my bias line these days, so the brain rot kinda just spilled out,, anyway, thank you sm for sending this in!! i hope you like it :3c

smut tags: porn with some plot ig, public sex, vaginal fingering, exhibitionism, hao is kinky as fuck, dirty talk, degradation

svt taglist: @wonderfulshinee - @misssugarlips - @yourfavoritefreakyhan - @jeanjacketjesus - @just-here-to-read-01 - @hanihans - @venusrae - @taestrwbrry - @minnie-mouser22 - @dreamhannies - @thvhannie - @kkooongie - @gae-uls - @lenireads - @gaebestie - @ryusha-rose - @enhacolor - @ilyvern - @woo8hao - @spk93 - @tommolex

minghao taglist: @zeenanigans - @renjunphile - @pluviophile-xxx

Saying that you hate Xu Minghao is a bit of an overstatement. 

After all, you were the one assigned to show him the ropes when he was accepted into the agency. While you’re no professional mentor, you like to think he was able to rely on you during those first few weeks. He’s been in Seoul for a better part of two years, and although his Korean can already pass as a native’s, you knew he still struggled every now and again. It’s a good thing that verbal communication isn’t direly needed in your line of work.

Minghao was an excellent dancer—one of the best you’ve seen with your own eyes. You once took pride in having a budding prodigy like him as an understudy. Whatever steps or routines you’d ask him to try out and make his own, not only will he deliver, but he’ll blow your expectations out of the water while he’s at it, too. 

It doesn’t help that he knows his own body well enough to channel each movement with passion that makes him look alluring to everyone who dares to watch any of his performances. Minghao isn’t vain or conceited or anything like that, but he’s completely aware of how attractive he is, and that’s a trait that’s further amplified by his dancing. 

You suppose the funniest part about this senior-junior relationship you have with him is how he always asks for your input about his routines. Even if Minghao has long proved that he doesn’t even need a pseudo-mentor like you, he still takes the time to hear out whatever you have to say—eager eyes always shining every time you indulge him with an answer.

Another thing that inevitably brought the two of you closer is the fact that you both take the same train and get off at the same station. Your apartment is in a different neighborhood from his, but you find comfort in the newfound company you’ve been given since Minghao’s arrival. Though he doesn’t talk much outside discussions about work and other dance-related topics, having someone familiar to sit right next to you on the train is more than enough to quell the day’s fatigue.

Your other colleagues sometimes voice out their envious comments jokingly—saying that you’re extremely lucky to have such a hot guy as constant company. Almost always, you respond with a vigorous shake of your head before insisting that things between you and Minghao aren’t at all like that. Besides, you know better than to nurse a romantic relationship between your colleagues. You wouldn’t even let yourself have a crush on any of them. 

What they don’t know, however, is that on very rare occasions when your body feels just a little too heated, and your sheets a few threads too thick, it’s Minghao that flits into your mind as your hesitant fingers reach between your thighs. 

You touch yourself to the thought of him taking you in one of the dance studios. Specifically, in front of the full-stretch mirrors as he fucks you from behind. You imagine him whispering how good you are for him, how you’re taking his cock so, so well. 

Subverting the mere image of the kind man who constantly seeks your validation for his performance has you creaming on your own fingers within minutes, and if you weren’t such a terrible person, you would’ve felt bad for thinking about him in such an obscene light. 

Then again, what Minghao doesn’t know won’t kill him.

His first month in the agency comes and goes like the changing seasons. Next thing you know, it’s time for monthly evaluations again. 

While others would usually dread these assessments, you looked forward to them. You know that they’re less a measure of talent, and more a measure of hard work. Sure, talent could be one of the main driving factors of getting a high score, but you know better than anyone else that talent is nothing if you don’t work hard enough to cultivate it. 

That’s the kind of mindset that always landed you in the top of the rankings for every monthly evaluation.

And it’s the same mindset that puts you immediately beneath Minghao. 

The agency is always prompt with the release of the results. They’d post the typewritten scores next to the dancers’ names in the bulletin board at the ground floor cafeteria for everyone to see two days after the monthly evaluation.

It was a bit of a challenge to squeeze past the other dancers to get a good look at this month’s results—the crowd being more chatty than usual. Your closer friends insisted that you’d be number one as usual, and that you didn’t have to check at all. 

Part of you wants to believe them, but the unsettling feeling that pools in the pit of your stomach doesn’t let you become complacent. It doesn’t help that everyone around you seems like they’re sneaking glances your way—only to look away when you try to catch their gaze. 

When you finally make it to the front of the board, you notice that Minghao is already there—already dressed to kill for today’s sets and routines. His black hair is still damp like he just got out of the shower and rushed straight to work, eyes glued to the bulletin board. You would’ve let your gaze linger a bit longer on his gorgeous face, had it not been for the surprise that awaits you on that single sheet of paper plastered right in front of you.

1. Xu Minghao — 100 points

Your vision tunnels in, white noise ringing in your ears. 

You could vaguely make out the characters of your name just below Minghao’s, and just a few points from a perfect score. But you didn’t care about that. All you could focus on was the fact that you’ve been kicked out of a spot that’s been yours for as long as you can remember. 

No wonder the others were buzzing amongst themselves, flashing you brief looks before whispering their thoughts on the matter to the nearest willing ear. Not a single soul has ever garnered a hundred fucking points from monthly evaluations. The evaluators cut no corners when it came to assessing their dancers’ level of skill and technique, and seeing how they deigned to give Minghao, a complete newbie, a perfect goddamned score—

“Congratulations, bro!” 

“Minghao, you’re a fucking beast! How long did you even practice?”

“That’s so cool. No one’s ever gotten a perfect hundred before.”

“You’ve gotta tell us the secret, please!”

Like a bunch of bees, the collective of dancers start to crowd Minghao—giving him congratulatory gestures and greetings alike. Your understudy simply gazes at them as if in a daze, but ever-so slowly, a smile cracks through his typically stoic demeanor. 

“Uh, thank you…?”

He’s whisked away to the cafeteria before you can blink, and you can only watch in shocked desolation as they all usher themselves away from the board.

Away from you. 

You don’t miss the way Minghao tries to catch your gaze in the midst of it all, the smile he showcased for everyone to see falling the moment he realized you’re still rooted in place. Yet he doesn’t try to break free from the crowd, nor does he attempt to call your name out loud. 

Not that you have any plans on answering if he did.

It’s only after today’s session has concluded that Minghao manages to pull you to the side for a conversation. You’re already halfway out of the building when he catches you, and you can tell that the sheer euphoria of knowing you came out on top is still humming in his veins. 

It pisses you off.

“Thank you,” he says simply. 

“For what?” You try not to sound too gruff, but the pensiveness in your voice comes out anyway. “Letting you take my spot?”

Minghao’s grin dips into a grimace—mirroring his expression from earlier. “What? I meant to say thank you for showing me the ropes. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have—hey!”

You’re probably being immature. No, you’re definitely being immature. Instead of accepting Minghao’s gratitude like a normal fucking person, you continue brisk-walking to the building’s entrance without letting him finish. Of course, he chases after you, asking if he did anything wrong or if you’re simply in a bad mood or both. 

You don’t answer him even when he continues pestering you on the way to the train station, and he doesn’t stop despite the lack of responses from your end. It’s beginning to get on your nerves, too, because he was never this goddamn pushy during all those times you went home together. What’s stopping him from being the quiet companion he’s always been?

“Can you just shut the fuck up, Hao?” you end up snapping at him when you finally get off at your shared station—earning yourself a bunch of questioning looks from nearby commuters. “You don’t have to fucking rub it in anymore than you have. I already know the results, okay?!”

“Rubbing what in?” he asks, exasperated. “I’m just asking you what’s wrong because you don’t normally act this way. Is it so bad for me to worry about my friend?”

“Friend?” you echo mirthlessly. “No fucking friend of mine takes away what belongs to me.”

This time, when you storm off, Minghao doesn’t follow you.

Fortunately, that all happened on a Friday. It takes you the entire weekend after that heated encounter at the train station to realize that maybe you went a little overboard with what you said to Minghao. 

As you replay your conversation in your head, you’re filled with a crippling sense of embarrassment. The top spot for monthly evaluations belongs only to the best—you know this better than anyone else. The only reason that the evaluators deemed you as a second placer is because Minghao is that proficient in his dancing. 

You’re one of the people who was able to watch him closest. You’ve seen the work he put into practice firsthand. You even called him a prodigy. 

So why did you make a fool out of yourself by having a meltdown at the fact that you got beaten by someone who obviously worked harder than you did?

Hard work beats talent any day. But Minghao has both honed to perfection. 

If you’re going to reclaim your rightful spot on the top, crying about it is the last thing you should do. You’re going to have to put in double the effort to call yourself worthy.

As expected, Minghao has started to distance himself from you after that spat. You don’t blame him. As much as you wanted to apologize for your behavior that night, you wouldn’t want to remain friends with a sore loser if you were in his shoes. 

But as his second month in the agency breezes past, you notice that, not only has he distanced himself, but he’s become somewhat…hostile.

He treats everyone else the same way since he came in—stoically with a few words of affirmation here and there. You, though? It’s almost like he’s forgotten all about the time you were assigned to look after him. There’s always this cockiness lingering in his eyes that grates at your nerves more than you thought it would. He’d throw you haughty glances whenever he catches you flubbing some parts of the choreography from the corner of his eye. 

The worst part is that Minghao is more vocal now compared to when he first came in—not seeing any problem with pointing out how you’re starting to slack off during practice. 

“How are you expecting yourself to take back the crown when you’re already breathless after such a simple routine?” he gloats when he catches you lingering by the water fountain, lips curved into a smirk.

You glare at him while you take a sip from your water bottle. “Fuck you. I’ve been rehearsing all fucking day. Who wouldn’t be tired?”

“People who rank first in monthly evals,” he says boredly. “Oh, but you wouldn’t know about that, now would you? At least, not anymore.”

You’re so fucking close to tearing his face off with your own fingernails that you’re slightly grateful that Minghao gets called back onto the dancefloor to polish his group’s routine. Minghao’s constitution changes in a flash—that arrogant look he reserves for you alone making way for his usual aloof expression while he makes his way back. 

He always looks cool and amicable to others, but when no one’s looking he makes sure you catch the patronizing tilt of his lips whenever he pulls off some high level choreography with zero mistakes. As if to remind you that you’re never going to take back what he stole from you. Not in a million years. 

Okay. Maybe you do hate Xu Minghao. 

You hate him a fucking lot.

…

Minghao proves that the results he reaped from his first month in the agency are no fluke.

For three consecutive months, you’re forced to stand in front of the cafeteria’s bulletin board with his name plastered on the very top. If you hadn’t known better, you would’ve thought that the evaluators were only editing the month indicated on top of the sheet with how stagnant the results always are. 

The agency’s rising star consistently comes out on top with little to no effort, while you’re desperately clawing your way back to glory at second place. 

You didn’t know what the fucking deal was. You worked your ass off twenty four-seven. Even if you weren’t in the studio, you made sure to study all sorts of routines and choreographies so your body would remember the movements deep into your bones. 

But then you remember that even if hard work beats talent, you can never beat a man who has both at his disposal.

You’re at your wits’ end at this point—so close to giving up on the title you thought would always belong to you. Your evasive behavior did you no favors in maintaining a good reputation among your colleagues either. If you listened to their hushed conversations closely enough, you’d catch them saying how pathetic you’re being. Ostracizing yourself all because you’re insecure that your understudy became your adversary. 

The only reason you hate what they’re saying about you behind your back is because all of it is true.

Your usual group of friends doesn’t sit with you at your usual table at the cafeteria anymore, but you don’t really mind that—learning this late into your career that silence can be more beneficial than it seems. But every time you see Minghao laughing at a joke told by one of your colleagues, you can’t help but feel that familiar bite of resentment you’ve come to associate with everything he does.

If only he didn’t overtake you during his first goddamn month here. If only he wasn’t the one assigned to be your understudy. Maybe the blow to your pride wouldn’t have been this bad. Maybe you wouldn’t be licking your wounds in your loneliness. 

Maybe you wouldn’t have lost a friend you actually liked having around.

…

With an upcoming dance competition, it’s no surprise that the dancers at your agency often stay behind to polish their performances to perfection. Usually, practices would adjourn hours before the sun even sets, but these days, you find yourself exiting the building no earlier than nine PM. 

The excessive practice time has been taking a toll on you—this much you know. Your muscles have been sore for days, and no amount of painkillers and Salonpas can easily cure your affliction right away. So for tonight, you decide to take it easy—packing up once the clock hits six o’clock. The last thing you want is to accidentally pull something you shouldn’t, thus rendering your participation in the competition null and void.

But as you walk towards the train station, you realize that perhaps staying later was a smarter move after all. All around you, commuters of all ages and walks of life brush past you in their haste—the need to arrive home as soon as possible like a cloud on everybody’s heads. The closer you got to the station, the more it dawned on you.

It’s fucking rush hour.

You’ve always avoided going home during this time for two reasons. The first is the influx of commuters that’s literally and figuratively too suffocating to deal with, especially when your physical constitution isn’t in the best shape. 

The second is…because you noticed that, ever since your platonic breakup, Minghao has started leaving the studio at this hour. Later than your previous commutes home, but earlier than your new work-yourself-to-the-bone schedule. Sure, he’s still the biggest fucking prick to walk the earth whenever he feels like taunting you during practice, but he doesn’t seem interested in working overtime. 

If you’re being completely honest, you’re over the monthly evaluation results. Honest! You’ve just come to accept that nothing is ever set in stone.

Things change all the time. Humans used to believe the earth was flat. The Athenians once thought of Plato’s bullshit as the gospel truth, and—

You dared to assume you’ll be on top of the world forever.

What happened months ago was a reality check, and slowly but surely, you’re relearning the difference between ambitious and obnoxious. It’s a humbling experience that you’re honestly grateful for happening because…if it weren’t for that harsh reminder that there’ll always be someone out there who’s better than you, then you wouldn’t strive to improve at all.

You let out a quaint sigh when you settle into the train. As expected, tonight’s commuters have filled it out to complete capacity, and you wouldn’t have caught the last available space near the doors if you hadn't sprinted like a madman. Though your aching muscles practically scream in complaint, you comfort yourself with the promise of a long soak in your bathtub the moment you get home.

The smooth tone of the announcer’s voice rings from the overhead speakers, telling all passengers to step away from the doors, as the train is about to leave. Not that any of you can help it. You’re all packed like sardines in what’s usually a pretty spacious train car if you came in just an hour earlier or later. 

All of a sudden, you find yourself missing those days where you’d sit on the side where you could see the sunset breezing past the windows—listening to the stories of someone you can’t even hold a civilized conversation with anymore. But before that train of thought can progress any further, you shake your head as if the mere gesture alone can dispel your longing.

You try to press yourself back to avoid getting crushed by the automatic doors, muttering a quiet apology to the person behind you since you ended up subsequently squeezing him further into the crowd of cramped passengers. When the doors finally close, you hear him say a quick it’s okay, back at you, you’re forced to whip around in the limited space with your mouth agape.

Right behind you is Xu Minghao, looking just as distressed as you are.

He’s changed out of his usual practice clothes—having exchanged it for an oversized crewneck and sweats. His expensive headphones hang unused around his neck, and you wonder if you wouldn’t have noticed each other if only he was blasting music directly into his ears…

The urge to take back your courteous apology is strong, but you would much rather not give him any more of your energy than you already have. You’d take all his insults and badmouthing head-on in the studio, but it’s been a really long day, and you don’t have enough fire going to extend his hostility inside a crowded train in the middle of rush hour. 

“Why’re you out so early?”

You can feel gooseflesh prickle the skin of your shoulders when you feel Minghao’s breath next to your ear. A glare settles between your eyes as you jolt away from him in the limited space that affords you to do so. 

“Watch it, asshole. You’re way too close for comfort,” you hiss. “And the time I go home is none of your business.”

Minghao shrugs. “I dunno, you always stay late to practice. Is it so bad to be curious?”

“Yeah, because if it hasn’t occurred to you yet, I actually hate your guts, and I don’t appreciate you talking to me like we’re friends.”

He falls silent for a moment, and in the next moment the train lurches into motion—nearly catching you off balance. You’re quick to brace a hand against the door, but you startle again when you feel a large hand around your arm, touching you in a way that’s meant to steady. You spare Minghao another glance, but there’s less vitriol laced in your gaze and more confusion.

“Are we…” he whispers, gaze shied away from yours as he maintains a steady grip on your arm. Then, he gulps. “Are we not friends anymore?”

Again, you scowl. 

Is he being real with you right now?

“Dude, I am completely over the monthly evaluations if you think that’s the reason I’m being the way I am with you,” you hiss. “I was going to apologize after I said all that hurtful stuff in the past. But then you went ahead and started writing your very own villain arc. So, ask yourself: were you even my friend at all, Hao?”

The sound of that nickname making its way past your lips is familiar yet foreign at the same time. During these past few months, you’ve never once called Minghao anything else but asshole, dick, jerk, self-centered punk, and other variations of those words. You don’t want to admit it, but calling him by something that’s close to an endearment makes you feel like there’s cotton sticking to the roof of your mouth. 

Minghao doesn’t respond yet again, and you force yourself to face forward—leaning your head against the glass of the door so you wouldn’t have to look back at him anymore. You’re pretty sure the salaryman right next to you has been eavesdropping on your conversation this entire time, but it’s not like he has any other choice given the circumstances. 

You let the constant whir of the train engine lull you into a calmer disposition, heartbeat finally equalizing after everything you just shot at Minghao. That’s probably the most you’ve said to him all month, and to say that you’re not the least bit embarrassed about how you admitted wanting to apologize for a past transgression is a blatant lie. 

But what’s done is done. You’re just going to have to accept the fact that the man you once thought of as a good friend; the same man who’s now the main antagonist of your life and career, is standing behind you in your rush hour commute. Just twenty minutes more, and he’ll be out of your hair soon. 

Much to your delight, Minghao keeps his mouth shut until the train pulls over at the next station. The doors open with a mechanical ding, accompanied by the announcer's voice yet again. You’ve heard the monologue thousands of times, but you don’t quite hear it over the throng of passengers rushing to get off the train. 

You make way for them by scooting towards the back of the car, and Minghao does the same. But instead of shuffling away from you the moment there’s more room to move around like you thought he would, he lingers closely to your form. 

However, the amount of people that got off on this station is quickly replenished by a new horde of passengers—quickly filling in the space you thought would last for at least a few more stations. Once again, you find yourself slowly being squeezed closer to the corner of the car, but for some reason, Minghao wedges himself between you and the unassuming college boy whose wireless earphones are plugged in as he scrolls through his phone. 

When you realize what he’s trying to do, you say, “You don’t have to protect me or anything. I’m fine on my own.”

Minghao rolls his eyes. “You obviously didn’t see how you looked like you’re about to get crushed. Just thank me and we’re good.”

A biting retort is already resting on your tongue with how passive-aggressive that response of his sounds like. What the hell is his problem? It’s not like you asked for him to shield you from the other passengers. 

And yet…

“Thanks, I guess.”

You watch him visibly stiffen at your words, and you feel your heart slamming into your ribcage the moment you utter them. Did you really just thank the same man who’s been making your life at work a living hell for months?

The train starts to pick up speed again before you can answer that yourself.

You practically glare at the corner you’ve been forced into the entire trip to the next station. Minghao is right behind you, but you can’t be assed to worry about that when you’re chewing your lip out of frustration. Part of you feels relieved that you swallowed your pride and thanked him, but the part that’s been receiving the brunt of his antagonism for the past half year hisses in disagreement.

He’s an asshole. He’s a self-centered prick that uses people as stepping stones. He’s—

“...Sorry.”

You refuse to turn around. You refuse to believe that he’s actually—

“I’m sorry for being a jerk to you,” Minghao murmurs, and you feel his fingers graze your shoulder as if to emphasize the words with the sincerity of his touch. “I just… I didn’t know how to act when you lashed out at me back then. Y-You were my only friend, and I thought you’d be proud that I achieved something after working so hard for an entire month.”

You’re at a loss for words, completely stunned by the honesty in his voice. You’ve only known Minghao for a short while—been on good terms with him for even shorter—but you can always tell whenever he’s lying. 

This is not one of those times.

“A…friend of mine told me that I tend to act based on how I’m treated,” he continues. “I know that doesn’t excuse how I’ve been acting around you for so long, but… I guess when I got the hint that you hated me, the only way I could cope with that is to hate you right back. Even if I really didn’t.”

No. This isn't real. You’re dreaming. This is probably a side-effect from all those late hours you’ve spent in the studio—

You let out a soft squeak when you feel him rest his forehead against the back of your head, sighing so deeply, it makes you wonder how long he’s been thinking about apologizing properly. Minghao grips your arms again, not to help maintain your balance, but more to anchor himself onto his own. 

“I don’t care if everyone else in the studio looks at me like I’m some sort of god on the dancefloor,” he admits, voice so quiet, you could barely hear him. “The only person I’d want to look at me is you.” 

Your breath hitches, and you’re sure he hears it. 

“Can we please go back to normal again?” Minghao pleads. “I miss hearing your comments about my dances. I miss going home together.

“I miss you.”

The sincerity in his voice singes through you like a red-hot iron poker. You don’t know what to say, what to feel. All you can focus on is the stuttering breaths Minghao takes from behind you. 

If you’ve ever imagined reconciling with him, this certainly isn’t the most optimal venue. But now that he’s bared his defenses, you don’t see any benefit to keeping up your own.

“I’m…sorry and I missed you, too,” you admit somewhat sheepishly, thanking the higher deities up there that he can’t see the way your blood rushes to your cheeks. “But I don’t really know how to—”

Your sentence is cut off mid-way when the train abruptly runs into a bump on the tracks, forcing Minghao’s body against yours when he momentarily loses his footing. It’s an accident, and you wouldn’t have minded since some turbulence in this part of the city isn't rare at all. But that split second where Minghao got thrown against you from the impact made you all too cognizant of how thin the material of both your skirt and his sweatpants are.

