theslumberinggod

[theslumberinggod]

I haven't posted any writing in so long...! Something is coming up, I promise! Life has been busy and I get distracted.

But, I find sometimes life operates in cycles, more for some than others. Rises and falls. If you are experiencing your own slump, a deep valley, whether it be with creative endeavors or something else entirely, please dont be discouraged!

The sun sets to rise! Keep aiming for the moon, you'll find that height again. I promise.

[theslumberinggod]

— I CAN SEE YOU ⊹₊⟡⋆

scaramouche x f!reader social media au

SUMMARY — you’ve been stanning scaramouche, a soloist, since before you can even remember. with the thinking that “he is out of your reach” and “we live in different worlds” already ingrained on your mind, just what are the odds that he already happens to be one of your stan account mutuals?

status: on-going | taglist: closed

genres: social media au, celebrity au, modern au, crack, fluff, a sprinkle of angst (?), hidden identities

extras: playlist — [click here] 🤍 (still a wip tho hehe)

author's notes:

3rd smau hello???

privacy (my ayato smau) spinoff !! scara will finally have his own story after 2? 3? years ToT

updates may be inconsistent, i don't have a posting schedule :>

again, idk what i'm doing haha

english is not my first language so expect grammatical and typographical errors (bear with me please :"D)

will contain swearing

ılıılıılıılıılı FEATURED ARTISTS. ---- sky.

----- scara.

TRACKLIST. ılıılıılıılıılı

intro (prologue): being a scara stan

track 01: him again ▸ track 02: make me track 03: not in public ▸ track 04: three months track 05: late ▸ track 06: our little secret track 07: nda ▸ track 08: we need progress track 09: rose-colored ▸ track 10: have you listened to my songs? track 11: lost ▸ track 12: skyshi track 13: tba ▸ track 14: tba track 15: tba ▸ track 16: tba track 17: tba ▸ track 18: tba

outro (epilogue): tba

TAGLIST I (closed; 50/50) @kararisa @aries-afk @aetherialcrafter @jamieexistss @lordbugs @aerisellesuchi @adres-tia @luvlockettt @kinichval @miiltrix @suzueuieeeee @automaticpatroltragedy @ahirusstuff @kyuki07 @kunikuni1819 @hungryreadingaddict @deariroha @rosieyama @slayzzz @tired-jaz @mellowberrie @kyouzki @riabriyn @ravenbc @lalalaloveallmydays @moonlitreveri3 @skyoverkill1 @xiaomainlmao @phoenix-eclipses @yomishen @anemosmybeloved @iaraluvs @kunikuzushiit @lockandkeys @yoursockstinks @idkwhattoputasmyusernme @d1gital-data @shyentsmissingink @liuaneee @najaemism @mywillt0live @aswiftiechildofapollo @toekissers @meigalaxy @nishiriks @executeher @verafunny @gl00muraaii @lily-isalittlegirl @just-a-hopeless-romantic

TAGLIST II (closed; 50/50) (can't mention bc tumblr limits 50 mentions per post :'( but rest assured you guys are added ^^)

@franaby @shrimplyasleep @scaraenthusiast1 @kyon-cherri @kunikissr @withnners @audristarzz @heusalettle @mayarisan @eternallykira-143 @cindywasneverhere @meowrenapurrdo @itsjustmillie @flowzel @ohmyfinggod @zuhahearts @scarasbaby @euphoraia @yotraumainthebuilding @pinkismyfavcolor @dazqa @jym-jazzily @usagiarchive @ddivilove @jinjjjia @axquella @qt-yhuji @jayzioxx @nishislcve @neuviloved @sayayy @ttalgi @crucnhice @vi0let-writes @ilovwfurina @meiudoll @theblueblub @featuredtofu @samyayaya @xianamin @aubriellamarie @b-bbytears @cl0udii-m00n @potteraep @dreamyy @cutiecupiid @liyahbug @atlatcaheart @akarisuzuk1 @saechiro

TAGLIST III (closed; 50/50)

@pglt19 @mochipls @3cst4syy @yuukigyatgyat @anqelkoz @fuyuscafe @knuiui @lun4rchive @reivelmin @amurotoorudesu @chiesnupi @karma-gisa @nomnom21 @sammybeefangirls @ddurandals @hotgirlshit5 @jenlickedem @lunavixia @dksfl920 @angelkazusstuff @eonsadr1ft @scaraswifeey @unhinged-atrocities @xxrexx @tiedsuccubus @enrions @pinxeajin @thegalaxyisunfolding @rvoulte @magica-ren @siasseltzers @deffenferofjustice @crimxeorcremeexistspeacefully @idexmids @viannasthings @dreamayy @mellowmochi030 @meowmewow7 @eternal-dokja @wrzloyd @iloveescara @axkushvii @ayayaaayyiire @lxkeeeee @shutingstar @jiminscarmex @help-whatdoimakemyusername @kangyeonie @liyan2u @a1-ic3

[theslumberinggod]

Boredom and Denial (Oneshot)

Summary: Scaramouche visits his greatest source of entertainment: You, and vehemently battles with feelings he'd rather not have.