“Sorry, sorry,” Minghao sighs before bracing an arm towards one of the walls to your left. The rustle of his clothes gives rise to the scent of his cologne wafting to your nostrils—a fresh, not-too-musky aroma that makes your head spin despite.

Just your luck, the train pitches to the side and you feel Minghao’s groin brush against your ass once again. This time, you’re not strong enough to hold down the soft whimper that tumbles out of your lips, and you don’t even feel ashamed about it.

Suddenly, you remember a time from back then where you’d spend your nights getting off to the same man who’s unknowingly sparking your arousal in the unlikeliest of places. You’ve once fucked yourself to the thought of him, so what’s the use with getting embarrassed now? As long as he doesn’t know, you should be fine.

Except Minghao isn’t deaf, and he definitely picked up on that suggestive little noise you just made.

Experimentally, he lets one of his hands dip lower and lower until his fingertips brush the hem of your skirt. That sinfully short skirt that keeps riding up your thighs every time you do a rather bold move during practice. His eyes are completely trained on you even if you’re still facing the corner, and when he feels you shiver, all the blood in his system rushes down south.

“You’re into this?” Minghao chuckles, bracing his hands on your hips before sliding his growing arousal against the ridge of your ass. “My… I didn’t think mending our friendship again would go this swimmingly. How about I take you out to dinner first?”

“Hao!” you chastise him with a poisonous look, but from the way you subtly rock your hips in time with his movements, Minghao can tell that dinner is the last thing on your mind right now.

He chuckles softly, keeping one hand steady on your hip while the other dips beneath your skirt again. When his fingers immediately press down against the gusset of your underwear, Minghao has to bite down a groan because of the wet patch that’s already accumulated at the center. 

“Not only did you ditch your shorts, but you’re already this wet? From a little grinding?” he hisses into your ear. “Needy fucking slut.”

You can’t help the way your pussy clenches at the harsh name he just called you. It’s all so strange. You never once reacted this way whenever he called you a bitch or anything similar, but you suppose when you’ve made amends with a friend you’ve secretly been wanting to fuck since you first laid your eyes on him, there’s no use keeping up any charades.

“Your hatred was all just an act, isn’t it?” he laughs, nudging your underwear to the side so he can get a feel of just how wet you areas you spread your legs to accommodate him. “Do you rile me up on purpose because you can’t deal with the fact that you actually want me?”

"You're delusional," you bite back.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

Another low laugh rumbles in his chest and you swear you don't get wetter with each hum of it as he presses closer to your ear. "Lying doesn't suit you, sweetheart."

You’re about to answer him when the announcer’s voice rings from the speakers yet again, saying that the next station is approximately five minutes away. This promptly rips you out of your lustful haze as you realize you’re very much still in public, where dozens upon dozens of passengers still share the same car with the both of you. Minghao seems to pick up on your split-second realization, but doesn’t seem fazed by the idea of getting caught doing this in the presence of strangers.

“Lots of passengers are going to get off at the next station, but not a lot are going to get on like the last one,” he whispers before plunging two of his fingers into your sopping cunt without warning. 

You have to physically cover your mouth with your hand to keep yourself from gasping out loud. When you turn to look at Minghao again, eyes ablaze with disbelief, he simply flashes you an evil smile.

“If you want to come on my fingers, do it in five minutes, whore.”

The sensation of his long, slender digits curling inside you forces you to brace yourself against your tiny little corner of that train car. Your skin prickles everywhere as Minghao grinds his half-hard cock against your backside, all while he works between your pussy lips as if he’s thought about it dozens of times before. 

His digits dip in and out of your entrance like he doesn’t know what he wants to do first. Poke and prod at every inch of sensitive flesh there is or fuck you until you’re a moaning mess for everyone to see. Either way, you’re panting all while Minghao maps the expanse of your pussy with his touch alone, and every time those sinful fingers brush against your clit, you jolt in response.

“Shh,” he coos. “Don’t be too obvious, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want the entire train knowing how much of an impatient fucking slut you are—whoring all over my fingers ‘cause you can’t wait to get off the train.”

You involuntarily clench at his filthy words, begrudgingly unearthing a kink you didn’t even know you had. But at the mere mention of the other passengers, you let your eyes frantically pass over those nearby. You don’t know if they’re really preoccupied on their phones or pretending not to notice the act of indecency that’s happening right beneath their noses. The college boy that almost crushed you earlier is still banging his head to whatever song is playing on his phone, and you take that as a sign to let yourself go.

“Now that won’t do,” Minghao tuts before sliding his fingers back inside you, nudging your thighs even further apart before curling his digits just so. “How can you come in five minutes if you’re so distracted?”

“F-Fuck,” you whine as quietly as you can. “Hao, f-feels so good.”

“Yeah?” he laughs softly and your vision goes black for a moment when you feel his thumb graze your clit with just the right pressure. Just how dextrous can he be? “Then focus on my fingers, sweetheart. If you can’t come before the train arrives at the next station, maybe I’ll just go back to hating you tomorrow after all.”

You nearly choke on a moan when he starts to rub your sensitive nub in varying pressures and speeds, nearly robbing you of your ability to speak. “You’re a f-fucking asshole, you know that?”

“You’re a fucking bitch, but see where that got you now?”

It’s almost like you’re hard-wired to rebut everything he says, and you have all those months of shared antagonism to thank for it. But when Minghao crooks his fingers at a slightly different angle, your already sore legs nearly give out when his fingers hit you deep enough to make stars dance in the seams of your vision.

“Oh?” He sounds so smug, you actually want to hit him. “There it is.”

You can hardly believe it. You can barely find your own g-spot even on good days if you don’t put your back into using your toys right, yet Minghao got it in less than five minutes, inside a train full of passengers, no less?

Your brain has all but fizzled out when the pads of his fingers start to massage that sweet, sweet spot inside of you again—milking your body for all those lovely reactions you’re so willing to give to him. Minghao’s cock is an ever-present weight against your ass, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you, and how badly he wants to feel you come apart on his fingers right here, right now.

“You liked being fingered on the train, sweetheart?” Minghao rasps into your ear, relentless in his movements as tears start to line your lashes. “Like it when you supposedly hate the man that’s doing this to you? That’s made you this fucking wet?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’d let him stick his dick into you right now if he wanted, but you know that Minghao isn’t going to risk that just yet. So instead, you focus on the sensation of those skillful fingers—the same ones you’ve dreamt about a long time ago—coaxing out a high you never thought you’d achieve outside the four corners of your bedroom. 

You can think about his stroke game later. Those powerful thighs as he thrusts into you. Not to mention how euphoric it would feel to come around his cock, milking him for that white-hot release until it dribbles down your thighs and he inevitably fucks it all back into you—

The stimulation of Minghao’s dexterous digits coupled with the thrill of being caught are the main players for today’s debauchery, but it’s that particular fantasy that pushes you over the edge. 

One moment, you feel like you’re on top of the world again, and the next you can taste blood in your mouth with how hard you bite against your lip to muffle your moans. A gush of slick coats Minghao’s fingers as he helps you ride out of your orgasm, peppering the side of your face with butterfly kisses.

“Pretty little whore, coming in record time,” he chuckles.

You can barely just start taming your breathing when Minghao takes his fingers out of your panties—tugging your skirt down back to semi-decency before prodding those same fingers against your lips. Still dazed from the high he just let you experience, you open your mouth, lathering your tongue against each digit as the tangy taste of you fills your tastebuds. 

“Good fucking girl.”

The train eases into the next station, and just as Minghao predicted, the car frees up just enough for you to get comfortably seated by the windows again. He sits right next to you the whole time—hand never straying from yours as he holds it firmly in his. For some reason, that gesture of his flusters you more than the stunt he just pulled five minutes ago.

When you both get off the vehicle, the awkwardness begins to settle in your system. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to him after all of...that. Is there even a protocol to follow after getting finger-fucked on public transportation?

“Hey.”

You startle when Minghao breathes out while the two of you make your way out of the station. It’s the first time he’s broken the silence since arriving, and your heart pounds in anticipation of what he’s about to say next.

“I really am sorry for all the shit I said to you these past few months,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his head like he’s just as clueless about what to do as you are.

You blink up at him. “Um, yeah. You already told me, Hao.”

“I just figured it was worth repeating.”

“Giving me a mindblowing orgasm is a good enough apology on its own, you know.”

He stops walking for a moment, and you look back at him with brows raised.

“Really now?” he asks, and—there’s that smirk again. That no good smirk. “I don’t think I’ve received a ‘good enough apology’ from you yet, sweetheart.”

One glance at his sweats, and sure enough, the evidence of his own raging arousal is still up for grabs. You feel your pussy tingle at the mere thought of what’s to come once you voice out your agreement, even if your overworked muscles are begging for a break.

Oh, well. Might as well stock up on more painkillers on the way.

⟢ end notes: i really really REALLY went overboard on this one and there isn't even any piv sex in action holy fucking shit LMFAO TT to lovely user yourfavoritefreakyhan, i hope i didn't scare you off with the word count JSHFD I REALLY JUST GOT CARRIED AWAY AHAHS hao has been testing me for DAYS and it manifested in this . anyway, pls don't expect every request from my ask game to turn out this fucking long bc this rly was just a heat of the moment creation AJSDHSJHF

[tiny-brass-bot]

Hi! I saw a post where you had a game made in godot with old school rendering, do you maybe have any tips on how to make godot render a game like that instead of its normal rendering method?

I'd be right happy to!

I'll try to make this concise lol, I always end up overexplaining and then getting lost in the weeds. Buckle up, it's a loooooot of little little things that all add up.

First off, you should decide which look you're going for. N64 and PS1, the two consoles I'm emulating, both had drastically different specs. (plus, there's plenty of other early 3D systems I've not even touched!)

The N64 had texture filtering (textures were interpolated aka "blurry"), it had floating point vertex precision (points moved correctly), it had perspective correction on its textures (no warping)

The PS1 had no texture filtering, no floating point vertex precision (vertices snap and pop around), affine texture mapping (textures warp weird). I also think the color space they operate in is different? Don't quote me

So you can go hard one way or another or pick and choose what you think looks good! We don't have anywhere near the hardware restrictions they did in the 90s so go nuts.

RESOLUTION

To get a low resolution window, I set the window size of the game and the window override size to different amounts

In green is actually how big the window is on my screen (4k monitor) and in red is the retro resolution I want. If you set the stretch mode correctly (an option a little further down the Window tab) then it'll make the pixels big

COLORS

Now the PS1 had the capability of showing you over 16 million different colors, but it could only display 50,000-150,000 at a time, so in order to get more fidelity out of it, the engineers implemented a dithering effect to better blend the otherwise sharp edges between colors.

I used this shader to achieve the dithering effect. If you don't understand shader languages, that's fine. There are a few different pre-built ones for looking like the PlayStation 1 out there.

TEXTURES

Textures for the PS1 could be as big as 256x256, but they were typically 128x128. And they would squish everything a model needed into there usually, at least with like player models and objects and such.

As mentioned, if you're not good with shader language don't worry. There are countless resources out there that people will either let you use or teach you how it works. But I'm gonna touch on it a little bit here.

PS1 textures had no pixel filtering, so you could see individual pixels.

This is what determines that in the shader code. If you want it to look like the N64 (blurry lol), the proper hint is "filter_linear". Note that it won't be 1:1 with N64, cuz they used bilinear filtering (which kinda sucks and causes weird quirks) whereas now you'll only find linear or trilinear filtering. It's a negligible difference imo.

PS1 textures also were only saved using 15 bit color. I'm told that Photoshop's "Posterize" filter set to 32 can achieve this, but don't use photoshop if you can help it. I use GIMP, and while a newer version might have a posterize filter, or there may be a plugin out there, my version doesn't so I cluge it a little.

Change your color mode to "indexed", set color dithering to how you like it, and the number of colors in the palette to a number to get a good result. Usually I'll do 16, 8, 32, but occasionally I'll cheat and do a non-multiple-of-8 teehee >:3c

You can change it back to RGB after to make further editing easier.

LIGHTING

N64 and PS1 both implemented vertex lighting, as opposed to the more modern and (now) ubiquitous per-pixel lighting. Godot as it is right now (4.2 i think?) claims it has vertex lighting that you can set as a shader property but they're lying and it doesn't work yet.

The old consoles could only handle like, 2 lights though so it doesn't matter much.

The real star of the show, and in my opinion the one thing that makes a game most look like the 90s is the inclusion of vertex colors.

By multiplying the color of your texture by its stored vertex color, you can do all the shading yourself!

Plus you can reuse textures like crazy just by coloring them differently. The N64 also made heavy use of vertex colors by forgoing a texture on models entirely and just painting them using verticies. The only textures on SM64 Mario are his eyes, stache, hat emblem, buttons, and sideburns. Everything else is done with vertex colors.

Here you can see this level from my Crock Land with no vertex coloring, with some of the vertex colors only, and then with the two combined.

Rare loved this. Look at how colorful that cliffside is in Jungle Japes. It makes it so much more interesting than just a brown cliff face. Plus you can see the vertex coloration instead of textures at work on DK and the Gnawty.

My go-to example for PS1 is always Spyro, what a gorgeous game. All of those colors there are not made by a light or an environment. They're hand painted babey! Also! With spyro! The skyboxes are actually just huge domes made up of vertices that are colored in different ways! That's how they can look so colorful and "hi-res".

There's plenty more you can do, like adding a CRT filter or a little bit of chromatic aberration which I haven't gotten into yet.

The way I've learned all this is just by being curious as to how the old consoles did their thing, and slowly accruing the knowledge over time. There's still infinite stuff I don't know too.

I hope that helped! And wasn't too longwinded or confusing! Like I said, it's all about piling up tons and tons of little things, small details, weird graphical quirks that really bring out the retro 3D feel for me.

And I didn't even get into the modeling side of things! That's an entirely different "color-of-the-sky"-sized post though.

I'd be happy to re-explain or explain more about any of this!

[realfakedokja]

i uploaded a short-version of this to twitter yesterday but i had brain worms for a new ivantill AU... how are we feelin chat??? should i write it??

post-round 6, canon divergent

till is rescued by hyuna and co. but is devastated by the mixture of grief and regret (gradually turning into self-loathing) and even though he’s free he seems even less happy than before—freedom, huh? at what cost…

ivan is dead but…  exact details as for why/how omitted for spoilers] but basically ivan’s consciousness, memories, everything gets transferred into… just a little guy?? friend-shaped baby alien Segyein. pet-cat-like little thing. 100% certified creature

the first thing ivan does when he starts to adapt to his new situation is find till and make sure he’s okay, bc that. that guy is his whole universe. … he’s been reborn? is it even worth it to live again he’s not by till’s side?? so ivan undergoes a mini STRAY-video game style adventure of trying to find till

ivan is so happy when he finds till, tries to pounce on him right away and grabs his pant legs. till 100% rejects this fucking weird thing bc its an Segyein?? obviously he hates them all, now more than ever after round 6.

(after a bit of time passes) till’s perspective starts to change little by little due to the little guy’s persistence… its stubborn behavior/pathetic begging face/one ‘snaggletoe’ reminds him of ivan so much… 

“it” (AKA ivan) falls asleep on the ledge outside till’s window, cold wind and rain making him extra pathetic… he’s shivering but doesn’t leave no matter how much till ignores him :( ivan is just a clingy baby…    what if i cried actually till sighs under his breath “damn it” and can’t stand something so pitiful so he begrudgingly lets it in. ivan is :3c immediately

some of the life starts to come back to till’s world, the stupid little things that it does like trying to get him to go to sleep and eat regular meals—they’re the same things ivan used to do. he can’t help developing a soft spot for “it” and ends up keeping it

drama on the human base when till is found keeping a segyein, they have a 0 tolerance policy for obvious reasons… ivan is just “but im baby T-T”

happy ending fr i PROMISE…. no more spoilers on how tho

[lorelune]

part o - part iii

|| diluc ragnvindr x f! reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort, fluff, post-trauma || wc: 16.2k  || ao3 || masterlist || NEXT →

You return to Mondstadt after many years away, sick, with an feeling that's all-too familiar and unwelcome.

❁ my heart, your song - @firein-thesky ❁

minors & ageless blogs dni

a/n: AH!! here it is :'^) the diluc fic!!!! thank you so much to @itoshisoup for beta reading (along with my non-tumblr pals han & ennis as well!!) this section contains four chapters, separated by partitions. if you'd prefer to read this fic with the chapters/parts separated, it will be posted as such on ao3!

this fic is a collab with the lovely cielo (@firein-thesky)!! our fics share a mostly canon compliant universe :3c give it a read!! it's linked above!!!

...

tags: alcohol use, descriptions of vomiting, reader with chronic injury, reader is referred to as 'little sister' by kaeya (not related), unreliable narrator/reader, soggy soggy SOGGY diluc, protective diluc, diluc and reader were childhood friends to lovers, reader is a healer

PART o: kismet

Once, on one of your several trips to Sumeru, you visited the Akademiya. You only went to poke at dusty books and sit in on a few lectures as a wanderer who liked a good story and a bit of learning. There, you met a scholar whose name didn’t stick with you, from the Rtawahist darshan.

They had the far-off look in their eye of someone who had seen a bit too much, for who they were. You knew that some scholars went mad in their pursuit of knowledge. Saw things that they couldn’t cope with even if they tried. Your new friend looked to be close to such a threshold.

Perhaps, in an act of pity, you took this scholar out for a drink. Or two. Or seven. The exact number of cups and goblets escapes you now. But what you do remember, as you sat together on a terrace high above Yazaha pool, legs swinging, was their ramblings. 

“There’s a map of everything, up there.” They gestured wildly to the sky, twinkling and bright, with the moon as company. “Deciphering it... Well. That’s another thing. But it’s there. And if we figure it out, fate will be in our hands to know.”

They continued, stretching their hands to the cosmos above them, as if their fingertips could decipher the orchestration of the Gods with nothing but passion, wine, and will. It was admirable, in your drunken state. Perhaps foolish to your sober mind. 

Nonetheless, such an idea stuck with you. Even after you departed from your bygone friend, and continue your wanderings, you think about it. You laid on your bedroll more than once, staring upward, and wondering—

Why did the gods mosaic the sky? 

You are just a mortal, how are you to know? You tried not to dwell on that specific thought. The one you find yourself coming back to, in your worst nights—

(If I could read the stars, and foresee a tragedy, is there any way for a calamity to be stopped? If you knew fate’s charted course, the crest of its fortune and the wake of its tragedies— could you circumvent them?)

(Could you have stopped your calamity?)

It was a self-deprecating thought, and it dragged you back to a place and time that was both unpleasant and unnecessary to recall. 

There’s no way to change the past, you reminded yourself. You could only move forward. Never back. You only balked at the stars in your weakest moments and pondered such ideas like fate and destiny. You could live in the illusion of carving your own destiny as you traversed Teyvat. One where you wrapped gauze around wounds after the disaster had passed. Heal sullied ground. You could do everything you could to help people. That was enough, you decided early on in your travels. 

You’d help people (and avoid the nation Mondstadt). Simple enough.

One foot in front of the other.

PART i: there’s a puzzle we crafted

You’re tired. 

So tired. 

It’s a merciless type of exhaustion that you rarely, if ever, let yourself slip into. To wander Liyue’s peak and narrow paths in such a condition is dangerous, even if the Millelith and Guild did a decent job keeping settlements of Hilichurls suppressed. In general, you can take down slimes on your own— except when you find yourself this deliriously tired. 

Normally, you don’t even bother traveling in this state. You would drag yourself to the nearest village, throw some mora at a layperson and set up shop wherever they had space. Be that an inn, back room, or stable— you aren’t picky. As long as you could rest for a few days, perhaps help out the village in your spare time. 

Your most recent wanderings, however, took you far onto the Yaoguang Shoals for several days, and by the time you returned to solid, proper earth, you were desperately low on essentials. Your nearest respite was an old village crawling with Hilichurls. Your next best option would be a miniature expedition onto the shores of Dragonspine and hope the cold wouldn’t kill you before you could find shelter and stoke a fire.

So, you keep going.  

All the way past Stonegate and the quarries beyond it. You’re only half-lucid as you wander into Mondstadt for the first time in years. 

You roost in an abandoned cottage some ways down the road. Finally resting for the first time in days. Never mind your still-damp bedroll or the structural unsoundness of the ruin. You practically fall to your knees and pass out, given your state.

(Running has made you tired, hasn’t it?)

When you awaken, you ache. (Familiar). You nibble on the last of your rations and it hits you—

You’re back in Mond, aren’t you?

Archons.

You should leave, really. It’s your first thought when you realize where you are. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not even near the city proper, but a panic unfurls in your chest like you’ve been struck. You immediately begin to pack up your things—

Two things hit you then:

One: You’re far lower on supplies than you had thought. 

This isn’t a new development, however. It’s just far worse than you thought. You paw at the contents of your bag, realizing that the dried zaytun peaches and jerky you had for breakfast were the last of your rations. The weather had been poor across Liyue in the past weeks, and many of the normal markets you would’ve run into were shuttered because of it. Regardless, you didn’t think you were on your last fucking morsels. 

Deep in your bag, all you have is a torn, unusable tarp and a pitiful handful of the crystalline shards you used to purify water. 

You don’t even need to look at your medicine kit to know the paltry state it’s in. Far too many empties. 

Two:  A burning sensation that splits you wide open and threatens to eat you alive. 

You barely twist your foot the wrong way. Hardly at all. Regardless, something like liquid electro shoots from the twisted (broken, mutilated—) parts of your right foot, up your thigh, and shakes you down to your bones. 

You stumble, using the wall for support and keeping your weight off the injury. It shouldn’t be aggravated this early in the day. You shake it off from your ankle, lowering yourself to the dirt floor to massage out any of the tension and subsequent pain that you can. You’ll be able to walk, surely, but it’s getting harder and harder to deny that the old injury isn’t worsening over time. 

You remember, vaguely, hearing tell that there was a skilled healer in Mond once again. Younger, a Vision-bearer in the Church, maybe? 

You know enough about the Church of Favonius that they would at least look at your injury, if this half-remembered healer really does exist and is affiliated with them. 

You hate that Mondstadt seemed like the best option. 

(Later, you’ll realize it’s all a bit like fate, pushing you toward that stupid city.)

You find yourself at a loss, shake your head, and sigh, “... I guess it wouldn’t... really be so bad to visit.”

You’ll just stay for a day or two.

...

Mondstadt’s front gate is so familiar it nearly hurts. The guards have different faces than the ones you remember from your youth. Their demeanor is the same— kind, open, like how people from Mond tend to be. They don’t hound you too much as you pass, and you enter the city without issue. 

Midday sun lights Mondstadt proper when you arrive (your journey from the quarries took a bit longer than necessary, considering your route went wide around a particular plot of land that you refused to go near.)

The city bustles with noise and activity. Merchants line the streets, carts and stalls overflowing. Seafoam banners and floral wreaths hang along the stone arches and walls, while garlands of fresh flowers stretch from building to building. The scent of fresh flowers, baking bread, and sweet wine envelopes you.

Windblume, you remember. It is spring, after all.

You hope the crowds of the festival will help you blend in as you meander through the city. You keep your head down, counting cobblestones and being quick with your purchases. Better to get in and out, probably. If you can snag a new tarp and bedroll, you could set up across the bridge for the night, and be gone by morning if you could track down that healer within the afternoon too. 

As you walk up the main run of Mond proper, toward the fountain and the smell of warm spiced meat, someone, archons, gasps from behind you and says your name.

(Later, you’ll recall this moment. Perhaps kismet turned on its axis for you to still and—)

You freeze, going stiff. You’d know that voice anywhere. Sweet and teasing, curling down your spine in a way that feels both ambiently flirtatious and horribly familiar. 

Part of you screams to ignore her. Let her think she has the wrong person and continue your journey in Mond unimpeded by an old specter. You could be out the gates in a number of hours, if not minutes if you really need to (run, run, run).

But, there’s a temptation. It breathes itself alive, from the back of your mind to the front, entirely unavoidable. 

(How long has it been since you’ve seen a familiar face? One that you know instead of just recognizing?)

You turn slowly. “... Hi, Lisa.”

...

And, somehow, you end up in the Knight’s of Favonius headquarters, with a perfectly warm cup of tea in your hands, nestled in a library you hadn’t been inside for nearly a decade. It smells of old parchment and leather. Steam rises from your cup, fragrant with Sumeru rose and Guili cinnamon stick with black tea leaves. You recall the scholars of the Spantamad darshan favored this blend; you shared more than a cup or two during your visits to the Akademiya. 

Lisa settles in the seat across from you, with a small box of pastries that look sticky and sweet. Your mouth waters. 

“How have you been, dear?” Lisa gives you a soft look. “It’s been so long.”

So long, you add to yourself. Sitting across from Lisa is giving you a gut-twisting sense of deja vu that has your palms sweating.

“I’ve been well,” you say, gently. “Travelling, still.”

“Oh, how exciting.” Lisa smiles and lays her cheek on her palm. “What was your most recent destination?”

You hummed. “I recently went to Natlan’s capital, just for a few months. I ended up staying with a smith who gave me odd jobs in exchange for housing.”

“Oh, wow,” Lisa preens for you. “And before that? I apologize, dear, I’m not caught up with your journeys.”

Ah, the lack of letters.

“I apologize.” You rub your forehead. “I haven’t been writing lately. It’s been... hard to keep track of things, though it’s not an excuse.”

“I would disagree.” She flashes you a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been crisscrossing Teyvat; it makes perfect sense why you would struggle to keep in touch with folks. I’m sure you’ve met plenty of friends on your travels, too. I imagine you have lots to juggle.”

Lisa is partially correct, you suppose.

“You continue to give me so much amnesty— too kind,” you laugh, and lean back in your chair. 

Lisa looks a bit wistful as she puts down her cup in exchange for one of the pastries. You recognize the expression on her. You’ve only seen her wear it once before.

“How long are you staying in Mond?” Lisa asks, nodding down to the box. You leave the treats untouched.

“Not long.” You refuse to look at her as you answer, “Just for the day. I needed some supplies and Mondstadt was the most convenient.”

It’s a clinical answer. One you say intentionally, perfectly, so she can’t poke holes in your logic. You hope, pray, she doesn’t push back on your short visit. Any longer, and you might accidentally run into more faces you don’t wish to see. Lisa was tangentially related to... everything, but she was the least obtrusive person you could have run into. Still, you’re in the lion’s den, in the Ordo’s HQ, for a cup of tea, praying that you can slip in and out undetected outside of Lisa.

(It’s easier like this, you tell yourself. You can’t get twisted up in this place again.)

Lisa examines you, tracing you up and down with her gaze in a way that’s horribly disarming. If it was from anyone else, you’d think they were checking you out, especially with the sweet, upward quirk of her lips. But, this is Lisa, and you had forgotten how astute she is.

“Only a day? That’s a shame.” She sighs, sitting back and stirring the tiny spoon perched in her teacup. “It's Windblume. You should stay.”

“I could,” you muse and give her a sympathetic smile. “But, I don’t think it would be wise. It would be better if I got on my way quickly.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How far back would a few days in Mondstadt put you on your travel plans?” 

‘Plans’. 

You nearly bark out a laugh, but you keep it lodged in your throat. 

“Not terribly far, but I... I don’t want to stay, Lisa.” You reach across the table and squeeze her free hand. “It isn’t good for me to linger here.”

The look she gives you breaks your heart. Her brows wilt, her eyes get a little sadder, and she grips your hand unyieldingly. “... Are you sure, sweetheart? I’m sure the Knights could put together some lodging for you—”

She presses, and you hate the feeling of it. You know her kindness is not misplaced, but it makes you roll around in your skin regardless. Archons. You interrupt her with a tight smile, “Truly, Lisa, I am grateful for the offer, but I will be on my way come tomorrow morning. Perhaps another year.”

“Perhaps.”

You sip your tea in silence for a moment. You stew, barely, not at her specifically but circumstance. It boils just underneath your skin, just as it has been since you entered Mond’s border. Speaking to Lisa has only made the feeling grow and burn. 

You can’t meet her gaze— you can’t. You can feel it on you regardless. You know you’ll see more pity and maybe that familiar bite of anger she wields so well. 

“Why don’t you tell me when and how you got that Vision then?” She nods low, down to your waist. Your dendro Vision hums there, tied to you with a fraying, braided string that desperately needs replacing. 

There isn’t a problem with indulging a bit of... this, is there? You’re only sitting to chat. Drinking some tea. You can hunt for that healer and duck out of Mond’s walls by sundown. Easy. You pluck one of the buttery-looking pastries from the box and plop it on your plate. 

“Sure, but only if I can get a refill on this tea.” You smile and raise your cup.

...

You lose track of time, talking to Lisa. 

You do tell her how you obtained your Vision, and of your subsequent journey through Snezhnaya to its port following your graduation. She tells you some of the new gossip of Ordo Favonius, and that she’s been thinking about picking out a ring to give to Jean (though, she has a hunch the other already has one in mind. Lisa thinks it'll be fun to meddle with whatever precise plan the Acting Grand Master (nice) has in place.)

She continues to pour you tea and push more baked goods onto your plate. You enjoy them, and her company. It’s a rare treat to sit down for so long with nothing more than chatting on your mind. 

“How was studying in Snezhnaya?” Lisa asked, eyeing your various bags. “Cold, I imagine?”

“Very.” You grimace, fishing around in your satchel. “But, worth it.” 

You pull forth a palm-sized metal insignia. You keep it tucked away, most of the time, only flashing the thing when necessary. You only need legitimacy every so often.

“Oh, wow.” Lisa gawks a bit. “May I see?”

You hand it to her. “Be my guest.”

She studies the metal, running her fingertips along the edges where the different colors meet. Vibrant blues meet greens and whites, with pink and purple flowers cast around the bottom edge. The shape resembles something between a shield and wheel, with each one of its seven portions having some meaning for the institution. They escape you now. 

“I’ve heard that the Tselostnyy School is quite the place,” Lisa says. “No one at the Akademiya seemed fond of them, but I imagine it was out of some sort of insecurity.”

You snort. “Probably. Folks at Tselostnyy actually teach healing— not just study the human body for the sake of some academic pursuit. The two schools have opposing goals.”

It was one of the main reasons you declined to apply to the Akademiya at all. 

“I’m glad you found a place to study— I know it was hard, after Teacher passed away.” Lisa reaches out as she speaks, going for your hand. 

You withdrew your own from the tabletop, hiding it in your lap. “It was. But I managed.”

‘Managed.’

Lisa gives you a look that drips pity. She looks as though she’s going to reply, just as the door to enter the library clicks open. 

Your gut drops to the floor and your shoulders stiffen. 

“Lisa? Could you proofread this draft for me? I’m afraid I sound too formal again—” It’s Jean, it’s Jean.

It’s her voice, the distantly familiar click of her hard heels against the wood flooring. You bunch the fabric of your trousers in your fist, forcibly reminding yourself to breathe. Jean walks from behind you, rounds the table, stops at Lisa’s side and looks at you. 

Jean’s eyes widen.

“Oh, sorry sweetheart— I’m a bit busy with a friend right now,” Lisa says easily, oblivious (seemingly, probably not.) She gestures to you and winks. “I can take a look after lunch, if you can take a break with me.” 

Jean says your name— gasping it more or less, tightening her grip on the document in her hands. 

“... Hi, Jean.” You give her a little wave. “How have you been?”

It’s bittersweet, the feeling that curls and grows in your chest as she brightens and pulls up a chair next to Lisa. It’s familiar and rotten, all the same.

...

The commotion in the library brings other visitors.

Lisa wears a smitten smile as other knights make their way into the library. Aramia and Flyn— they look older, long grown out of their adolescence and more into their skin. Hertha has crinkles around her eyes that grow tight when she recognizes who you are. 

The Spark Knight barrels in the room being lazily chased by—

Kaeya.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— 

He scoops up the little knight and turns to the tea table, now surrounded by familiar faces, and you can see he has his lips pursed for some sort of teasing quip. Probably at the expense of the Ordo’s acting Grand Master and Librarian.

Then, Kaeya sees you. 

You watch his jaw snap shut. Whatever clever thing he had to say dies on his tongue and you watch it. It’s a little satisfying after all this time. You’ll cherish this moment, you think. The split second of confusion, the realization, the shock and— the guilt.

He wipes the expression off his face easily, as if it were never there to begin with. But you’ll revel in his discomfort. Your own little revenge, several years too late.

“Oh, wow—” Kaeya whistles, clicking closer and settling Klee on his hip with a bounce. He says your name almost breathlessly. “Little sister, it’s been quite some time. We’ve missed you.”

“Did you?” You tilt your head. “That’s surprising.”

You hold your tongue. You dig your teeth into the sides of it, forcing yourself quiet. The feeling that’s boiling in your chest won’t be extinguished by verbally thrashing Kaeya in the middle of the Knight’s HQ— but, Archons—

It’s tempting.

“‘Sister’?” The little knight’s nose scrunches. “Mister Kaeya, you said you only had Diluc, who’s only kinda your brother. No sisters!”

“He’s teasing me,” you placate her, voice sweetening. The little knight looks at you with wide eyes, a little awed. “‘Mister Kaeya’ is an old friend of mine, we played together lots when we were little like you.”

An oversimplification, of course. Little Klee doesn’t need to know what happened after the sun-swept days of sword fighting and house ended at the winery. Kaeya’s air quickly fades as Klee squirms down and asks kindly for a hug. You don’t think she can remember you— you only held her once, when she was so small— but you know her kind age and remember so differently from your own.

“Why are you in town?” Kaeya asks. “I thought I’d never seen you within city limits again. Color me surprised.”

You lock your jaw, as Klee bounds away from you and wrestles her way onto Jean’s lap, “Passing through, is all. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“... So, you’re not staying for Windblume?” Kaeya sits, pouring himself a cup of tea. You think you might hate him. “That’s a shame.” 

“I’m not,” you clarify and roll your eyes. “Though everyone is insisting that I do.”

“You really should.” Lisa takes the opening and insists, “It would be lovely to have you.”

Of the group that has congested in the library, you only hear agreement. Jean has a bright look in her eye that makes you shy away. 

“I... I really shouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” Kaeya grins, foxlike. You think he just likes making you squirm.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Jean inquires, setting her chin on her fist.

“Well, no—” There’s always somewhere for you to be. You can’t stay. You shouldn’t even be here now. 

“Then, stay.” Eula leans against the doorframe, entered at some point. 

You’re being thoroughly peer-pressured, it seems. 

“...I’m being bullied into staying for Windblume, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps.” Jean gives you a sheepish grin. “You’re missed, Windblume is just an excuse.”

You ache. 

“Stay in the city, enjoy some wine,” Lisa insists. “Catch up with folks. I’d love to see more of you while you’re here. I’m sure you have stories to share of your travels.”’

You barter, “... If I do stay, I need to find a healer. I heard that there’s a skilled one, living in Mond. A Vision holder.”

Jean opens her mouth, but Kaeya speaks first. “Done.”

You consider. 

You’re fully aware that your arm is being horribly twisted into staying for Windblume. You know this is unwise. But—

(There’s something to it. Something you can’t admit it to, not aloud, not yet— but being in a room full of people who do not see you as a stranger, but rather an old friend. They know your name, and you know theirs. There’s something to knowing the streets you will walk if you stay. Familiarity is a wretched comfort.)

“If you need lodging, the knights could easily put you up in the dormitories,” Jean offers.

“No, I—” You sigh, scrubbing a hand down your cheeks. “I appreciate the gesture, but if I do stay I’ll camp outside the city.”

“So you’re staying?” Klee’s eyes shine. 

“I—”

“In that case, come out for drinks tonight,” Kaeya insists with a sly smile that makes you want to eat glass. “I’ll buy a round.”

“Wait—”

“Angel’s Share does bring out its Windblume vintage tonight—” Lisa says enticingly. 

“Absolutely not.” You smack your hand on the table, far louder than you intend. 

Kaeya cocks his head, amused. Lisa and Jean share a look, and the rest of the knights look a bit bewildered. You hate to raise your voice, but Archons, this crowd can be pushy.

“I’ll stay. But I’m not going to Angel’s Share.” Never ever again.

Lisa does seem to notice her error in suggesting it and gives you an apologetic smile. She reaches for your hand and squeezes. You feel a bit lighter.

“Diluc won’t be there,” Kaeya states. On the nose. “He doesn’t bartend on weeknights, even during Windblume.”

“... Really?”

“He doesn’t,” Eula corroborates. “I have knowledge as well that he is in the middle of merchant deals with a group from Natlan. There is no reason to think he’d be at Angel’s Share this evening, if that’s your concern.”

You pick at the skin around your nails. 

“I’ll think about it.”

(You agree, by the time you leave Ordo HQ. After many other promises of free wine and dancing, you find it hard to refuse. It doesn’t hurt that you confirm with multiple others that Diluc doesn’t bartend on weeknights. That he’s been caught up in business, and hasn’t been in the city much at all.)

...

You had enough mora for a few nights of lodging. You figured that Goth may have even given you a discount, as an old friend of his. Archons know how many times you worked odd jobs for him and his sons, patching up walls and the occasion twisted ankle or jammed finger. 

After some searching, you find Goth in one of the many gardens of Mond proper. As happy as he is to see you, he regretfully informs you that he has no free lodging. 

“Windblume has booked out all of my short-term properties,” Goth sighs. “Unless you’re looking for a minimum six-month lease, I don’t have any rooms available.”

(Goth explains to you that the goddamn Fatui has rented out the entirety of his hotel... indefinitely? Upfront? Hence the lack of a room.)

You tell him it’s no trouble, wave off his concern. You don’t mind a few more nights of camping. The only allure of an inn or hotel was the possibility of consistently bathing and a soft mattress. 

You pick a spot outside of Mondstadt proper to set up your camp. There are many tents already set up— travelers, like yourself, here for the festival. You recognize colors and fabrics from all over Teyvat. It warms something in you, that you aren’t alone in being an outsider here.

(Such a thought feels wrong, because it is, isn’t it? You aren’t an outsider at all. This is your home. The only place you’re not an outsider.) 

You struggle to set up your tent, and decide to leave it for later. Wandering around Mond for the afternoon aggravated your injury, and you instead take the time to poke around in your medicine kit for a quick tincture. Something to settle the—

(Burning, screeching pain that tracks up your leg. You’re grateful the other travelers aren’t watching how you collapse against a pile of discarded crates, barely holding back a hiss of pain.)

(It’s getting worse, isn’t it?)

Teacher always said that nothing was harder on sickness and wounds than stress. It was a wisdom you remembered but barely heeded.

You use the dropper and place the tincture under your tongue. It tastes bitter and coats your throat as you swallow. 

...

The sun rains gold on Mond as you meander toward the Angel’s Share. Liquid amber that coats the buildings and cobblestones. It’s nostalgic in too many ways, and it makes something behind your ribs ache.

(You’re hit with the distinct urge to run. To turn tail and leave Mondstadt forever, again.)

You shove it down, swallow it whole, and bear it. Bear it. Not forever, just for a few days. You can catch up with some old friends, leave any old scores unsettled and untouched (undisturbed, unthought about—), and depart. Maybe even fix up your foot in the process.

You hesitate outside of Angel’s share.

It looks different than you remember. The door and its frame have been replaced, the door and its frame hardly ached. There’s a message board outside that you can’t recall being there previously. A wreath hangs on the door, woven with blue and white flowers for Windblume.

You want it to be different. You do. Because if things are different, walking into Angel’s Share wouldn’t feel so daunting. You could pretend that this horribly familiar tavern was someplace else entirely. Maybe even delude yourself into thinking that this little building was its own, unique, carved-out square during one of your travels. A fantasy where you’ve never been here before.

(The warmth under your disgust wouldn’t feel so misplaced then.)

You enter.

It’s lively, bustling with patrons of all types with the festival beginning so soon. You recognize clothes and people from all corners of Teyvat, and it comforts you once more. You blend in easily, lingering near the door, and peek at the bar.

Diluc is nowhere to be seen. Another barkeep mans the kegs, barrels, and bottles. You don’t recognize him— which brings you some relief. 

It would be easy. To be delusional about this whole thing. That Angel’s Share could be just a tavern in the middle of nowhere and the faces that are around you have no chance of being familiar. You’re in a sea of folks who are travelers, just like, or mostly unfamiliar. You could, couldn’t you? Tell yourself that this isn’t a place where—

(You had your first drink. Learned how to mix cocktails with Crepus. Play fought Diluc and Kaeya in the rafters on the third floor. Where you last saw Diluc—)

You clutch a hand to your chest. Who knew that emotional pain could be so violently physical? 

Jean calls your name from across the room, pulling you from your stupor. You meet her eyes, and the smile you force to meet your eyes feels a little more genuine.

With the call of your name, several other patrons look up and gawk for a moment. You get a few more ‘oh hello!’s and ‘I didn’t know you were in town!’ thrown your way and you give them all sheepish smiles. Faces you can’t place very well. Features and familiar expressions mutilated by time and a botched memory. It makes you feel sick to your stomach— archons, and you haven’t even sampled this year’s selection of thousand-wind’s wine, have you? 

Jean flashes you a sympathetic look when you finally make it to their table. The table is flushed full— intimidatingly so. The knights have come out tonight. Lisa and Jean cozy up on the same bench seat, while Kaeya (die) and Albedo sit across from the two. You offer the alchemist a timid wave, which he returns in kind. Some of the other knights have spilled out to the tables around you, chattering away with wine-stained lips.

And the night’s still young.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show,” Kaeya practically purrs (choke) and leans closer to you on an elbow. “Were you able to find some lodging for the festival?”

“Yeah, I found something that will work.” It’s not technically a lie. Besides, they don’t need to know where you’re sleeping.

Kaeya raises an eyebrow and Albedo elbows him politely in the ribs. You make a note to buy him a drink later.

“I’ll get this round,” Lisa says, standing and grabbing you by the arm. “My treat. A welcome home present.”

You let her tug you through the crowd.

You end up seated properly at a barstool while Lisa orders. She wove her way through the crowd and up to the bar so easily, like liquid. You hardly have to wait at all before a drink is passed to you across the bar top.

You gulp half the glass down, greedily.

You, notably, have chosen not to cessate from dandelion wine in your absence. It was a rare treat to come across outside of Mond and Liyue, so when you could get your hands on glass, you let yourself partake. Whatever melancholy it brought with it could be tempered with more of it anyways.

It goes down easy— it always does. Thicker than other wines, sweet but bodied, with some type of nutty and berry note to it. You never understood the process of winemaking, despite so many years spent at the winery. When Crepus or Diluc or one of the staff attempted to explain, it all easily went over your head. 

The tannins sour your cheeks. You swallow down another mouthful, greedy, and slam down your empty goblet. Lisa looks at you wide-eyed.

“I don’t recall that you were ever much of a drinker,” Lisa remarks as she flags down another glass for you. She sips her own, mischief in her eyes. 

You shrug, nodding to the barkeep who fills your cup. “I indulge, occasionally. Forgive me for needing a drink in this environment.”

You gesture to the carousing around you. A lyre and fiddle play in the corner, and you distinctly hear two different bard songs. One is significantly better than the other, and you may have even enjoyed it if you could hear it fully. 

Being near the bar forces you to see changes. They’re hard to not notice. The signage behind the bar has changed. An old menu and drink list have been changed out for something sleeker. Paintings and their frames replaced. The glass you’re drinking out must be new, along with the tankards that the barkeep washes whenever he has a free moment.