Pairing: The Balladeer (Scaramouche) X Reader

•~°~•

A bored Balladeer was a dangerous Balladeer. This was a common known fact amongst anyone who were (unfortunately) acquainted with him. When one lives for so long life gets mundane fast, and when you're already disillusioned from life and filled with enough rage to fuel entire factories, you get a tempermental Harbinger known as Scaramouche.

There was an uncomfortable lull in the Fatui's efforts, leaving The Balladeer to fend for himself as his "coworkers" were engrossed in their own things (not that he particularly cared for their company anyways) and Il Dottore was currently otherwise occupied.

All spent on terrorizing his underlings The Balladeer waltzed out of his current place of stay into the eternal winter of Snezhnaya. This pathetic little town had one thing that might cure his boredom.

You.

You were an agent for the Fatui of some high ranking, mostly because you were highly skilled in a specific category. The Regrator valued you as an agent. As for what your skills were and why The Regrator fawned over you (the man's obsessiveness, faux, dramatic or real about everything was obnoxious...) Scaramouche did not know nor care. He only knew and cared that you were less boring than anyone else and conveniently nearby.

As for why it was you he sought out---Scaramouche knew why, but he didn't entertain the reason in the slightest. There was no room within his mechanical makings for anyone else but himself and his divine, unjustly withheld destiny. He told himself this repeatedly, you were just a means to an end. Another pawn, just like he, a tool, and today, an entertainer.

...and as for why Scaramouche knew where your private, personal residence was...he'd never tell.

Your house was rather nice. You had mora to spare, as one would working under Regrator and had plenty of years under their life. The house stood tall and strong in the cold weather, and despite the late hours lanternlight burned in the windows of what he knew was your study.

Walking up the past and tipping his hat to keep the blasted wind and snow out of his face, he didn't bother knocking. He just pressed a hand to the mechanical lock and sent a jolt of Electro, eyes flashing with the godly power and frying the lock instantly.

He kicked the door open, reeling in delight when he heard you yelp from your study and knock something over with a resounding crash. He then slammed the door shut with enough force to shake the house and mockingly called, "Honey, I'm home!"

He brushed snow off his shoulder but didn't bother wiping his boots. All little things to annoy you, to fire you up. He wanted to see how far he could push you. Whereas with those under his command he could be violent, with you he could not lest he face more trouble than what is worth (or so so he told himself that was the reason), so every other method it must be.

You appeared in the doorway, sword in hand, paintbrush in the other. You wore a apron over your fine clothes, smeared with colorful paints and your hair done up to keep out of your face. If you didn't look positively disorderly some older version of Scaramouche's self might've thought you looked charming in some ridiculously endearing way, but alas he was man with ambition tonight and completely overlooked it.

You lowered your sword when you spotted the Harbinger, raising a brow, candle-lit eyes trailing over to your ruined door. Satisfaction creeped into him when you noticed it, but it was destroyed when you shrugged.

"Ah, the esteemed Balladeer." Adding insult to injury, you grinned at him as if he were an old friend, bowing courteously before rising and setting aside your blade, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"None, little bird." The Balladeer tilted his head as he stared at you, already concocting another way to get under your skin, "Aren't you supposed to be working? Or are you entertaining that meaningless hobby if yours again?"

"Oh no, I'm on vacation," You say with a hum, "Would you like to see what I'm working on?"

"What? No, I didn't come here to entertain yout meaningless pass time," He rolled his eyes.

"Alright then. How about some tea? Or perhaps..." You paused, squinting your eyes in a harmlessly scrutinizing gaze he was not used to but was used to getting from you, "Your eyeliner is smudged."

"What?" The Puppet narrowed his indigo eyes, and turned to look in the ornate mirror you had hanging on the wall. Indeed, in some of his earlier attempts to quell his boredom he had smudged his carefully done eyeliner. "What about it?"

"I can fix it for you," You say with a small, mischievous smile as you dare take a step closer and muster the audacity to wave your still-wet paintbrush at him. You were too close, close enough if you were flick it you'd get the bright red pigment all over him.

"Absolutely not!" He made a shooing motion. "Don't you dare come at me with your blasted paints unless you'd like to loose hand. I came here for some tea."

You laughed, oh, oh it was a horrible sound. It grated on his ears and made his hollow chest fill with something warm.

"Alright then! One cup of bitter tea for the Balladeer," You hummed to yourself as you began to walk off towards the kitchen.

He followed you, turning up a nose and laughing in mockery when he noticed your new decorations from your recent venture to Liyue, "Seriously? Those curtains? You must be kidding."

"The Regrator said the same thing," You shrugged nonchalantly as you entered your spacious kitchen to prepare some tea.