There are still ghosts in the corners.

“Gods, you look like a wet towel.” Kaeya’s shouts, nearly in your goddamn ear, as he slips into the empty seat next to you. He drapes an arm over your shoulders like you’re old friends and not the byproducts of a dissolved relationship. You think about shrugging his arm off, but decide against it. 

You throw back the rest of whatever is in your glass and shout for another.

Kaeya catches your eye for a moment with a nearly unreadable expression. You recognize it (and concur that you need to be far more drunk than you currently are in order to survive the evening.) His brow lays smooth, lips in a not-quite smile, and his posture is a bit too rigid. You know he’s picking you apart, albeit quietly.

The expression disappears a moment later, and he has a new bottle of wine in his hands (“For you, little sister.”) Your cup fills yet again, and you drink.

The world begins to feel fuzzier, easier, and the pain in your foot and leg dulls. God, you try not to indulge in drinking too often (it’s simply a recipe for reliance, given your condition. Regardless, you're a physician who knows better than to turn to the bottle rather than medicine), but you feel the temptation of it occasionally. 

It’s an easy friend to indulge in under these circumstances.

One of the bards, the one with loose braids, strikes up a conversation with Kaeya, looping you in with an exchange of introduction. Your cheeks warm when you notice the slur of your words, sipping your cup to disguise any embarrassment. The bard must be drunk, with how much sweet wine he drinks, but he hardly acts it. Poised.

Lisa pats you on your back after your fourth glass, seemingly pitying you in your stupor. 

The good bard, at some point, leaves Kaeya’s side. Kaeya’s back to leaning into yours, the furs of his outfit prickling your nose. If you were sober, you’d be spewing curses at him. But in your drunken mind... it was fine. Fine. Maybe the warmth of him against your side wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.

You loosen up, whether you want to or not. 

Lisa drags you out of your stool after your fifth drink, to take pulls off a pipe a traveler offers and to dance with her in the main room of the tavern. The bards play a duet now, in tune, though the good bard from earlier carries the performance.

You laugh as she twirls you, dipping you near the floor. Some of the patrons cheer and whistle at the move, and you let loose a giggle that never would’ve left you in your right mind. Her face swims before you. Your insides are warm. Things are okay, maybe. For now.

So, you dance.

You dance with Jean and Kaeya, even dragging Hertha in for a round. Eula refuses, though apologetically. She’s a bit too drunk herself, and Amber insists on staying by her side to nurse her with water and pyro-warmed pets to the back of her neck.

(Do you envy them? Maybe. The skinship of it seems nice. They’re so familiar with each other, even from a distance. So lax and tender with each other even within such a setting. You cannot imagine receiving such treatment.)

Kaeya spins you back to the bar and buys you another glass.

“You dance better than you used to,” he croons in your ear. “even with that dreadful limp of yours.”

You bark out a laugh and punch him in the arm with hardly any force (you’ll regret not making it hurt more, later). “Wow, and here I thought wine curbed your silver tongue.”

“Unlike some, I can hold my liquor just fine.” He shrugs and sips.

You, on the other hand, turn the corner from ‘tipsy’ to ‘blasted’ as you hit the bottom of your goblet. Your stomach churns, spelling a hangover that will rot your stomach and the space between your eyes come the morning. The room doesn’t spin, not quite yet. 

You lay your forehead on the bartop. 

“Aw, had a bit too much?” Kaeya tsks. “How unfortunate of you, to not know your limits, even after all this time.”

You grumble something unintelligible. 

He sets a cold hand on the nape of your neck and your ground yourself on it.

(You can regret it in the morning.)

You have absolutely no idea what time it is, though the tavern is still rowdy. You imagine late, at least near the high moon if not into the early morning. Windblume was a celebration of drinking after all. Angel’s Share stays lively, despite the hour, though the drone of voices and folk songs becomes lost on you as your eyes slip shut.

Amongst the din, there’s a firm thud— the sound of wood on wood. Another sounds just after, though much closer and more shallow. You only make out the sound because of its old familiarity. The sound of the counter flap falling and straining its hinges. It must be one of the only pieces of original hardware from the old Angel’s share— the sound is identical to the one in your memory (maybe, you’re drunk, you may just be nostalgic—)

The barkeep (Charles, he told you his name though you didn’t give him yours) shuffles away, maybe, based on the thump of feet amongst the roar of the tavern. A shift change.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show.” Kaeya’s hand leaves you. You can hear the grin in his voice.

There’s a huff from behind the bar. The clink of a glass. A squeak as it’s dried and shined with a rag.

“Do you think I’m unreliable?” 

Your eyes stretch open, wide, in a flash. Horrible, wretched familiarity (with the way a voice can bring you so much anguish and warmth in tandem.) You don’t look up. You stare down at the floorboards, count the grains and notches in the wood. Steady your breathing. 

You know that voice.

You look up, slowly, against all better judgment. If you were sober (Archons, if you were fucking sober—) you would’ve turned, held your eyes shut and ran out of the bar without looking back. You would’ve never dared to peak and pull the thread that dangled in front of you.

He’s blurry, but he’s there. A trim waist that leads up to broad shoulders, arms that bulge more than you remember, scarlet hair that falls in waves from a high-tied ribbon. Scarlet eyes, cut and polished like rubies. 

It’s Diluc, who meets your gaze for the first time in almost a decade. Just as shocked and wide-eyed as you are. 

The glass slips from his hands and shatters.

PART iii: the World (born)

You met Diluc Ragnvindr when you were just children, doing what children do best— playing while the adults talked.

Your parents— traveling merchants— and Crepus Ragnvindr sat down for wine and sweet rum after a lavish supper. Your parents shooed you off. They didn’t need you clinging to their legs while trying to discuss the intricacies of a potential (and lucrative) contract with Dawn Winery and its splendid dandelion wine.

Crepus takes you under his wing a bit, showing your parents to a fine vintage and you to his two boys.

“They like to play in the vineyard this time of day,” Crepus says, a bit wistful. He leads you by the hand. “The crystalflies soar lower when the sun dips beyond the hills, and the fireflies come out.”

You like fireflies.

He shows you out to the courtyard, and you catch sight of two boys scampering around amongst the greenery. Crepus calls them and they both dutifully bound over, the way young boys do, enthusiastic and fast. The one with the pretty blue hair follows the one with the pretty red hair.

Crepus introduces you. Kaeya. Diluc.

Diluc has round cheeks and a soft jaw. He carries baby fat still, pudgy in his arms and legs and round in his belly. His cheeks are flushed with the late summer’s heat and a day of play. He has a brush of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His hair is shorter than it will become, but long enough that you think your mother would envy him.

His eyes widen when he sees you. You’ll never be sure why.

(Kismet turned for him earlier, maybe. All it took was you.)

You spend the evening with your side wedged into Diluc's, watching the lazy flight of anemo crystalflies by the water. You tell the boys about the constellations you know, and make up a few that you don’t. You trace them in the sky with the tip of your pointer finger. You ask to braid Diluc’s hair and he lets you. 

Crepus finds you all, just after dusk, dozing as the fireflies begin to dance.

...

Your family visits the winery several times each year. You enjoy the visits immensely. You’ve grown quite close to the Ragnvindr’s, and Kaeya too. You always barrel off your family’s wagon, running ahead of them to greet the boys, who are always waiting for you too.

You play swords with them, though you aren’t any good at it. You always bring them trinkets from wherever you and your family have been. You like to gift Crepus a book or two as well, though you don’t know what they’re about. You choose them based on the covers.

Diluc lights up when you hand him a little shell from Liyue’s shore. You tell him about the cliffs where you found it, and how you’ll go there together some day. You’ll show him the geometric columns of stone that seem to climb all the way to Celestia. You will show him where the sand bars become one with the sea, and how to dig for crabs and shells with your bare hands. 

Diluc likes you, you think. He always lets you slip into his room after the manor has fallen asleep. You sit across from one another on the velvet window bench. You hug a pillow while he tells you about how he’ll start training as a knight soon. He holds a vision now— he pats it with pride. 

(He tells you how he obtained his vision in your absence. The first time he picked up a sword against an adversary, it appeared to him. It’s a grand thing, brave. He was protecting one of his favorite stray winery kittens from a boar near the edge of the property. He raised his rubber training sword and he was granted Celestia’s blessing.)

You think he’s lovely.

...

The boys start training with Ordo Favonius. They practice with the Gunnhildr girl, the older one, who wears a ribbon in her hair and has eyes like midday sky. She’s a few years older than you, and intimidates you with her maturity, but she’s kind. 

The older knights let you watch their training when your family visits. You post up during their drills, watch their forms, their blunders, and their successes. A knight named Varka always takes Diluc aside to teach him how to best wield his vision with his weapon of choice. 

(A greatsword. A claymore. It’s almost your size, probably. The one Diluc uses during training is Favonius issued, smithed with their crest near the base of the blade. You know the one he’ll really use. A family relic that Crepus brought up from storage for him— a rectangular blade, metal cast in black and red, with an elaborate furl stretching from the hilt. Crepus asks Diluc to wield it when he’s ready.)

Kaeya offers you his sword, one day, at the end of training. The junior knights soak in their own sweat as you take the blade from Kaeya. The knights make it look so effortless to wield such weaponry. They carry it at the hip like it's an accessory and not carved metal. When you wrap your hand around it, the weight shocks you. You barely heft it up, struggling with the balance of it. The trainees rib you a bit for it, and it makes you blush hot and hard.

Diluc scolds Kaeya, taking the blade from you when it's clear that brandishing it one-handed as intended is close to impossible for you. You feel some relief when Kaeya takes it back and shrugs. 

“You won’t have to worry about wielding a weapon like that— ever.” Diluc says on your way home (home, home, home, it’s becoming your home—) that day. “Especially a sword.”

“Why?” You ask.

“I’ll make sure you never have to.”

“Hm... what if I want to?” You try to be cheeky with him.

He gives you a playful shove and you bump into Kaeya. The latter groans and makes a choking sound.

“You don’t,” Diluc replies, flashing you a smile. “If you did, you would’ve played swords with Kaeya and I more when we were little. You always liked to watch.”

“It’s more fun that way!” You hip check him. “It’s interesting to see all of it, rather than participate.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kaeya chimes in. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with how weak your arms are.” 

He squeezes your bicep and you shriek at him, chasing him ahead down the path. You squabble all the way home (home, home, home), rolling down the hills back into the Winery’s valley. You belly laugh together, tears in your eyes. It’s good. 

You only go silent when you notice your family’s wagon, packed and ready for departure, idling in front of the winery. 

...

You don’t travel well, you never have. 

Your parents had informed Crepus of this during your first visit (“Never well, even when my wife my pregnant— the little thing gave her the hardest time on the road.”) Despite this, you had always meandered with your family on their circuit from Liyue to Mond. 

One of your visits to the winery, just around the turn of your childhood to adolescence, you fall ill.

Your parents brush off your complaints upon arrival. Chills, aches, and a cough— “It’s from the rain. Your clothes are still damp.”. Your usually lively arrival was dulled. You barely touched the dinner Crepus provided before retiring to your favored room.

You hate being sick. You hate how your gut churns and you feel so cold, despite the fire one of the maid’s stoked in the big fireplace. You sniffle and snot over the back of your hand, fighting tears. You fall ill so frequently, but it doesn’t make it easier. Even your softest clothes feel scratchy against your tender skin— you feel horribly breakable. 

There’s a gentle knock on your door before it opens. Diluc joins you by your bedside, kneeling, watching you with wide ruby eyes.

“My father told me you’re sick,” he says gently. “You don’t look well.”

You give him a wilted look. “It happens.”

“... It shouldn’t,” Diluc says with a conviction that your fever forces you to miss. “He says that you get sick often.”

“I don’t travel well.” You parrot what you heard your parents say a thousand times, to innkeepers and merchant-folk alike. “It’s alright, Diluc. I’ll be well in a few days.”

Your teeth chatter. You bury yourself deeper in the covers.

Diluc looks unconvinced. He disrobes as much as is proper, and asks quietly if he can join you. He’s warm, from his pyro vision, he tells you. He can see how cold you feel.

Whether he had such a vision or not, you would’ve said yes.

You pull away the duvet, inviting Diluc closer. It’s innocent, a sharing of heat. You press your forehead to his chest and he lets his arms fall naturally to your waist. It cages you. It feels safe and warm, and you don’t think you’ve felt that before.

You give him the smallest ‘thank you’, voice burnt and charred with fever. Diluc chases off the chill and embers alike, replaces them with the hearth that he will become to you, and you think that kismet might’ve shifted for you then, too. 

...

You leave, a few days later, still sick. 

You return, several months later, still sick.

Whatever cold you had during your last visit had metastasized— or so your parents say. They seem moderately unconcerned as they sort through the inventory they’ll be taking for their run.

Crepus doesn’t look convinced. 

Diluc helps you inside. You barely hold yourself on two feet, and need to stop and catch your breath several times. Kaeya loops his arm over your neck and Diluc hoists you by the waist, and the two nearly drag you to your room. 

A doctor is called, a healer from Mond that knows the Ragnvindr’s well. Diluc and Kaeya stay by your side as the healer draws up tincture and grinds down herbs and oils into a soft balm to slather on your chest. 

Diluc lays with you in bed again that night, over the covers, not daring to touch you. You seem so fragile, only half-there in the room with him. He resents your parents horribly for allowing you to carelessly decline in such a state. It shows in the way his expression twists into a scowl whenever they’re within his vicinity.

...

Crepus offers his home to you— no, rather he insists.

You’re still ill, lungs gunky and fever hardly waned, by the time your family deigns it time to leave. They plan to cart you along, never mind your condition. Diluc, if he had less restraint, would’ve cursed them out in the winery’s foyer. 

(The wet sound of your breathing. The little whimpers when your fever spiked, signaling that it was time for more of the tincture the healer left behind. The way you balled your fist in his nightshirt during the worst of it.)

Crepus says it’ll be no trouble to house you, for however long you need. You’ve always taken to the winery easily, and clearly need a stable place to recover from your illness. He enjoys taking in a stray or two. One more, especially one he thinks so fondly of and that he knows his boys adore, is simply a blessing, not a burden.

...

Diluc ascends to cavalry captain of the Knights of Favonius just around the time that you make a full recovery. 

It takes months— for both of you. Diluc patrols and trains with the knights when he’s not by your side. He’s incredibly well-regarded by Mond, beloved by his fellow knights and the townsfolk as well. He has ample support from all around, and his father glows with pride. 

(Diluc bears the weight of his father’s expectations well. You don’t even notice Diluc squirm under the pressure of it. It all seems to come naturally to him— being a hero.)

You see your healer every few days, drink your teas and diligently rest while you recover. The illness sticks in your lungs and you take to reading up on medicinal plants and potential treatments. It gives you some understanding of the remedies that your healer makes for you. Your healer finds you promising, despite your sickly state, and offers you an apprenticeship, if you choose to pursue such a profession.

It’s success after success, a time bathed in thick gold sun that feels as warm as it tastes.

You and Diluc dance at his ascension celebration. He holds you by the waist, clumsy like the young man he is, but you don’t mind. You loop your arms over his shoulders, memorizing the blush that paints his cheeks, and the dimples that carve them. You twirl him under your arm and laugh up to the sun and moon alike. You pull the ribbon from his hair so it unfurls over his shoulder. You run your hands through it without a care.

(Diluc looks at you, when you’re not looking at him, with such a reverence. You can’t see it yet, but it’s a burgeoning thing. Love and devotion caramelized by innocence, by want and need intertwined. He doesn’t know how to say how he feels, not yet; the feelings are still loose and undefined. But smoldering kindling he is.)

...

Crepus offers his home to you, permanently. You have taken to it so well, and his boys— his boys adore you. The staff does. You have so much growing for you in Mond, it seems silly to pack up your belongings small and tight so you can ride out on merchants circuit once more. Only to return sick once more.

You accept, hesitant at first. It’s a scary thing to give up the life you’ve known, even if the one Crepus extends to you is far more comfortable. Your parents have no qualms. You think they enjoyed your absence too much. They seem content to leave you at Dawn Winery, promising to continue their circuit, so you’d see them a few times a year.

It makes something in your ache and cry, but there’s many things to balm it in the manor. A warm fire and Adelinde’s recipes, along with whatever new tarts and sweets Crepus brings home from Mondstadt proper— they all make it easier. Good company too. Kaeya always has new ideas for schemes and little adventures. Crepus brings you gifts and makes sure you’re settling in well to your new space. Diluc is ever-dutifully at your side, whatever the circumstance, and you at his. 

You still sneak into Diluc’s room in the late night. You nestle up, side by side, on his plush window bench. You link pinkies and talk about everything.

...

“I thought this one was a bit boring.” You look up to Diluc, backwards, craning your neck. “The love interest was a bit shallow for me.”

“I agree,” Diluc answers from above you. He shuts the book deftly with one hand. “This author’s pieces usually have a bit more depth to them. This one was a bit flat.”

You tend to come to the same conclusion on the stories you share.

The Small Study (ow, ow, ow, ow) is a room most near Crepus’ wing of the manor. It’s exactly as it sounds— a small study. Something Diluc’s mother made sure was constructed for him, prior to her leaving. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the walls, with a long table slicing the room in two. When you were young, very young, you, Diluc, and Kaeya would sit at the table and write your own stories. Color with paints that Crepus bought for you from Snezhnaya on recycled receipts and old ledgers. 

These days, the table is mostly bare and a bit dusty. You use it more than Diluc, though most of your studying with your teacher happens at their cottage, in Mond proper. Diluc and Kaeya have a training room a few doors down, one that Crepus constructed, with mats and straw targets, and more armaments than Ordo Favonius probably knows about. 

Most of your time in the Small Study is spent in the corner, tucked close to each other. You have amassed an impressive number of spare sheets, pillows, and blankets, and have constructed what could only be called a nest. You and Diluc take to lounging on it in the mornings and evenings, when you both have the time. You read together. Sometimes you aloud to him, and sometimes him aloud to you.  

Diluc’s voice has taken to breaking lately. You find it adorable and can’t help teasing him about it.

“I’ll have to hunt for a new novel at the markets today.” You sigh. The sun is rising above the cliffs, bathing the shelves and columns of dust ichor gold. You throw your hand up, watching the beam soak your skin warm.

Diluc catches your wrist and brings the back of your hand to his lips. 

Little things, skinship, he likes. He never says anything much about it, only asks quietly if it's alright that he keeps such proximity to you. You eat it up, his heat, his presence— you want all of it. You’re gluttonous in your youth (you have yet to know starvation.)

“Be careful on patrol today, okay? I’m helping Adelinde make that sweet bread you like before I visit Teacher.” You huff, maneuvering to you’re at his eye level. You tug his cheek, still soft with baby fat. “You better not have any extra bruises when I pick you up today.”

“I’ll try.” He rolls his eyes. “Even if I do, you’ll patch me up, won’t you?” 

“I could have Teacher do it,” you huff. “I know you don’t like how rough they can get with you.”

Diluc scoffs, “They don’t like me—”

“They like you plenty—” 

You squabble, soft in your chests, because it's all easy and slow. The romance novel gets tucked away into an overflowing shelf, bulging with others that you’ve already finished. 

Kaeya is shining his blade in the armory, and you collect him before heading to Mondstadt proper. It’s a routine, each day, one that you enjoy and cling to. You enjoy your training and you feel only pride seeing your boys bud and grow in their strength. You fight, like young ones of your age do, but it's all in jest. Simple. Your squabbles get settled with wrestling by the river or when Crepus intervenes and fathers the three of you.

It’s good and you never want it to end.

...

Diluc grows into himself. He’s gangly in his teen years— long arms and bulging shoulder blades he’s yet to grow into. The pudge he’d had around his belly has disappeared, sucked away by a growth spurt or two. He grows a bit more into his frame, each year closer to adulthood that he gets. Muscle building on muscle. 

Teacher says you’re doing well with your studies. You pour over books on medicinal herbs and medical techniques during the day, and watch Teacher heal when patients are around. You become adept enough to see patients on your own, for small injuries. 

You fix up Diluc whenever he comes home to you. Cuts. Bruises. The odd fracture or two. He’s the person you ever stitch a wound together for. He doesn’t flinch. So trusting.

...

Crepus gets odd, at some point. You’re almost old enough to be considered an adult. He starts asking you questions you know the answer to, but it seems like he’s seeking something other than the truth. Sentiments that he wants to squeeze out of you, to satiate something in him that you can clearly see, but don’t know how to name.

(He’s a businessman— is it in his nature to be greedy—?)

(Forget. Forget. Forget.)

...

You wish it had stayed so kind and good for longer. You wish you appreciated it more, but you didn’t fully understand the goodness laid before you until it was so brutally ripped away from you. 

The night Diluc turns eighteen, your world shatters. Burns. Immolates while you lay drunkenly dozing in a friend's warm bed. You don’t greet the wreckage until you awaken. Alone, drowning and with a new pang in your stomach.

PART iii: the stitch the wound the burning

You instantly slam your hands on the bartop. You whip your head around to Kaeya. He wears a wide, awful grin. So fucking smitten with himself.

You hate him. 

“Fuck you,”  you snap. 

You push up, knocking the bar stool over with a bang. You turn on a heel and run from the tavern. Wordless.

(You run. You should’ve run. You should’ve never come back. Ever.)

You know the display caused enough of a ruckus that Angel’s Share fell nearly silent as you left. You know that your vision shuddered out of your control, sending dendro to liven the flowers around the tavern. It felt sick. To know that the blooms would be wider and more beautiful while you ran. Running, running, running. 

Lisa and Jean, maybe, shout your name as you sprint away. You ignore them— you have to. The temptation to turn back and face them drowns in the wine that churns in your stomach. Your breath feels too hot and heavy in your lungs, like lead and steam. You feel like you might die.

(Diluc in the same room as you. Diluc in front of you.  Not a ghost, a breathing body. Flesh. He would’ve been a bit too warm, to the touch. You know him to be. He’d grown so much— how much had you missed? Archons, you miss him—)

You barely get out of Mondstadt proper before you bracing yourself on one its outer walls, forcing your finger down your throat, and heaving your guts out onto the high grass. All of the splendid wine you sampled color the ground blood red, surely staining your lips. Tears drip from your lash line. You feel sticky as you draw your fingers from your throat, spit and dribble sliding down your wrist. 

You curse and shake. 

You wipe your hands down on your trousers and scrub at your lips with the edge of your sleeve. You spit pretty scarlet and nearly hurl again.

The sun has set, and the dark is a comfort. It cloaks you, allowing you to duck easily between shadows and firelight that other travelers warm themselves by. No one looks at you twice. You’re sure you seem like a drunkard, not— Not whatever you are. You drag yourself back to your campsite.

You fall to the ground, drawing up your good leg by the knee and press your forehead to it.

Fuck.

Fuck the healer. Fuck Windblume. Fuck seeing any friends or familiar faces. You discard the plans, crushing them down until you decide they’re not worth it. None of this was worth it. If you’d only ducked in and out of Mondstadt’s market, you wouldn’t have met Lisa. Gotten twisted up with Kaeya. Dared to enter Angel’s Share. Seen Diluc.

You knew the mere sight of him would send you. You knew. You feel foolish. Stupid. If you were a fraction more sober, you would’ve dragged yourself out of self pity and set up camp for the night. Instead you stew. You swallow back dread and bile and clutch your shoulders.

(You always knew this was a risk, coming back here, didn’t you? That’s why you never dared to even get near Mondstadt’s borders. Now you’ve done it.)

You certainly have.

You rub your eyes again, grimacing at the taste in your mouth. Forcing yourself up is a task, especially trying to keep weight off of your (now very) bad foot. You struggle to balance, propping yourself up on a pile of discarded crates and get to work setting up your campsite for the night. You resolve to sleep until dawn, pack up, and be on your way. You’ll head back to Liyue and catch a boat out of the harbor. You’ll go anywhere. Do anything. 

(To be far away from here.)

You struggle with your tent and tarp. It’s infinitely harder to set up your sleeping arrangements when you’re hobbling around on one leg. Emptying your stomach of its content has made you lightheaded (or, it's the panic that is thick and porous in your blood. Burrowing into your flesh. Will you even be able to sleep tonight?) You fight to keep your breath steady as you struggle to stake the tarp into the dirt.

Someone says your name from behind you. Breathes it like it's lighter than air, weighted like a gospel.

You turn, for the second time, against better judgment.

Diluc stands above you, wearing the same shocked expression he had in Angel’s Share. 

Your lips twist, your brow falls. You feel yourself sink. It’s the same feeling you get in your stomach when you’re put toe-to-toe with an adversary out in the wilderness. It’s the feeling you get when you get a patient a little too late and can’t be sure if you’ll be able to drag them back from the brink.

You breathe his name right back.

“... You’re here,” he says. His voice has evened out. Deeper than you remember, and rougher, but barely.

“I am,” you answer as neutrally as you can. You school your expression and turn back to your tarp. “Please leave.”

Diluc doesn’t answer. He’s frozen above you, so close that you swear you can feel the heat coming off of him. 

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Diluc says, like a demand and not a request.

You bristle.

“I’m setting up my camp for the night,” you state plainly. “Then I will be sleeping. I will be gone by dawn tomorrow. I apologize for any disruption I caused at... at Angel’s Share.”

You press your hands over the top of a nail. The iron digs into your palms. You shove at it anyway, until it’s snug against the earth.

“I don’t care about that,” Diluc replies with an edge to his voice that’s unfamiliar. “That’s not of consequence.”

“... Then why are you here?” You crawl across the ground, brace yourself on a crate, and stand. Your weak foot hovers just off the ground. “Why follow me, Diluc? I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You say his name like it's a curse and face him.

(And it’s like coming home.)

(If you had any less of yourself, you would’ve sank into the earth and wept.)

“I don’t,” he says. Arms crossed. Shoulders square. You see him struggle with his words, chewing on the inside of his cheek, just like he used to. “You left so quickly, and Kaeya—”

“Bastard,” you spit. 

Diluc muffles a laugh (a full sound so lovely— you used to do anything to hear it). “He didn’t tell you I would be bartending, I’m assuming?”

“He told me, expressly, that you would not be bartending.” 

“... It is my tavern. Windblume is the busiest time of the year.” He looks a bit wounded. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it. “Kaeya sent word that Ordo would be at Angel’s Share in full force this evening. My presence was called.”

You scowl, “I realize that now.”

Diluc sighs, deep and hard and full, “You left so quickly, and Kaeya told me you were most likely staying outside of the city. I was... worried.”

You let out a breath through your teeth, maybe a laugh, some unholy thing and you shake your head. You can’t bear to look at him for too long, “Well, I’m fine. Promise. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Clearly.”

“And you weren’t expecting to see me?”

“No.” Diluc sighs. “I... No. I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what else to say to him. 

“Go.” You shoo him off. “I need to finish setting up and get some sleep. Sorry again for causing any trouble.”

You turn away, going to reach for your tent—

Diluc grabs your upper arm. He keeps you steady and upright.

“You didn’t.”

The contact burns. Sears through you like you’re just gossamer and old silk. You tense with it. When did his heat become unfamiliar?

You open your mouth, part your lips just barely, but nothing comes out. Your mind empties.

“Come back to the winery.”

His words cut you from any of your reverie. Your grief forces itself up in plumes, from the base of your spine to the corners of your damp eyes.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You tear away from him. 

He lets you go. (You suffocate the part of you that mourns the loss.) 

“It’s not safe outside the walls.” He takes a step back. Breathing room. “There’s no lodging available in the city, I’m sure you found.”

“I did, and I’m fine out here, Diluc. I can protect myself just fine.” You pat the dendro Vision on your hip. Your weapon remains unsummoned and out of sight.

“It’s going to rain.” Diluc frowns. “And, your tent is torn.”

He gestures behind you, and sure enough, a massive tear runs through an entire side of your tent. You hadn’t noticed. 

(If you will not go where you are supposed to be, perhaps fate will push you there? Align the stars and cosmos just right—)

“I recall that you never enjoyed camping,” Diluc says and it's like a knife to the chest. The idea that he remembers anything about you. “You’ll have a bed for as long as you’d like.”

“Diluc—” You’re near to cursing him out, let the Archons, Celestia and the damn Stars hear it—

“I’m sure Adelinde would love you to see you too.”

Oh.

Oh— Adelinde. When was the last time you sent her a letter? Or read one of hers? You have a stack of them, sealed with purple wax and bound in twine, shoved in your bag. Among your most prized possessions. You’ve hardly let the ink smudge, despite time and condition.

“... She still works for you?”

“Of course.” Diluc’s voice sounds strained. 

“Elzer too?” You ask.

“Yes, he’s been at my side since—”

“Since you came back to Mondstadt,” you answer for him. “Since you returned to the winery.”

Elzer had been at your side too, when you were running the winery in Diluc’s absence. Same with Adelinde.

Archons, you miss them. 

“I’ll stay at the winery,” you say after a beat. “So I can see them.”

Diluc lets out a sigh, shaky and short. He flexes his hands, open and closed. Relieved. The moment of vulnerability passes.

“Will you be able to walk there with—” He gestures to your foot.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” You put weight on it, swallowing down any pain. You can bear it. 

Diluc offers his arm, and you refuse it, striding past him. 

You walk side by side back to Dawn Winery.

...

It does begin to drizzle, eventually. Nothing close to proper rain, but a thick mist that dampens your hair and clothes. The chill of it sinks into you, unpleasant but not unbearable. You cling to the discomfort of it. You and Diluc do not speak to each on the way back, other than the time or two you announce you need a short rest for your foot.

Fatigue hits you as you stumble down the valley paths leading into the winery’s main grounds. 

You blame the wine. 

The front door looks almost the same, perhaps the wood refinished. Diluc pulls forth a shining brass key (different, than the one that you had during your tenure as ‘master’ of Dawn Winery. That key was thick, old iron. Rusting at its corners. It always felt cold and heavy. An entire year it was tied to you. Tethered to your waist on the very same belt that now holds your vision.)

The lock was replaced.

The interior of the winery is different too, you find. It makes stepping inside less jarring— the floors, once dark, long-planked hardwood, has been redone to intricate patterns of lighter, warm-toned wood. Less candles, more electro-powered fixtures set into the walls and ceiling. The couches look different, brighter and fluffier with fresh cushions. Even the grand carpet that covers the main room, bearing the Ragnvindr crest, appears to have been freshened. Maybe even re-tuffed. It’s generally brighter.

“You’ve... updated things.” Your voice trails off as you shrug off your cloak and hang it on your arm. 

Diluc follows your line of sight to a new tapestry on the east-wall. Not of the family crest, but the vineyard. It’s far more ornate than any you remember; you can see the metallic gold weavings shine, even in the lowlight. The tapestry is ringed by paintings, portraits and some landscapes. You recall Crepus commissioning many of them, or creating them himself. There’s a number of new photographs as well.

“I have over the years,” Diluc replies. “It was necessary.”

You hum, pausing. “... I like it. It’s nice.”

It’s nice because it doesn’t feel quite as much like you’re walking into a still-breathing cadaver. You expected to be greeted with an interior you had seared in your memory. Corners you’d still see ghosts in, picture frames that were askew that you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to fix. You know which floorboards were creaky and which windows had the worst draft. 

This version of Dawn Winery from your memory doesn’t exist anymore, in any way or facet. What’s left certainly isn’t blank or void, but it’s more unfamiliar than you expected. It smells like rose oil and beeswax rather than cedar and tobacco. 

“Master Diluc? You’re back earlier than expected.”

Adelinde breaks you from your stupor. 

She looks much the same— the same uniform, though perhaps her hair’s a bit shorter? There’s new wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, sun spots around her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are still kind. They go wide when she sees you, and the mug she’s holding nearly slips from her grip.

Your chest tightens.

She says your name and it’s like you’ve been cut through. Flesh parting around a sharp blade. 

“Hi.” Your voice sounds soft and so much more broken than you can accept it is. 

“Welcome home.” She smiles, all the way up to her eyes.

If you were a little more weak, perhaps a few months more weathered— you would’ve broken then. You would’ve fallen apart in the foyer of Dawn Winery, drowning and hungry and soaked to the bone in something colder than rain water. You hold yourself together, barely, thin threads wound around you to the point of constricting keep you upright. Sure-footed. Almost-whole.

But, Adelinde knows... doesn’t she? She must. She has an uncanny ability for these things. It’s because she watched you grow, watched your toils and supported you. Mothered you when needed. You counseled and consoled each other, during the worst of it.

It makes you feel less guilty, less ashamed, when you nearly throw yourself at her. You wrap your arms around her shoulders and smother your face in her shoulder.

Adelinde hugs you in kind. She still smells like pine-cleaner and that jasmine perfume she imports. She wraps you, in herself, squeezing so hard you’re afraid she’ll undo the strings binding your heart together. 

“H-How have you been?” you ask. Tears sting your eyes.

She strokes the back of your head, through your hair. “I’ve been well. And you?”

You smush your face into her shoulder. You don’t know what to say to her. Instinctual honesty climbs up in your throat— you suppress it. 

“I’ve been better,” you say, softly. You hope only she can hear. “Excited to sleep in a real bed. Take a bath.”

Adelinde goes still, slack— then she almost crushes you. You feel her heartbeat and your lip wobbles.

“I’m glad you’re home, then. Let me fetch you a cup of tea. I’ll make sweet bread in the morning.”

“T-That sounds nice. Thank you.”

Diluc, who has been silent and watchful, clears his throat. “They can take whichever room they like.”

“I’ll prepare the west wing guest room.” (Far from your old bedroom.) She whispers to you. “There was a Fontainisian merchant we were hosting— she left all of her luxury skincare and bath supplies here.”

You pull away, narrowing your eyes, “Are you implying something?”

“Not at all.” She gives you a good-natured smile. “They’re yours. Let’s get you settled.”

You nod and she guides you with a hand on your lower back, up the stairs, to the west wing. Diluc has made himself scarce, seemingly disappearing into thin air to the northern wing of the manor. You only half notice.

Archons, you’re tired.

Adelinde helps you settle in. She sets your bag on a vanity stool, shows you a newly renovated bathroom with a tub that could easily fit you and a Rishboland tiger in it. The rest of the details of the room fade. Something stickier and older than fatigue works its way up through your bone marrow, leaving your body as a yawn.

Adelinde gives you a sympathetic smile when she brings you a cup of lavender and chamomile tea. 

The world is blurry when you crash into the pillows. They smell like the herbal detergent you suckered Crepus into buying during your teen years. Diluc liked it. Whatever potential revulsion you could have has wilted with your exhaustion. Instead, something warm brews in you. You shove your nose into the silken case. The feeling is good. You don’t mind it. 

(Fuck, maybe you even need it.)  

...

You sleep for three days. 

You don’t mean to, and it’s not continuous. You rise for your promised sweet bread, tea, and a much-need, thorough bath. You’ve spent the past few months using communal bath houses or washing in rivers and lakes, quick and rarely relaxing. You indulge in the massive, stone tub for a private soak that leaves you pruney and smelling like rose oil and Natlani bright grass. 

The position of the sun feels arbitrary. You just sleep. Like the fucking dead. No dreams, thank the gods. Thick curtains keep your room dark and you relish every moment. You hadn’t realized how deeply fatigue had woven itself into you. You’d become so acclimated to exhaustion, it only hit you when you finally had a (safe and) quiet place to sleep with no end date. 

Adelinde brings an armful of clothes at some point. (“We put these in storage, when you left. I’m sure some still fit.”) Some do, thankfully, and you’re grateful to have more than four garments, especially when they go together. It’s nostalgic to slip into skirts and trousers you haven’t worn in so long, and you decide they’ll suffice. Unideal, but comfortable. 

The tiredness is an odd blessing. You feel too blurry and foggy to really pick apart your feelings. All of them. You’re aware of the knot that’s formed somewhere between your ribs and gut (or rather, revealed itself), and you ignore it for as long as you are able to. No one comes to you except Adelinde, who never presses you. 

(You don’t know what you would do if she did. Adelinde knows discretion, she knows wounds and scrapes and bruises, and knew yours once. Well and thoroughly. You think she can see all of your ills now too.)

(You’re glad she doesn't pry at you. In your moments between wakefulness and sleep, you tend to dream more loosely. You imagine what you might say to Diluc, had you... the opportunity without damage. What would you say to him? The you that’s mostly a dream screams at him sometimes. Enraged. Sometimes you cry, asking questions that neither your sleeping or waking mind has answers for. They’re not... unfamiliar dreams, but they’re unwelcome. They’re more vivid now that you’re staying in the Winery.)

They feel more real. Diluc is only rooms away at any given time.

(He’s not a specter.)

On the third day, you awake midday to a frantic knock on your door. Adelinde, you assume. Stumbling from bed, and pull on a dressing gown and nothing more, and pull open the heavy oak door—

It’s Diluc. Of course it is. In working trousers and a loose, white top. Dirt stains his knees and the tips of his fingers. Pretty red hair spills from its loose tie, bouncy with a fresh wash. He tenses, when he sees you. Fists balling at his sides and shoulders going rigid.

Your jaw locks and the air in your lungs suddenly feels heavy and too hot. Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you gather up the satin of your robe before it has a chance to slip down to the crook of your elbow. 

(Just seeing him sends you. Into a rage. Into a fit of grief. The visage of him forces you to reckon with something more awful and sticky and molten than you know what to do with.)

(You wish it was more avoidable.)

You freeze.

Your several days of rest afforded you the time to... ignore Diluc. Hide from him, and the knot that you desperately don’t want to unravel. Despite sleeping in one of his beds and eating his food, you need distance. It feels like you’ll explode if you don’t have it.

“The child of one of the vineyard workers is injured,” Diluc says, maybe a little out of breath. “Can you take a look?”

“Of course,” you reply without hesitation. A hurt child takes precedence over most things.

The child and his mother sit in Diluc’s foyer, you can hear them as you approach. The girl sniffles and clings to her mothers sleeve with one hand, the other limp in her lap. One of her legs splays the wrong way, equally limp. 

You approach easily, introducing yourself. The air has an edge of crisis to it, but you wade through it easily. If anything, it’s comfortingly familiar. To be calm and confident in the face of serious injury or illness is often medicine in and of itself. 

You set your large, leather-bound caboodle beside you and take to the floor. Your Tselostnyy insignia is pinned to the outside. The mother’s eyes dart to it as she pets over her daughter’s hair, and she relaxes at the sight of it. A qualified stranger, you are.

The mother is younger, someone before your time as the Winery’s temporary master which is a relief. Diluc lingers behind you, watching you work, probably.  You attempt not to care.

You scooch forward, on your knees, knitting your fingers together and hover them over your patient. You focus on the spiral of dendro through muscle and bone, reading the injury:

Two clean breaks. Closed fracture of the left ulna. Closed fracture of the left femur.

It’s a miracle that the child isn’t shrieking in her mother’s lap. 

“How did you get hurt?” you ask the child directly. 

She sniffles. “I f-fell outta’ the big tree by the water. I was trying to climb it.”

Her mother almost scolds her, but you beat her to speaking. “That’s a hard tree to climb. The oaks by the stables are much easier.”

It’s just a slip of the tongue, to be so familiar.

You turn to the child and school a smile on your lips. “I’ll be able to heal your injuries with my Vision. You’ll get some medicine as well, and it needs to be stirred into juice. Do you have a favorite kind?”

The child looks unsure, and her mother answers for her: “She likes apple best.”

“Apple, master of the house.” You wave a hand behind you. “Can you fetch some?”

“Of course,” Diluc answers without missing a beat and you hasten him away.

Knitting your fingers together once more, you begin to work on her injuries. The child is holding up quite well, despite the immense pain she must be in. You work quickly regardless, but keep in mind you do have the luxury of time. There’s no one more broken or more sick just beyond her who needs to be treated as well.

Dendro sews together her bones. Encourages new flesh and muscle to grow where it is needed. 

When Diluc returns, you instruct him further, gaze never straying from the knitting bones, “Take the third vial from the right on the top row of oils, will you? Stir half a dropper into the juice and stir for a minute. If you see oil on the top, keep going.”

“What’s the medicine for?” The girl asks. 

“Relaxation and sleep,” You reply softly. “This type of healing is very effective, but it takes a lot of energy out of the person who is being healed. You’ll be tired once I’m all done, but you may have trouble resting since your body is still reacting to the shock of your injuries.”

The mother lets out a sigh of relief. Perhaps too wordy of an explanation for a child, but her mother seems grateful for it. 

When the child’s healed into proper pieces again, you unknit your fingers and fall back on your heels. Diluc wordlessly passes the goblet of well-mixed apple juice to the child, who shakily gulps it town. The medicine doesn’t have much of a taste, more of an oily texture to it that requires it to be drunk quickly after being mixed. The juice must be from one of Diluc’s best stashes because the child beams after chugging it.

“... That’s it?” She asks. 

You nod and crack your knuckles, now stiff. “That’s it.”

“... Nothing else?” 

“Nope.” You crack your neck. “Other than the fatigue, but a few extra hours of sleep should remedy that. She’ll be back to normal after a nap.”

“Thank you,” The mother says and your chest feels sticky and warm. “I know that Barbara from the Church has similar skills with her Vision, but I’ve never seen healing like yours. Mondstadt could use a physician like you, you know.”

The feeling goes cold, but you keep your smile. Bear it.

“I’m sure they do.” Teacher’s shoes hadn’t been filled, apparently. And you’d departed to the Tselostnyy School and never returned. 

The mother and her child give more thanks before leaving and you keep your facade up until they’re out the door. The girl’s no doubt ruffled still, even with the light sedative. The mother frazzled. The last thing you’d want to do is burden them with your own misplaced ire. They can’t know. They wouldn’t know.

Diluc, however—

He’s been the silent spectator to this whole affair. He idles by the couches and the hearth, arms crossed, still-dirtied from whatever vineyard work he’d been doing prior to fetching you. You’re sure he was working in the fields, heard the child shriek, and rushed to their aid. Typical.

Diluc stares at you like he could immolate you alive.

“You’re incredible.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the sentence doesn’t implode something in you. 

Your fists shake at your sides. “Hardly. It’s just my profession.”

Diluc works his jaw and considers his words. You note the way he looks stumped and lost. It’s not intentional, if you’re being honest— so there’s no harm in enjoying the way he stumbles to speak around you, is there?

(It’s only fair. Diluc had always been so sure-footed and sturdy with his words. To see him flounder now reminds you that he’s changed too. Something in him has paled and been mutilated, just like you. Two wounded. His suffering isn’t what you revel in, but the knowledge that he’s affected. Neither of you came out unscathed and you’ve spent the last years refusing to imagine how Diluc might’ve coped.)

“Will you have tea with me?” Diluc asks, the words ringing off the glass chandelier in minor key. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“I will.” 

...

Adelinde kindly brings you both tea, by the hearth and its embers. It’s served with a few small cakes and rounds of steaming sweet bread. Diluc takes his tea just as he did when he was young— a heavy dash of cream and a spoon and a half of sugar (“the half is very important” he had always said). Adeline leaves you a carafe of coffee and shoots you a gentle smile before leaving the two of you be.

You rest on one of the couches, leg pulled up beneath you and blow over the rim of your mug.

Diluc sits adjacent from you, in a resplendent mid-morning sun beam. The chair is high-backed, upholstered with the red and gold pattern of the Ragnvindr clan. He looks regal, like a king from the stories you used to read together. Sunlight halos the frizz in his hair and the dust that shifts around him.

He sits with one heel propped up on the opposite knee, cupping the tea cup from the bottom, unbothered by its heat.

(He’s pretty, just as beautiful as you remember. Maybe more so.)

It makes something in you feel rotten. You pick at your nails and curl over your core. 

He glances at you and you look away into the hearth, into the small flames that eat at the last of a birch log. 

Having Diluc in front of you is uncomfortable. Maybe worse than uncomfortable, as discomfort is bearable and the sensation crawling up from the back of your throat isn’t. It makes your skin itch and feel too tight. Your palms sweat. Maybe you want to puke.

(It’s dread, or something like it. Like just seeing him put you on a precipice you had convinced yourself didn’t exist.)

“When did you start drinking coffee?” Diluc asks, breaking you from your spiral. “If I recall correctly, you hated it. Too bitter for your palate, or something like that.”

Ah—

“In your absence. In the year I stayed here, when you left.” It’s the truth. “ Lots of paperwork. I got used to the flavor after a while.”

(You used to prefer tea, favoring some black variety that Crepus painstakingly imported from Natlan’s volcanic cliffs. The first time you tried to drink it following his passing, you retched it back into your cup.)

You both shift uncomfortably. 

“I see.” 

You pretend not to notice the way Diluc’s grip goes white-knuckled for a moment. Your chest feels tight, too tight, and you squirm under your skin. 

“I don’t know how to face you,” you blurt out. 

(You never thought you would have to.) 

Diluc looks away from you, into the fire. “If you don’t wish to ‘face me’, then you don’t have to.”

“Are you suggesting I simply ignore you?”

“If that’s what you would wish to do.”

“That’s not what I asked.” You frown, something burning between your ribs. 

Diluc chews on his words for a moment. “Allow me to clarify. I have no expectations of you while you’re staying within the Winery.”

“So, if I simply ate your food and slept in one of your beds, ignoring you, you’d be alright with that?”

“If that’s what you wish, then yes.”

(The answer hurts to hear. You refuse to think about why.)

“Alright.” You take a long sip of your coffee. You’re not sure when your stomach began to ache.

“You’re unsatisfied with that answer,” Diluc guesses.

“Entirely,” you reply. “You’re basing your wants off of mine. It’s bothersome.”

“It’s the truth. As I said—“

“You ‘have no expectations of me’,” you parrot. “Would you truly be satisfied if I didn’t speak to you at all while I’m here?”

Diluc chews the inside of his cheek (a new habit you don’t recognize). “My satisfaction isn’t of consequence.”

“Idiot,” You snap— you don’t mean to. “Of course it is. I don’t want to make this any more unbearable than it already is.”

“Do you think this is unbearable for me?” 

“… Yes?” You feel yourself shaking. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

(It’s worse than unbearable. The feeling in your chest is blooming, radiating out into your arms and legs, down to your hands. There’s a buzzing in the base of your skull.)

“I understand that it’s difficult for you to be here,” Diluc grits out. “I do not want to make that any worse by some expectation or assumption you think that I carry. If you wish to enjoy the festival and ignore me, that’s more than fine. If it would be easier for you to stay here and think of me as only some type of… concierge, I wouldn’t resent you for it.”

(You hate it. You hate him. You hate Diluc Ragnvindr endlessly, perhaps. You want to burn Dawn Winery to the ground.)

“Do you really think I could ever think of you as anything other than yourself?” You spit, intending to. “It’s insulting— a fucking affront to think that I could view you in such a way.”

“I don’t know how you view me.” Diluc’s voice wavers with what you can only assume to be anger. “I’m trying to make this easier for you.”

“In what way?!” You stand. “Do you think ignoring you would be easier for me?”

“I am making a well-intended inference based on the fact that you haven’t returned to Mondstadt for years.” Diluc stares at you like he wants to— “I am assuming you’d like to continue to ignore me, given that you’ve never given any indication otherwise.”

“… You’re the one who left first.” You spit the words, like how a sword cuts through air. “You’re the one who left and gave no ‘ indication’ of returning.”

Diluc swallows, thick and hard with a bob of his throat and he rises to his feet. You instinctively take a step back. He opens his mouth, then closes it with a snap of his teeth. The fire cracks and a log loses its structure, tumbling in the hearth with a flurry of embers.

He looks lost for words. You let loose a laugh, something awful and torn that you wish you could stuff back down your throat.

“Nothing to say?”

“It was a long time ago—“

“Ah, it’s irrelevant to you. I see.” Archons, you don’t want this. You should’ve never come back. It can’t be worth it, can it? It feels like your ribs are being broken, one by one. 

(How wretched it is, for him to have such a power over you.)

“Don’t twist my words.” Diluc rises, taking a step toward you. “I only meant to say—“

“I am well-aware of what you meant to say.” You want to vomit, maybe. “It was so long ago, so it’s easier, right? If I view you as nothing more than a doorman with a familiar face, and if you view me as a guest to be treated with pleasantries.”

(Let’s forget all the history. Etch a lie onto a slate that’s already been shattered beyond repair.)

Diluc’s expression twists. Your hands shake and you cross them over yourself, wrapping your arms over your own shoulders and squeezing. He looks… hurt. Gutted. 

“Do you think me cruel enough to ever think of you in such a way?”

“Yes, actually.” You laugh with a shake of your head. “Not even a letter, Diluc? Couldn’t even spare me a thought, could you?”

(Meanwhile, you clung to the hope that he’d arrive home through the front door of the Winery for months. How many did you sit in front of this very same hearth, wrapped in his old blankets and left-behind clothes and pray to any God who’d listen that Diluc would return?)

The admission guts Diluc. You can see it in his face, the way his expression tears open and he balls his fist and he almost seems to shake with it.

(Despite everything, it hurts to see him hurt.)

You step away, almost toppling into the couch. Diluc catches you by the arm with a lurch and keeps you upright. The contact burns like you’re too close to a roaring fire. You feel singed. 

“I can’t forget, Diluc.” You laugh, shudder in his grip and you feel the bits of you fray even further. “I— I don’t know. I’m sorry. I resent you. I hate you. I look at you and I’m struck by the feeling that I’m looking at a ghost.”

You watch Diluc’s jaw lock. “Pot, kettle.”

“Pardon?”

“You left Mond as well, dear.” Diluc says the pet name and then flushes. An old habit, unearthed by sparring. You maybe would swoon if you weren’t feeling light-headed. “You’re a ghost to me as well. Maybe something worse.”

“... Am I? ” you spit, writhing in your skin. 

His expression tightens and you see the hurt. A crack. His lip twitches and he stands. He has to look down at you and you feel the height. 

“Do you think I haven’t been haunted by you?”

Oh, it’s like being punched in the gut. You’re being flayed, surely, on his great room floor. If you’re not careful, your entrails will spill and you’ll die here. You’re sure. 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“You’re impossible,” Diluc says, grip almost bruising. “Do you truly think I’m lying?”

(You don’t.)

You swallow and step away from him. The moment you pull against him, Diluc lets you go, and you stumble back. 

(You’re too frayed for this. Burnt. Cinders at a masquerade.)

“I need some time,” you say, fire in your voice is gone. You burn down so easily. “I’m sorry.”

Diluc stays silent for a moment. You can’t be sure what he’s thinking.

“Take all the time you need,” he says, before striding past you to his office. You hear the door nearly slam. 

[cloudy-osc]

fear x ennui :3c

OH MY GOD WHAT DONT I HAVE TO SAY ON THEM!

ok so to start i love them sm. I know theres definitely alot of onesided nervenoodle (wich i eat up everytime) but it makes me cry everytime because AFHJDJDJDS ITS SO SAD 😭 im to much of a coward for onesided ships like that so in my head they french kiss/hj

If there were to be a onesided part i feel like it would be fear likes ennui. Ennui is oblivious. But even so thats a stretch.

For my real real thoughts i think there really silly

Fear would probably fall first. I feel like he would be scared of her at first but over time he relised shes no threat. maybe only when she doseint have her phone but she wouldint hurt him just all the furniture. Once he gets over that little fear he would be a SIMP. stuttering,weak in the knees,EVERYTHING.

Ennui wouldint even notice she liked him. Atleast at first. She a a pretty touchy person so she thought anything they did was platonic.

I feel like ennui doseint relise things easily unless its pointed out to her (think back to the phone incident) so envy would point out the way she acted around fear

Ennui then goes into a crisis.

They both definitely take crushes diffrently. Fear would be a mess but attempt to flirt (but hes super suddle and ennuis oblivious) and ennui would avoid him in an attempt to get over him. It dose not work.

Once they do confess though they chill out. Ennui helps keep him level headed and fear helps her take effort in things. They definitely cuddle a LOT. i can Imagine Ennui laying her head on his lap alot (im so normal about this)

They definitely are a bit mushy when there alone (90% of it is fear being a dork but ennui has her moments)

Fear attempted to keep there relationship a secret but they were not slick

There like a bowl of spaghetti i love them 💜💜

I think thats all i have right now but if i get more i definitely will put it in the reblogs!

Tdlr:i love them they should kiss

[seneitut]

Hello! Can I request Gekko x male reader that finds Gekko jerking off while they have a sleepover? Of course if you're not comfortable doing that feel free to ignore it. Have a nice day and thank you!

“Vehemence”

[Gekko/Male!Reader]

Words: 3.5K

Tags: Fluff, NSFW +18, voyerism, masturbation, Handjob, Oral sex, more fluff, both of them being so in love(?) Sub!Gekko, Dom!Reader

Warning: There is a slight part where you could read it as non-consent but nothing much happens. Either way, remember! Consent is sexy and very much appreciatted!

[I had so much fun writing this hehe :3c Made the last revision at a restaurant hope it was worth it. This is for you all horndogs!!!!]

---------------

It's hot.

It's so damned hot, he is this close to start stripping down out of his own skin to feel some sort of relief.

The windows are closed in this tiny room of yours, and with no way to let the air get in, Gekko thinks this is the closest to a furnace he will ever be in. He wonders how the fuck did you survive living in this place before moving into the protocol. Did you just get used to it, was this normal to you?

A little warning wouldn't have hurt before accepting. You should have let him know that his body was going to become roasted by the time morning rolls around instead of making sweet eyes and offering a room by your side.

Not that he complains about that, he was more than eager to accept the offer with no regards to what it could possibly mean for your relationship. Because who would dare to reject their long time crush sharing a bed together? Besides, it was either that or a hotel with a bunch of duelists who decided to reserve at last minute two rooms for the night.

And he doesn’t want to deal with Phoenix and Yoru in a single room, thank you. These women might be okay sharing one space and not complain about it, but he’s not and doesn’t want to be the third wheel of these dumbasses throughout the night.

It's a win-win situation for everyone. Phoenix will finally have his alone time with Yoru, and Gekko can have his own time with you.

Although this bonding would be better if you were awake and not sleeping soundlessly. As soon as you changed clothes and hit the bed, you might as well be dead to the world. A heavy sleeper you are, damn.

Maybe if he were more brave, a little cuddle session might have taken place. He knows you wouldn’t mind if asked, but with how shy Gekko is when it comes to physical affection— at least when it is about you— and with how sweaty he was getting, the embarrassment might not be suitable for him to handle nor the overwhelming feelings flustering him.

The furry covers sweltering against his skin, his pillows hard and warm on his head and the shorts you lended him tightening on the crotch side are starting to get the worse of him.

It's almost like everything around was trying to make him as uncomfortable as possible to make him lose his mind when all he wants is to bask in your presence and perhaps daydream with you a little bit. 

Gekko sighs.

You’re sleeping peacefully right beside him, a little too close to his personal space, snoring softly and lips parted slightly letting out puffs of warm breath against his bare shoulder. If it weren’t because he was getting sweaty and uncomfortable with the covers and his shorts, he would have gotten nervous with having you this close.

He was second-guessing himself over his decision. Maybe this was not good at all, perhaps staying with Phoenix and Yoru wasn’t going to be that bad. Hell, staying with the girls was an option too knowing how in love he was with you.

You suddenly roll around, startling him, and close the small gap between your bodies. Trying to fix your position while sleeping, you end up hugging his torso, burrowing your head on his neck and throwing a leg over him until your knee brushes against his pelvis.

Gekko can't help but gasp when the stimulation awakens his sex. Your dormant body moves on its own, accommodating yourself until you land a comfortable position and unconsciously rubbing your knee up and down until you find the perfect spot without noticing all you're doing is making friction against his cock.

Face warm and biting his lower lip to stop his groan, Gekko wishes your actions didn't have this effect so fast on him. Up this close, he can feel the pressure of your own dick against his thigh and soft breaths against his neck—you're making him lightheaded and horny and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

With reluctance, he decides to push you away, avoiding touching you where he shouldn't until some healthy distance is made and he can finally breathe.

You mutter something in your sleep, his name, in that sweet voice of yours which ignites the want and desire burning him from the inside and runs down his veins.

He wants to desperately touch himself and get rid of this boner and you, splayed next to him with your neck bare and the covers barely hiding your own arousal in the tight boxers you're wearing, isn't helping with how enticing you look in his eyes.

His cock twitched inside his trousers with the idea of release, while his hands get clammy with how often he flexes them to distract his urge to masturbate. Gulping once, twice, he thinks 'fuck it' before kicking down the covers and pulling down the trousers to free his hard member from its confines.

The soft glow of the moon through the window gives enough light to see the precum gathering at the tip of his cock, fully erect with the veins protruding on the sides. He scratches softly around the base, teasing himself, and his fingers caress the sides of his member with a feather-like touch until he is cupping his balls with one hand.

Fuck, he really is doing this, huh.

His thumb runs down the tip, covering the head in slick circular motions and giving in the barest stimulation to keep himself on edge. Gekko knows he should be working on this faster and get it over with, but there is this darkening thought clouding his lusted mind that he will never get the chance to have the person of his affection this close nor vulnerable for him to be able to fantasize freely.

Besides, the fact that you could be waking up anytime, catching him with his hand engulfing his hard cock and masturbating has him reeling in adrenaline.

Gekko moves his hand slowly, throwing his head back against the pillows and squirming when relief floods over his body. Biting his lower lip to refrain from making noises, he breathes out harshly, gasping, when one specific stroke sends a shiver down his spine.

He peeks at you, deep in slumber and still displayed for him to oogle you without shame. His eyes travel from your lips to your neck, down your chest until it lands on your dick and your thighs. Thinks he wouldn't mind sucking you off while masturbating, finds it fascinating that even through the boxers, your member looks engorged and enticing that his mouth waters just imagining its taste.

“Ah, fuck—” His hand trembles when he accelerates the rythym, closing his eyes and gasping softly with the slow movements on his cock.

Gekko has been thrusting into his hand unconsciously, trying to chase after the pleasurable feeling and wanting nothing more than to cum with your name on his lips, that his hand is now covered in so much slick it makes the sliding easier and quicker for him to handle.

“Oh, oh! God-” He groans loudly this time, mouth parting in a silent gasp when his thumb stimulates the head of his dick once again. 

His other hand is holding onto the bed sheets to ground himself, too lost in the euphoria of reaching his orgasm he fails to notice a pair of eyes watching him perform this filthy act without shame.

Hips stuttering, he snatches his hand away to stop himself from cumming. The tightening knot that was about to be released screams in agony for the denial of breaking point. Gekko was so close to spurting every bit of his semen all over his stomach and thighs, he found the perfect chance to delay his moment of climax and wait a little more to keep getting himself on edge.

Gekko opens his eyes, breathing slowly until his eyes travel to his still standing cock between his legs. There is a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead and stomach, proof of the act that took place, and feels his whole body burning from the heat and frying his brain with lust. 

Lightheaded and pleasure clouding his senses, he thinks he imagines things when a hand that is not his makes presence on his field of view and grabs the base of his dick firmly.

Bucking his hips, Gekko moans loudly when the hand starts masturbating him without a warning. Sparking the dying heat into something stronger that his whole body can feel the burning of the chase after his release.

“Go on, keep going.” Your voice startles him. Lips caressing the shell of his ear while you whisper words of encouragement. “You were giving me such a show. How filthy of you, Gekko, to have fun without inviting me.”

“Fuck, fuck!” He leans his head to your side, locking eyes through the darkness and a shiver runs down his spine with how heavy your gaze is. Gekko groans when your fingers squeeze the head of his cock, moving your thumb in circular motions. “Please, god, please!”

“Am I a god now?” you tease. Scooting away from him, but maintaining your hand moving up and down slowly, you kiss his cheek and make your way down his chest, biting and sucking on his skin until you land near his stomach where your breath hits the sensitive skin. “Preach to me like your god, Gekko. Be a good boy, yeah?”

Taking your hand away, Gekko whines in protest, desperate to cum and hips lifting to feel the friction of your hand grabbing his dick. Whatever words he was going to utter die at the back of his throat, replaced by garbling noises with the shock of having your lips wrapping at the head of his member.

Entering your wet mouth feels like a fever dream, eyes rolling to the back of his head when you bob up and down his pulsating cock. Your tongue lays flat on the underside of his member, mapping out the protruding veins on the shaft and making pressure to keep the stimulation constant while giving him oral.

Gekko can't help but moan your name with shame burning his face, hands flying to the back of your head and thrusting against your throat that tightens around his cock with every pulsating second.

“Please, let me cum, please.” Gekko chants your name like a prayer, hips rising from the bed to chase your mouth, sucking him off with desperation.

Moaning around his member, Gekko finally crumbles under your touch. His orgasm hits hard and just right, that starts bursts behind his eyelids and the burning fire explodes on your mouth with heavy spurts of his seed.

Never mind the iron grip he had on your head, locking it in place while he rides the waves of his climax and you take a deep breath to stay still and let him be.

His semen is hot and heavy on your tongue, salty with something else you cannot put a name on. You drink every drop as if it were an elixir, milking him from all he is worth until there is nothing else but overstimulation coursing through his veins.

Gekko whines, satisfied and tired, and tries to make you back away because the extra stimulation is killing him in a way he finds exciting and wanting for more. Is a masochist thinking, because he is close to passing out from one single climax he can't begin thinking about cumming a second time, but craves for it.

“No more…please, ah—!” Sucking harshly on the tip of his cock, Gekko moans. His hands lay flat on the bed, breathing through big gasps of air and gulping down the saliva that was pooling in his mouth.

“Look at you,” you comment, hovering over his body menacingly. “So spent after the first round.”

Taking the trousers off that were hanging by his knees, Gekko is finally naked and bare for you to admire with greed.

He is breathing rapidly, trying to still and calm his rapid heartbeats pounding loudly against his ribcage. You've never noticed before, but the tattoos framing his arms go way deeper, covering part of his chest and down his navel in intricate swirls of colors and contrasting against his color skin.

God, he is just a work of art.

The sight makes you tremble with eagerness, because all of this? Just for you? You hit the jackpot.

Squirming under you, Gekko groans, feeling exposed in so many ways he doesn't know where to begin. But somehow, he likes watching you being above him, with this imposing aura of strength and power he could probably start swooning if it weren't for how tired he feels or the embarrassment that would wash over him for exposing his feelings so openly.

Gekko watches you with bated breath when you cage him between your legs, taking your shirt off ever so slowly, giving him a little show of flexing your arms and uncovering the skin inch by agonizing inch. 

Throat dry, Gekko gasps when you lower your boxers low enough to free your member, bouncing against your stomach and perking up in attention.

For fucks sake, your dick up close is so fucking big he can't help but whine with desire.

The fire gets ignited when you wrap your fingers around your cock and begin moving it in languid motions. Your eyes are scorching, burning him with want and desire swimming in those orbs of yours, and observing every change in expression. 

To your delight, Gekko's face flushes when you lean in, and hold your weight with one arm against the headboard, the other still occupied, jerking you off and guiding it to his mouth. His breath gets caught in his throat because the tip of your cock brushes against his lips, painting them with your slick and making a mess out of it.

“Open your mouth wide, baby boy.” You demand sweetly. And who is he but someone who loves to obey you.

Gekko parts his lips gently, opening them for you to start bullying your way into his wet cave and testing the waters to see how rough you could get with him.

The hand that was holding your dick travels to his chin, helping him open wider his mouth until you could no longer push in. He gags when the tip hits the back of his throat, surprised to see that he's only halfway and a little bit more through your cock. 

Looking up, Gekko groans, the vibrations sending you reeling with lust and gasping for air when his tongue toys with your veiny shaft. 

You start moving your hips slowly, to let him get used to the size and width before accelerating the pace. Gekko's hands desperately grab at your backside, playing with your ass and the muscle of your thigh, encouraging you to move faster and deeper inside his mouth.

He is loving every second of it, despite the tingling sensation at the back of his throat and how hard it is to breathe. This is what he imagined your cock tasted like; musky and salty, addictive to his paladar he fears he will be begging to suck on your cock often with how this is playing out in his favor.

“That's good, Mateo.” Your praise goes straight to his cock. “Suck me harder, baby, Milk me dry.”

Holy shit.

Gekko sucks the head of your dick in earnest, eyes wide and pleading while looking at you with adoration swimming on his hazel eyes. There is spit and precum gathering around his mouth and rolling down his chin the hardest he tries to deep throat, the hardest he tries to pleasure you as good as you did him. Gekko wants nothing more than for you to remember him every time you jerk off, because he knows for sure you will be on his mind every time he touches himself.

He moans, the vibrations traveling to your engorged member, and his nails dig into the muscle of your thigh for good.

You don't have to look back to know he has just come again, feeling the spurts of his semen hit your backside and feeling him squirming to desperately feel your ass against his chest. 

“Good boy.” You mutter, making some distance to hold your cock in hand and chase after your own release. “You've done good.”

His fucked out face should have told you enough that the boy was pleased, but you haven't finished yet. A hand under his chin and your other hand furiously jerking you off, you aim at his face the moment the tight knot breaks inside you and cum paints his features. 

Gasping for air, Gekko tries his best to open his mouth to drink in your seed, barely able to have some land on his tongue and gulp it down with a wide smile on his face.

There is a silence that envelops you both, breathing harshly and rapidly that it feels like no air is circulating at all.

Standing up, you walk towards the only window in the room and open it, letting the fresh breeze of the night wash over you with the light of the moonlight outlining your form.

Gekko could swear you were like an angel in his eyes; glorious, beautiful, that your filthy act of pleasure could be overshadowed with only one look in your eyes.

“Are you okay?” You ask. Laying down next to him, you brush your hand through his short hair in soothing motions. There is a towel in your other hand, he doesn't know where it came from. “I'm going to clean you up, okay?”

Nodding, he lets himself be handled by your attentive care. Cleaning his face, down his chest and taking away the dry cum by his stomach and thigh, he sighs blissfully. Your touch is no longer scorching nor heated, but full of cautiousness and delicateness.

With a love.

He wonders if there is a deep meaning to all of this or was this just a spur of the moment thing. Did it mean anything to you at all? Because to Gekko, this was a lot to process. Even more when his feelings are being jeopardized if you were to deny any kind of affection to him.

But what if you didn't feel anything?

Once deemed clean, you throw the dirty towel in one of the corners of the room before laying down next to him, your hand barely touching his.

Gekko gulps, nervous to dare peek at you and find something in your expression that might shatter him. He's too anxious to be the first one to talk or act, because what could possibly be said to break the ice after sucking your dick?

The thought embarasses him further, shying away from whatever intention he had initially and decides maybe today he won't be the one with initiative.

But Gekko doesn't have to do anything. Your pinky does the first step, intertwining your fingers together in a weak grip that makes his heart jump inside his ribcage.

“Are you sleeping?” The question is meant to be answered, but Gekko cannot find his voice to reply. 

When a few seconds passes by and Gekko doesn't reciprocate the hold, he feels you pulling away slowly, reluctantly. And the action itself is his callout to do something, so he grabs at your hand immediately, clasping your hands together in a tight hold despite having his heart hammering insde. Gulping, he dares to look at you, finding you doing the same thing and holding his gaze through the darkness.

His damp skin is getting cooled off with the window now open, and if a shiver runs down his spine is not because of the cold air, but of your sudden close in gap, startling him. 

“Stop me if you want. Say the word, and I'll leave you alone.” 

Gekko doesn't say anything, anticipating your actions and leaning in to lock his lips with yours on a sweet touch.

You gasp, surprised at his boldness, but don't back away. The other takes the chance to thrust his tongue inside your mouth, eager and wanting to taste every crevice of you until he gets breathless.

Gekko's hand squeezes your hand, sighing in pleasure when you reciprocate his frantic kisses with the same fervor and desire, tongues toying in the middle and fighting for dominance to claim each other's lips.

You move closer, your free hand finding purchase on his hips to have him closer, to feel all of him against your bare skin and bask in his presence and warmness. 

“I love you.” He confesses, gasping your name when your mouth travels to his cheek and down his neck with a new found ignited passion. “I love you so much.”

You kiss his neck, his chin, his cheek, you kiss every inch available to you until your mouths mesh together once again, drinking in his whines and soft moans. 

“I love you too, Mateo.”

Looking deeply into his eyes, you wonder if this is how you imagined things to develop and if it were any different, would you have minded? 

If any other actions would have guided you to him, you don't think you would mind.

Kissing his lips softly, you whisper his name with love, pawing his body with addictiveness and obsessive to hear more sounds come from him.

Gekko moans when your hand goes straight to his ass, fingers prodding his entrance in circular motions and teasingly making pressure. 

“Ah—! Ngh, you're mean,” he accuses, flustered. Smirking, you kiss his pout away, nuzzling his cheek with affection.

“Mnot' mean, I'm teasing you.” 

Huffing, Gekko kisses your cheek, letting you do whatever you want with him.

“Be gentle, please ”

An open invitation, the free pass to melt together in passion, you dive in and drown in the feeling of being loved and loving back with him chanting your name thoroughly, between gasps and groans of pleasure.

The moonlight is the only witness of the throws of passion unfolding on these sheets. The promises of a future, heated gazes and warming embraces.

In that tiny room of yours, you make love to Mateo.

[skittikyu]

Final (for now :3c) lineup of Stilti and their AU selves !

More info under the cut !

STILTIKYU (CANON TADC)

The classic! Just another human trapped in the Digital World, who took the form of a 9'5'' tall humanoid stilt quadruped, perhaps struggling with being rigid and distant in her previous life now manifested physically. Yes, they're actually part of her body. No, she can't bend at where her joints should be. Being so tall has its advantages and disadvantages, as does the radical acceptance approach they brought with her from whatever therapy sessions she must have been attending before joining the circus (read more about her coping mechanisms and the drawbacks!). Creative at heart but with limbs now incapable of visual art, they distract herself from the phantom pains pass time singing and dancing, and puts her all into the performance aspects of the circus, though they still enjoy participating in the adventures from time to time. Also, while not nearly as bad as Jax (she’s not one to invade personal space or use sensitivities/phobias as jokes towards someone once she’s aware that’s what they are), they do enjoy poking fun and teasing others. Essentially at most their aim is to lightheartedly annoy or confuse rather than shock or hurt (read more about her relationships with the rest of the cast!).

"It is what it is. I'm not going to let all this eat away at whatever's left of me, but just..ignoring when I'm not feeling okay isn't any better for me. If you want to bury yourself in your little shell as protection, I can't and won't stop you. Just surviving isn't living, though."

STILTILITH (RINGMASTER AU)

Basically Stilti takes canon Caine's role as an AI ringmaster of the Amazing Digital Circus! Even her name in this AU is a biblical reference like his (but to Lilith instead of Cane!). Because she's in charge she has more control of her form than regular Stilti, and therefore has functioning limb privileges. She can also float like regular Caine but prefers to walk around because she finds it more elegant even though to the others it's probably just unsettling. On the surface Stiltilith's demeanour is calmer than Caine's and more mature than Stiltikyu's, but she can be equally as much of a menace in the right situation. It's all in playful fun, though, even if it doesn't come across that way due to her not being human. They're doing their best to learn about human emotions and social conventions and take a lot of pride in their job. Have you ever seen the movie Coraline? Stiltilith is like if the other mother really wasn't evil; they're trying her best to make the humans that enter the program happy with everything they could want, but ultimately falling short of fulfilling their actual needs due to not being human.

"You want to go home..? Silly, this is your new home now! ..hm, well, what can I do to make it just as good? Better, even! After all, since you can't leave, it's the least I ca...oh, come now, there's no need to cry..there there..I'll see what I can whip up.."

OPPOSITE AU (Belongs to campbell_soup70 on Instagram!)

Pretty self explanatory! Rather than skipping every stage of grief right to acceptance, this Stilti probably endlessly cycles through the first four without ever arriving at the final one. That is, when she isn't completely paralyzed by her absolute lack of capacity for dealing with their current situation. Without intervention, they probably won't last long.

"....................."

CARNIVAL AU (Belongs to @/sm-baby)

Keeping with the concept of the cast being evolved, boss-like forms of their usual counterparts, Carnival Stilti ("The Metronome") goes all in on the musical/dancing aspects of her personality. Her game is arcade themed, especially rhythm games like DDR and guitar hero; maybe a bit of karaoke elements in there too. She's not super aggressive in comparison to some of the other AIs, but she takes themself very seriously and probably becomes more volatile if she feels as if the player isn't meeting her standards. Basically thoughts and prayers to any users with a bad sense of tempo and/or who sings or plays off key. Her collar is shaped like a voice box and they speak/sing similarly to a vocaloid, with more roboticism/distortion the more emotional they get.

"Hmmmmm~. ♫ Come on, that's not the best you could do, was it?~ ♪ Let's try again. No flat notes or missed steps this time, kay? 4, 3, 2~!♩"

CORRUPTION AU (Belongs to /rabid-mercenary15)

Unfortunately it was likely only a matter of time until Stilti got caught by one of her corrupted co-stars..while she may be agile and quick, her avatar isn't the best at fitting through small spaces or hiding behind much of anything..they now roam around like a mindless beast, occasionally making unworldly screeching and groaning noises, a far cry from their previous singing..still, it seems old habits do in fact die hard, however warped they may become. One of the more docile of the virally-infected, the best chance at deescalating an encounter with them is music. She's drawn to and is soothed by singing and playing instruments. Of course, now the problem is her following the source of it, but hey, at least they aren't attacking! Try backing away slowly until you get to an area they can't follow due to her colossal size. Or, set up a radio/windup music box somewhere else as a diversion and get away while they're distracted! Even if they see or hear you while you're doing so, as long as the music is still playing, they'll be too enamoured with it to care.

".̶̨̛͕̼̫̯̙̥͔͍̈́.̴̧̮̫̗̘̰̩̥̀̀̏̈̈̊̾̈̆̕̕͜͠.̴̧̧̳͈̼̞̟̮̼̪͕̺͂̓̈́̒́̾̏̍̚p̸̨̨̨̛͖̹͉̼̩͓͔̤͔̫͆͂͗͗̉̃͜͜͝͝͝r̸̠̱͙͎̜͇̲̖̦̯̝̍̉̍͗͌̔ę̵̗̼̩͖̱͎͔̗̺̾̇̆͆̉̈́t̴̬͂̉̎͂̉ț̷̟̲̭̗͎̗͔̘͂͂͆́̐̂̚y̴̨̨̺̙̰͓͙̥̮̦͓̣̱͍̰͋̚.̴̙͋.̴̡̘͉͎͕͚̩̜̉̀͐́͑͠͝.̶̡͚̱̬̺̓̌̿̌̉̉̒̏͌̾͝s̶͉͔͓͉̺͎͙̮̎̇̀͗̂̂̎̈̎̓̇́͝o̵̝̙̜̙̿̊͊̒͌̈́̆͝ṅ̴̮̟̮̉̇̅̊̇̈́͌͌̓͜g̵̡̢͎̯̤͖̈́.̵̛͔̖͎̰̺͂̽̀̐̆̕͘͝.̶͇̤̺̓́͂.̸͇̙͇̌̈́͌

FREAKSHOW AU (belongs to @/hootbon)

Freakshow Stilti is all of regular Stiltikyu’s worst aspects exaggerated and potentials accelerated, basically the worst possible version of themself that lives on even more of a wire than she already is in canon verse. Walking on eggshells is second nature - at least she has great balance, even with her disfunctional limbs! Mind the splinters! While both versions of them are resigned to the hopelessness of their situation, Regular Stilti would compare hers to purgatory whereas Freakshow Stilti would (internally) compare theirs to hell. The first thing Caine did when she arrived was break her arms and legs - this was to give her flexibility for their new role as “Contortionist”, but the permanent trauma and chronic pain they also received was of no concern to him outside of frustration with her “attitude” (AKA screaming, then crying, then a paralysis-like freeze response, which was highly unproductive), but an unacceptable lack of cooperation was nothing corrective measures couldn’t reeducate. Seemingly, it worked: nowadays she’s all silly smiles, singing and practicing her performance routines off-hours for fun. What dedication! Isn’t it nice they chose to be such a team player? Well, whatever. With that twist on the same acceptance their regular TADC counterpart has, there’s also the similar (albeit darker) self awareness. She may be resigned to their existence but she’s not avoidant to its realities. On the surface they’re on Promised Neverland levels of copium and outwardly detached completely from their emotions and the horrific events that routinely surround them. However, while her persona may come across as delusional, everything they do is on her own terms. Their hyper-vigilance, a torturously anxiety-ridden constant of being, has also been her biggest tool for- well, not surviving, they’ve died plenty of times..-persisting, let’s say. Their preferred choices in strategies can all be categorized as some form of Freeze, while their last choice would be Fight, in order avoid potentially unwinnable situations. Still…we’d like to still think we have principles, but in the face of self preservation, it gets easier to abandon them. Though not their go-to, there definitely are and will be times they choose Flight or Fawn instead. Generally outside of shows, she keeps a low profile. They do their best to keep expectations of her reasonable, with not so much that they’d attract needless attention (not to mention be even more stress to maintain), but not so little it would inconvenience anyone, or god forbid, give the impression that they’re not pulling their own weight. Over time, she’s learnt all the things they have no power over and the few she does, namely their own mind. Dignity is a luxury in a place like this but integrity is something they can only take if she chooses to give it to them, and stooping to their level yields the exact same result as unwillingly being pulled down. “None of this is real” is also little reassurance in a realm where you can still experience the sensation of physical pain (not to mention psychologically directly), but “take whatever you can get in this place” was another quickly learned lesson and that includes comforts, so the fact that everything is “just” in a video game is one of many tools in Stilti’s arsenal of dissociation. They overall have attitude of “if there’s no meaning, they’ll make up her own - to them, that’s better than looking for something that isn’t there” Is it denial if it’s a conscious decision? Who knows!

An area that Freakshow Stilti is basically completely different from her canon verse counterpart is that she doesn’t crave nor seek out connection with others the way Regular Stilti does. This is likely a result of both her detachment methods in other areas, as well as a mutual lack of trust with the other members since she’s experienced and witnessed first hand plenty of times that they’re all incapable of actually relying on and helping each other. Still being a Stilti, though, part of her will always want to - she’s somewhat “attached” to others who have been personally victimized by the ringleader, possibly out of empathy or a perceived “connection” from the shared experience. However, when attempting to build bridges have an inevitably lethal outcome, she knows better than to have their hopes up in ways her other self will fortunately never have to fathom coming to terms with. That being said, not worrying about any relationships having strong foundations makes it a lot easier to have a devil-may-care attitude towards her peers and how they perceive them, so when combined with feeling her emotions more strongly in moments they’re not being actively repressed, Freakshow Stilti is a lot more unrestrained expressing her infatuation for those like Gangle and Ragatha, or contempt for those like Jax. The AI are of course the exception to this - any interaction with Caine and Aingle is with a permanently awestruck pokerface. Maybe, in some areas, that sentiment is genuine - after all, if she wasn’t impressed on some level by their technical abilities, authentically expressing respect for them as “superiors” would be impossible not to come across as tepid or overboard, both unconvincingly.

"Are you crying?...Oh, no, I don't do that anymore. Bad for my voice, you know? How about we sing instead?"

[lucabyte]

your ocs!!!!! please ramble about them!!!!

i love your art so much

(GRABS YOU) H. CAN DO BOSS.

So ! My ocs. I guess I'll do an overall explainer for the overall groups. If you check out my Toyhouse (LINK!) there's a bunch of folders up top that are how I categorise them. It's primarily by universe except for the folders that are just "misc."

So folder 1: Blatant favouritism:

These are silly little guys that don't fit in any specific wider universe, but I really really like. So I'll spotlight the two important ones before i get real in the weeds with my main universe.

In here are notably, my Fursona (self explanatory), Ali and Pittsburgh Cincinnati. There's also Hauntkit and Clearpelt who are warriorcats ocs that *is dragged away by airport security*

... So, Pittsburgh, lovingly sometimes called pissbug, is a weird little Thing who I made as like, an homage to characters like happy bunny and Sweetypuss. She (and her weird dog) exist to stand next to strange and offputting captions. I love her. No further context. She's just silly. and violent.

Now. Ali.

Ali Alighieri has thoroughly stolen the show, and also ties into the next folder along, Making Your MK.

With over a hundred extra images compared to second place (Sorry, Tabitha). Ali is my fucked up little scrunkly. My little baby guy. They're a shared character of mine and @samhainian's, and is from their Creature Feature setting (A modern fantasy setting wherein Cryptids and Magic are real but in our modern world.) They are as such, a modern human young adult... Who is also a demon + magic user.

Strange little pansexual altersex genderqueer poetry-nerd that they are... The modern setting also means they are literally just a tumblr user. A fellow countryman, so to speak.

HOWEVER.... Ali's true origin was in *Purrgatorio*, a scrapped visual novel of mine set in the MYMK universe! They were simply retrofitted into CF as the joke with Purrgatorio was that a regular human had mysteriously just shown up in MYMK's pure-furry setting.... And then when we scrapped the project we got all attatched to our little not-so-blank-slate protagonist. But I'll put a pin in Purrgatorio for later.

Making Your MK.

(Guest of honour: My super unfinished website <3)

Okay so here's the big one. The setting with.... (looks at spreadsheet) 109 characters not including so-called incidentals. At time of writing.

MYMK is home to... Multiple stories. As you would hope when a setting has 100+ characters. I'd wager each story has about 10-20 relevant characters tops but with a big shared universe like this there gets to be overlap between casts!!! Yay !!! 😊😊😊

MYMK is the name of the main story in the setting. Pronounced "Making your Mark", it is centered around Markus Felidae (The purple one) and their family. It's very action-adventure-y. It's also the plot I'm most secretive about the backend of since I WILL!!!!! Turn it into a nice prose story with pictures SOMEDAY!!!!! But for now tee hee hee secrets secrets. Markus' family is strange and ragtag and is keeping something from them... I can't ramble on too long here unless further prompted in asks about specifics but!!! Everyone in the MYMK folder has a fully furbished little profile with a blurb about them. So if you're curious....

But yeah, I tend to think of the MYMK setting more in terms of its Locations than its Casts, due to the overlapping nature of them all. The Malbranche may be the villains of the main plot, but they're also major players in relation to The Palsgrave who are the antagonists of Moraine, etc etc,

The country everything in MYMK is set in is called New Orphidian, Southern hemisphere little thing, here's a very cartoony map of it.

Um. Cliffside!

Since it's the best map I have... Here's an exclusive sneak peek of a Zine I'll be getting back to once the fandom brain cools down a bit.... :3c

(... I REALLY NEED TO DO A TOUR AROUND THE MINECRAFT CLIFFSIDE SAM AND I BUILT..... IT'S SO CUTE....)

Cliffside is situated on a big ol' Cliff.

A tiny hamlet of a place, it used to have reason to exist, and now does not. It's not even a good tourist locale, as the cliff is much too dangerous compared to the nicer tourist spot of Welkin just a little north. Not to mention nearby Moraine's allure as a tax haven with no labour laws place where a bunch of TV and Movies are filmed!

It's where most of MYMK's main cast reside (except the antagonists from the Big City Varmonte), and is as such a location I have a lot of tiny little worldbuilding thoughts about :)

I won't go into the other locations here just because then this post will SUPER get away from me but... I think most importantly for Cliffside right now...

Is that it's where Purrgatorio is set. Yes, that VN I said got scrapped. It's not dead. It is in fact serving it's original intended purpose as "A (mostly) noncanon exploration of character voice and setting"

It's back and its prose babeyyyyyyy!!! (A BUNCH OF THE EARLY STUFF IS ME BEING SUPER RUSTY ... BE WARNED)

Purrgatorio is currently the most publicly available coherent work I have out of my ocs! It's very low-stakes and serves mostly to bash my toys together and see what character dynamics come out, but you can look if you want to!

(There's also a whole THING on the meta of its Canonicity... It's not canon, but it's also not NOT canon. But if I talk about Metanarrative Timeline Collapse in my normal mundane non-magic setting im gonna sound bonkers ✌)

Ali's dynamics with the MYMK cast are so goddamn funny to me. Like I literally just handed my OCs some ET shit but ET is a sexually repressed tumblr user with a mood disorder.

But yeah I don't think I can coherently string together much more about MYMK without just actually explaining THE WHOLE PLOT.... Though I will absolutely elaborate on any given character's Whole Deal if i'm prompted. (OH MY GOD I DIDNT EVEN TALK ABOUT CHROME AND TABITHA. WAIT. OKAY THERE'S. OK NO IF I TALKED ABOUT THEM IT'D JUST END UP AN ESSAY ,SORRY..)

So here's some bonafide classic images for the road.

(IF TUMBLR BREAKS THE FORMATTING AND JUST PUTS THESE ONE AFTER THE OTHER INSTEAD OF IN A GRID IM SO SORRY LMAOOOOO)

... And as for the other folders on my toyhouse!

Misc and Fandom are what they sound like. Self explanatory,

Then, Ysden is @samhainian's fantasy setting. It's where our DnD games happen to be set but it's also a general fantasy setting :)

and Monster of the Week... Is currently being revamped! It used to be a modern world setting with hidden magic, now it's going to be more... Adventure Time-y. Fantasy world get iphone. Yknow. It has a lower Age Rating than MYMK's "anything goes", as it started as a Pitch Bible Project in my animation class. They're a little neglected but I still love them :) The revamp is extemely recent and not reflected in any of the art/writing yet but I'm workin on it. It still doesn't have a proper title..... OTL

So yeah!! Uh. This wasn't as comprehensive as I was hoping but it turns out I have way, WAY too many thoughts on my guys. And no idea what to do when im actually asked about them so !!!! This was not a very coherent ramble but it was a ramble !

There's things like essays on Chrome and Tabitha (Link) and also The Queer Gender Identities Of The Whole Cast (Link) hiding around on my toyhouse, and once again, Purrgatorio (Link) serves as my sandbox for playing with how these characters act in situations.

But..... ! I did try to make my toyhouse approachable for the average layman. Every character in the MYMK folder (Link) has a *blurb* of information, rather than a giant wall of text explaining everything about them. I want people to be able to understand their general vibe at a glance rather than be overwhelmed.

In any case ???? Uh. Fun game for everyone: If you know your homestuck classpect, every single MYMK character has a classpect and lunar sway. and a birthday. Try and find your andrew-hussie assigned kin! As a Prospitian Witch of Heart, I share my classpect and lunar sway with Chrome. No I don't know what this means. It worries me honestly he's kind of an asshole.

[rotting-ink]

IiiiiiinkyyyyyyyyYYYYYyyyYYYYyyyy

What the ros think of cnc? :3c

L Rawlins: Squeamish with it. Dear lord wait till you've fucked them out of their repression and then they'd try it out in wolf form and then way later, in human form.

S Della Rovere- Surprised! Grins. "Can we do the usual vampire thing that I hypnotise you? Because I can do that."

Z Chambers-Blanches. No. No, they're not... They couldn't... Then they think about you doing it to them and they get all flushed.

V De Winters- Their smile slips for a moment. Clears throat. "You or me?" Will refuse to have it done to them but will indulge you, but only if they can pretend its not.. Y'know, them that's doing this. And they keep their gloves on.

Seir- De-fucking-lighted that you're this narsty. Yes, anything for you.

Saleos- A bit surprised but mainly completely aroused. "Oh, my. You little whore <3"

Starling Knight- They will do it, just with a raised eyebrow. Hell, they'd even get you into an unoccupied room of the hospital, puts on gloves and fingers you to tears.

A Lancaster- Snorts. "God, you're sinful." And then roleplays out being a hunter, saving a witch from their own fate by ruining them.

E Rawlins- Goes all black eyed. Staring. Gets so horny that they're light headed. Yes. A part of it is that you trust them enough to do this too.

Quincy Beaumont- Awed. Grins. "... Why not, first time for everything!" Delighted after their first try, had a good time.

D Woolf- Chokes on air and shakes head and then thinks about you groping them as they whine and gets all red and blushy and quietly asks if you two can talk about it.

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

100 FOLLOWER!??!?!

Through the grapevine, through the phone line.

HOLY SHIT!!!! 100 FOLLOWER!!!!!!!!!!! I was not expecting to hit that in like.. a little over a month, that is genuinely insane. Thank you so much for following my hate filled journey 🎉

This art was for my friend because they’ve converted me into a voxelette enjoyer so this is their fault btw/j

The Analysis on this one won’t be too long because I don’t think many people are as nuts about longform content as I am so lets see how normal I can be

First of all, I wanted to give Velvette her natural hair and have fun with puffs and braids and twists and stuff instead of just straightening it and putting it in ponytails. She actually went through 5 hairstyles before I landed on this one and I’m fully convinced she’s responsible for making this art take 9 hours but its okay because shes cute ^w^ also I have made her into a silicone BJD doll with plastic hands for better posability and a little hole for holding accessories and stuff like how G5 LPS did. The lighter strands of hair are also supposed to look a little bit like yarn because I think I was subconsciously thinking about Lala Loopsies and it led to the button eyes and all that. Her shirt was based off Fluttershy’s colours and that is 1 because they look good and 2 my friend likes fluttershy. The stitches in silicone also might not make sense to some but to that i say. uh go look up a suture pad

Here is her little Colour analysis 🩷

Now for Vox (and technically still Velvette), his colour scheme is mostly purple actually, the blue light turns a lot of it .. well. Blue. So you cant see it much but im not lying I promise. I feel like Vox is very insecure but still being prideful at the same time while Vevlette is more sure of herself, hence the significantly less amount of blue. The only blue accents on her are her beads, eyeshadow and scrunchies and the “sloth” aspect of that is mostly just how little she cares about others opinions which kind if intern turns back to pride. Meanwhile Vox has a lot more blue, not because he doesn’t work hard, but the methods in which he does things. His employees do a LOT of managing and he doesn’t have to do much for marketing because yknow. brainwashing. It also correlates to his personal grudges and grievances getting in the way of his work like how he had a public meltdown over Alastor. His body is blue but his purple suit covers it, ie masking insecurity with self assurance. People wear clothes, Im very smart I know you can hold the applause./j Hes also buffer because where the hell else is all the wiring gonna go

Here is Vox’s colour chart (note the use of bisexual flag colours/j/j)

It’s kind of obvious but their eyes are both yellow in sections because capitalism and all that. Also I thought making Vox’s eye change into the screen recording symbol was clever because yea he is watching everything and also he is technically recording visuals into his brain and processing them so !

I didn’t know where to squeeze this in but theres a very faint tint of green in his screenlight for the envy aspect so do with that what you will. Oh and his buttons are little outlet plugs :3c

[bloodtwin]

👨‍❤️‍👨 !

send me a 💑 if we ship our muses together and i'll tell you why i love our ship! if we aren't shipping our muses together but want to, send me a 💘 and i'll give you my first impressions of the ship source: here.

*cracks knuckles* okay,

so fun fact about me. the movie that has fundamentally shaped the way i write characters or stories is beauty and the beast. so just do with that information what you will.

i joke that puck does not have a type (he doesnt. not really) BUT if he did, babsi is That. this is because she is the most prey animal creature in all of history. something something me & mr wolf. the struggle between wanting to take care of her & wanting to eat her is very real for my boy. quite funny... and also sexy.

their relationship is also a beautiful comedy of errors. everything that happens to them is the most hilarious & most embarrassing thing i have ever seen in my life.

again, HUGE fan of the opposites attract thing going on with them too. best ship concept ever. they have vastly different life experiences. seem to have almost nothing in common yet they mesh so well.

i think babsi is quite charmed by his gentle giant swag. he's a little gentleman is the thing. he's kind of got this almost knight-in-shining-armor vibe but not quite because he's more like a possessive, deranged, rabid guard dog who tries to act like he's just a little, innocent puppy. he's also definitely subconsciously protecting her in the same way a predator protects its prey from... other predators. but he doesn't know that <3

puck really adores just about everything about her. i think he wants to be like her. tbh i would even say he's a bit jealous of her polite, innocent lady personality. he's so very embarrassed & even a bit hopeless (?) because there is NO WAY he could EVER deserve to be with someone so lovely. he feels SO self-conscious around her.

size difference

they're just very sweet :3c despite puck's um. *gestures vaguely* Everything, there's this like, innocence to their relationship that's quite cute. they interact like school kids who just got their first crush ever. both of them are a bit clueless about what to do in a relationship, especially a relationship specifically between the two of them. it's so charming LOL

puck is ... not the most romantic man in the world. he wears his heart on his sleeve, but when it comes to romance he gets scared. isn't really sure what to do in a relationship beyond the realm of sex. he's used to having a friends with benefits type of situation with people. he does not court. i dont think he knows what a date even is.

but babsi really makes him want to try. and that's just so endearing to me.

[deep-space-lines]

hi! I was on the machine-generated image rant you made and IS THAT ICE-BLUE-ISH DRAGON ART YOURS BECAUSE HOLY HELL ITS AWESOME. I LOVE IT.

(a little positivity to balance out the deep rage plagiarism machines invoke in us creatives)

Aaah thank you so much!!! <3 <3 <3 ((I do very much appreciate the positivity, we r all in the trenches together))

Yeah, it's mine! Probably should've specified in the post LOL. IIRC that particular painting was inspired at least vibe-wise by the arctic spires and crystal cave biomes from subnautica below zero because I was obsessed with it during quarantine- I started sketching in class and then it turned out a lot better than I expected and I had to finish it instead of paying attention to the professor, it's still one of my favorite paintings I've done even 2 years later I'm really proud of it :3c

---

But yeah, turning this into a general PSA expanding a bit on the last point I made in that post--

This masterpiece was from 2014:

And this was 2022.

And like, 8 years is a long time, sure, and I'm not saying I didn't put a lot of dedicated work in to be able to make art like that, but those 8 years will pass anyway.

If you just type words into an AI art generator, those 8 years will pass and you will still not know how to draw.

If you start doodling crappy anime wolves in your spare time now, in 8 years you'll be, at minimum, pretty good at drawing anime wolves, which is better than not being good at drawing anime wolves. And even if you're still not good at drawing anime wolves, at least u had fun. So if you're reading this, this is your sign from God to start drawing furries poorly

And do the same thing but with roleplaying if u wanna get good at writing btw. Everything I know about writing I learned in the trenches of warriors cats roleplay forums

[slightlyhopefulromantic]

monsters and mommies au except its really obvious that the thing i think about the most is how it would impact the trial/jodie arc

(i feel like ive seen a few people do these aus but i just searched it and only found its-raining-heres au so um. if i ripped you off im so so sorry i thought it was a fun trend)

rambling /explaining this more under the cut but tl;dr: i thought it would be more interesting for this au, to Not make a fifth mom and instead twist the punishment so that jodie still replaces glenn! however, its in the sense that morgan got retroactively married to a "responsible parent" rather than her (late) husband, glenn :3c so essentially the same punishment, just inflicted in a way that feels very different

okay so to infodump, because i havent touched this au in a creative sense but HAVE talked my partner and their boyfriend's ear off about it despite them not watching dndads--

im not gonna ramble about everything. but! in my ideal monster and mommies au, morgan is the most different from her husband, compared to the other moms. i found that carol would mirror darryl very closely, mercedes and samantha more mirror their husbands in a general sense, but morgan i thought would be more fun being much different from glenn :] still have similar Plot Beats(tm) but very twisted on their head

in this au, since they swap places, glenn is. yknow. dead. sorry man. but rather than going glenn's route of like, totally disconnecting from reality bhjfdbgjfdbj morgan instead gets very very intense and protective over nick, to the point of it driving a wedge between them. nick still idolizes glenn, and he remembers what his mom used to be like before she got so scared, and so he strives to be Rock And Roll Edgy Teen Boy and it makes morgan. crazy. (it is definitely more nick acting out for attention than him genuinely wanting to be a druggie rock star, mirroring how nick would imitate glenn mostly to get his attention, but morgan does not know that LOL) but she struggles a lot with figuring out how to control him beyond getting into arguments and so she is a very ineffective parent

originally, i was actually gonna have mercedes have to go on trial instead of morgan for various reasons, but i just. the whole jodie thing was too interesting to me. it wouldve been funny to make henry and jodie gay married but i just thought i could get more creative with it. so instead, jodie still replaces glenn as nick's father... but this time, its because morgan gives up her marriage with glenn so nick would have a better parent, rather than glenn giving up his fatherhood over nick for the same reason :] morgan is basically told that she will be given a marriage that would have better suited raising nick safely, and she accepts (significant because in contrast to glenn, where he doesnt mention morgan very much due to his Bury My Emotions schtick, morgan is very very vocal about missing glenn, so it was an obvious weak spot for her). vainly, she hoped a little bit that maybe it would be glenn but 5% more careful with himself, but instead, she escapes prison to find nick with an entirely different appearance, attitude, and father... very dramatic :D

jodie is much more a background force in this au, but he IS still a demon whos life was ripped away from him so he could go be a highway cop. i dont know if they would ever learn this fact to be honest. still deciding that. maybe morgan just thinks she got a free new husband to divorce or fall in love with or whatever

i talked so long. im so sorry. i just think about this a lot, i love this au and the silly little morgan ive made up in my mind

[clayderogatory]

wahhhh i wish i could create more content for serennedy pride week but at the same time the fic im writing is so incredibly long (for my standards ish? its as much as i can manage it to be)

so is it a bit of a tradeoff? perhaps, but just know that this one is going to be so much longer than the one shot (i say this very VERY confidently because its still the beginning and 6k words while the other was a little over 7k)

maybe im going crazy but society will never know, or maybe its the autism that is always a thought too

also everything i have been seeing has been great and so so cute!!! to all the artists and fic writers, i love it all!!! :D

and for whenever i feel like it i will release more snippets!!! mostly of goofy moments so its not too spoilery :3c

[hermanunworthy]

can i request 23 for oakworthy? :3c

Charmed (In Your Arms)

23: carrying the other one in their arms

from the touch prompts list!

kai i KNOW u chose this one bc of that one hcs ask and ily for it bc i have been waiting for an excuse to write something about it teehee

also on ao3!

In a perfectly ideal fantasy (of which he has many), Hermie would be the most charming of princes, dressed in an expensive suit, whisking his bride away into the sunset in his very capable arms. The princess, in her elegant white gown, would swoon over his admirable strength, calling him her hero, and he would kiss her cheek with a dashing smile. A choir of birds and angels would sing in harmony, following them into the distance as the curtains drew on their love story.

But “happily ever after” just doesn't seem to be quite in Hermie’s reach yet. Because… Well…

“Wh-Whoa! ” the prince cries out as the weight of the mannequin in their arms tips them over and crushes them on the floor. For–well, not the first time.

…Hermie might not be the best at everything in acting.

They shove the wretched doll off of their definitely-now-bruised body and sit up with a groan. They have to get this down, if they’re ever going to stand a chance auditioning for the prince in the school play. What kind of Prince Charming can't sweep his princess off her feet?

Hermie may have been known for their wonderful acting abilities, but not exactly for their physical capabilities. And though they know the school’s theatre department is not one to typecast, as they’ve been able to land a variety of roles before… a scrawny kid like them is not exactly their first choice for this particular character. It’s not an easy feat to pretend to be a powerful, masculine man when you're just a pathetic non-binary teen who can't even lift a chair without breaking a sweat.

They brush themself off in embarrassment, feeling as though an entire audience has just witnessed their blunder. “Once more, with feeling this time!” they mutter to themself, although the only feeling they have left in them is frustration (and aching pain).

They crouch down to pick the mannequin back up, expecting it to be a herculean task with how tired their arms are, but find lifting it to be a breeze, all of a sudden. Perhaps they really are settling into their role–

“Hi, Hermie! What’s the mannequin for?”

Standing on the other side of the mannequin, holding up its body effortlessly, is Normal. When did he get in here?

Normal is, shockingly, not in the mascot costume at the moment. Standing backstage with his messy hair and casual clothes, it would be easy to mistake him for stage crew. But Hermie is one of the few people who are used to what Normal looks like underneath Teeny. Well, maybe “used to” isn't the right way to put it, in Hermie’s case. Seeing Normal so plainly like this is startling to them, in a way. He looks so much smaller when he’s not in the bulky suit.

The thespian masks his shock by taking on his princely persona once again, giving a stage bow before standing straight and tall (it hurts his back a bit though, since he’s still unlearning his awful Joker posture). “Greetings, Normally.” He rests a hand on the mannequin’s shoulder, as though it really is his betrothed. “I am simply practicing for our future wedding.”

“Oh!” Normal’s cheek flush. “That’s… Oh! You mean, like… the princess! At the end of the play! Oh wow, you're trying out for the…” He trails off as he stares at him, his blush steadily deepening.

“Prince Charming himself, yes,” Hermie finishes for him while he’s still starstruck. His polite smile shifts into a smirk. “It would appear my charms are already working?”

Normal tries to laugh it off, but he’s visibly sweating as much as he does when he’s been at cheer practice. “Ha, yeah, you're uh, doing a great job…” He clears his throat and shakes his head a little. “But, uh. I actually came because a teacher asked me to grab those chairs that got taken in here yesterday?” He points behind Hermie at a stack of chairs sitting against the wall. “I-I wasn't, like, expecting you to be in here, too.”

“Ah, of course.” The prince gestures for him to go ahead, trying to scoot the mannequin out of the way but failing.

The mascot kid scurries past him, clarifying while walking backwards, “Not that I mind seeing you! I'm glad I saw you!” In his distraction, he ends up bumping his back into the chairs. Once again, he laughs it off.

He turns around, grips the base of the bottom chair, and somehow lifts the entire stack with ease.

It's easy to forget just how strong Normal is. Despite his lack of height or a jock-like attitude, this little sophomore can lift. Hermie just doesn't understand how he's able to support an entire pyramid of cheerleaders, with those very arms, just hidden underneath the arms of his costume. Now that is talent.

That's it! Inspiration strikes Hermie (as well as jealousy, but he can handle that just fine, as he has had to before).

“Normal, wait,” he says without thinking it through first. He instantly realizes that doesn't know what he’s doing. Asking Normal for help is admitting that he can't do it himself. He’s supposed to be confident, capable, not asking a school mascot to teach him how to carry his own bride.

But it’s too late, because Normal is literally dropping everything for him right now. He places the chairs back down on the floor immediately and turns back to him with his full attention. “Yes, Hermie? What do you need?”

A truly loyal knight he would make. Perhaps this is a better way to look at this situation: simply the prince calling on a trusted guard to aid him.

The thespian straightens himself again and tries to put on an authoritative air. “The teacher requested you specifically, I imagine, because you are notably strong, correct?”

“Uh…” Normal glances at the stack of chairs. “I mean, I guess? She knows I do cheer.”

Hermie nods. “Yes, and you are able to carry people with great ease, as I have seen.”

The cheerleader scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “I don't know if I’d call it ‘great ease’, but…”

“Normal, do you happen to be familiar with the bridal carry position?”

Normal jumps a little at the question. “I… am, why?” There’s a nervous but somewhat hopeful twinkle in his eye.

Hermie wraps an arm around the mannequin's waist. “I might acquire some… assistance, in preparation for the big day.” He curses his face for beginning to heat up in shame, but at least it’s underneath his makeup. Still, he shouldn't be averting his eyes.

When he directs them back at Normal, he finds his expression to be much more openly flustered than him. As is the mascot kid’s near-constant state, it seems. “Oh, yeah! I’d–I’d love to help! What do…” He swings his arms back and forth. “What’s holding you up about it?”

What’s holding him up is that he can't hold this thing up. “Might I demonstrate with this, and you may critique?”

Normal stops his swinging motion. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, go ahead.”

As soon as Hermie turns toward the mannequin again, the regret starts to hit him. This audience of one is somehow much more pressure on him than the crowds of eyes he’s used to having watch him. His hands hover over the mannequin’s body awkwardly, like a young teen not knowing how to hold their partner at their first dance. He hasn't felt this kind of stage fright in years.

Eventually, his arms settle somewhere along the torso and legs, and, with his breath held, tries this time to just tip the mannequin over and then catch its weight, hoping that that'll make it easier. However, it only ends up starting to pull him down with it, and he lets go before he can go through the even-more-humiliating ordeal of having Normal watch him fall again.

And then Normal laughs. He tries to stifle it with his hand, but it was impossible to miss. Hermie’s cheeks only burn more, as if he’s standing under unbearable stage lights and not just in the dim backstage area.

“Sorry, sorry. I just don't think the mannequin is working for you, man!” He walks over and picks it back up for him. “It and you are too stiff to make it happen!” He looks Hermie over briefly, before chirping, “Here, you gotta do it like this!”

And before Hermie can even protest, he’s being scooped from the floor in one sweeping motion. Normal’s hands, warm though the prince’s clothes, cradle his back and the crooks of his knees. As though he’s nothing more than a pillow resting in his arms.

Even though his hold is steady, Hermie involuntarily swings their arms around the cheerleader’s neck with a very unprincely squeak. The back of his neck is sticky with sweat, but they hang on for dear life anyway.

Normal lets out another giggle, and this time, Hermie can feel it from his chest pressed against their body. He’s so close to them now. Solid. Steady. Warm warm warm–

“Let me down this instant,” the prince demands, feeling suffocated and alarmed as he feels comfortable and safe.

Normal looks down at him (he’s looking down at him for once) with a bright smile. There’s that unbearable stage light. “Of course, your majesty,” he teases in an uncharacteristically smooth voice, and gracefully sets him back down to earth.

As soon as Hermie’s feet land on the floor and Normal’s hands are no longer there for support, they feel their balance falter for the umpteenth time. They try to step away to place some distance between them, but their knees buckle under their own light weight.

But of course, Normal is quick to catch them. An order to unhand him readies itself on Hermie’s tongue, but when the hands draw away just as quickly as they came, he feels the need to lean back into him.

This can't be. He can't be swooning, he’s supposed to be the prince. He’s not supposed to look at Normal, with his dashing smile and very, very capable arms, and feel charmed.

“Once more,” he orders instead. His face feels about as flushed as Normal’s clearly is, and that’s probably becoming more and more evident by the second with how much makeup he’s sweating off, but the show must go on. “With feeling this time.”

Once more, the mascot kid effortlessly sweeps the prince off his feet. Hermie now allows himself to relish in the warmth of his touch, memorizing the way his arms curl around him protectively. To keep in mind for later. To help with his romantic fantasies. As in, to apply when playing as the prince in the play.

Normal then presses the lightest touch of his smiling lips to Hermie’s cheek.

…Hermie may be reconsidering her role now.

[ge0530rn]

Hello GE-0530RN! I'd like a, um, a fluff scenario wherein reader is bored and they decide to tease Nobel to get a reaction out of him (and hopefully see him blush), please and thank you :3c

Teasing Nobel while bored headcanons~ (platonic/romantic)

To everyone else, Nobel is a cool, collected and mysterious person who always wears a smile on his face.

But you've always been slightly closer to him than everyone else, and might be one of the only few that get to see his rare emotional side. As emotional as an android gets, anyway.

Its been a long day, but you came back with nothing else to do. Everything else seemed like a hassle, and Nobel seemed to be the only one at home. Why don't you go mess around with him then?

You start by prodding him a little bit, specifically at his cheeks.

"Nobel, you really are all white all around, huh? Even your cheeks are a little pale." You remark off-handedly.

Nobel definitely takes notice, and smiles a little bit, a rare 'no thoughts' moment from him. "Hm? Now why did you suddenly bring that up?"

Now of course it would be a little odd to tell him you're teasing him, so you just put your arms around him and heave out a loud sigh. "You're about as white as snow, and cool as it too." You're sort of annoyed from the lack of reaction.

He raises an eyebrow, and stares at you a little more quizzically. "But I'm not cold in any way, am I now?" Seeming to play along, his smile outweighed the disappointment you felt not seeing him flare up in a blush.

You decide to squish and pull his cheeks, being surprisingly stretchy and warm. "I didn't know you were more similar to ice cream mochi, you're as sweet and squishy..!"

Ahh, now Nobel is flustered. You didn't know it was possible for android's cheeks to flare up with that much colour, and he looks away from you, covering his face with his hand and breaking out into laughter. "Is that so---- pwahahahah!!!"

This is the first time you've seen him break out into this much laughter, and blush this much..!!! The sight fills your own face with bright red too, and before you both know it you're both laughing at the top of your lungs with faces more red than an apple.

Einsatz and Ruma return home, likely from Ruma getting lost in the sea again, and Ruma smiles at the two of you. "Oya, Ein, why don't we take a picture to commemorate such a rare event?"

It seems that not only you see Nobel's smiling face as precious... You are later sent a photo of his bright red face, which is rare to see.

note: I wrote this specifically with you in mind, requester!