"What was the Regrator doing here?" The Balladeer snorted with a cheerless smile, suddenlyhaving the irrevocable urge to find the Harbinger and rip his throat out. "Did he waste time looking at your 'fine arts?' Or to chew you out for slacking off again?"

"Just a business meeting," Again, a nonchalant answer. Could he not say anything to make you upset? What was wrong with you? Or perhaps you were just good at hiding your feelings. Yes, that must be it. Some mortals were terribly good at it and boggled his mind. He could not imagine keeping his rage to himself nor stooping so low to do so. "The man can talk for hours."

"Abyss, don't get me started on that obsessive fool's ramblings," Scaramouche let out a huff purely to exaggerate his distaste for the man. He watched you prepare your tea, and dragged out a seat loudly, and sat down. He took his hat off and tossed it aside, and rose his feet on the table, his muddy shoes marring the nice surface.

You glanced over your shoulder as you set the kettle on the stove, "Mind taking your feet off the table? It's new, you know. Wood from Sumeru, made by carpenter in Liyue."

"I would mind, in fact," Scaramouche stated, draping an arm over the back of the chair and leaning, precariously balancing the chair on it's two back legs. He tilted his head back and halfway closed his eyes in a look of deceitful relaxation, "The walk here was arduous and my feet need a good rest. You'll be a good host, won't you and allow me that? I came all the way here just to see your pathetic little self."

You leaned against the counter and chuckled, "Oh, I didn't realize you walked so far, Balladeer! Yes, yes the five minute walk from the Fatui strong house to here is quite exhausting. The paved roads are slightly uneven, and the wind is slightly blowing, and the mostly clear skies are blinding with stars and the occasional gust of snowflakes. Of course your tired."

Scaramouche's eyes widened in disbelief at your words and tone. He laughed in indignation as he drew his feet of the table and gripped the edges with a hand, nails digging into the side and leaving purposeful indents.

"Pardon me? You dare use that tone on a Harbinger? I outrank you, little bird."

"I'm well aware, you remind every time you visit," You smiled brightly again, infuriatingly indifferent to his threats.

Everytime you visit, oh, you acknowledged it---the frequency in which he showed his face in this sorry place. He shoved the thought away.

"And I'll remind you again, brat. You're begging to be thrown out a window," Scaramouche rolled his eyes, "How does Pantalone even put up with your behavior?"

"Well, for starters, he doesn't," You turn and fill a cup with steaming, bitter tea. "Thus, sarcasm is reserved for you, esteemed Balladeer. You make funny face when I do!"

"You little worm! I'll remind you again--"

You laughed (it didn't sound like music at all, he tells himself), and worked your way around the table, on the opposite end and Scaramouche would mentally cheer and find some satisfaction of the silent display of weariness, but you were out the door before he could gloat! With his tea! And he knew you physically couldn't tolerate what he liked (and he would not acknowledge he visited enough that you kept it in your cabinet) so what?!

He grabbed his hat and stalked after you, electro crackling and throwing the lights out. He watched you peek around the corner of the hall that led to your study, "Oh, you're coming! Come on, I need to show you something. It's neat!'

"I do not want to see the products of your stupid project, I want my blasted tea," Scaramouche demanded in a authoritive tone, but you simply looked him dead in the eyes.

"I know. Come get it, lazy-bum," You cackled as you dashed off, artfully keeping the drink from spilling over the edges. Scaramouche ran after, grabbing a vase off the nearby decorative side table, dumping the flowers and water out onto the plush carpet (oh he knew the flowers were expensive, that's why he grabbed it instead of the candelabra nearby) and following you with thunderous steps into your study.

Scaramouche's eyes were immediately assaulted with vibrant color, nose affronted with the smell of paint, and ears disgraced with the sound of orchestral music playing softly on a record player in the corner of your chaotic study.

Canvases ranging from small to large littered the walls and numerous easels, shelves and tables of paints and sketches were littered about. To the left of the easel facing the window (hiding the canvas from his view) was a knocked over bucket of thick black paint you had carefully stepped aside. You looked over at Scaramouche, eyes wide when you saw the vase.

He hurled it, grinding his teeth together when you deftly dodged. The vase shattered loudly into thick pieces on the wall, and you looked at The Harbinger with finally some sign of discontent.

"Aw," You say with a deep frown, "That was from Liyue."

"Oh boohoo," Scaramouche growled as he stalked closer, kicking aside the fallen paint bucket. "What are you going to---"

He stopped dead, now in view of the project you so desperately wanted to show him. Scaramouche took a few moments to register what he was looking at, and leaned back. "---what? This--eheha, ahahaha!"

There, on the large canvas, was him, the Balladeer. Painted in primarily black and red, ominous and daunting, the size of the canvas and the angle made him seem towering. He looked at you, bewildered and the fires of his ego thuroughly fed. You had the most annoyingly smug look on your face.

"What do you think?" You asked, tilting your paintbrush back and forth, "I can't quite get the eyeliner right, but I think the rest speaks to your character."

"It's...grand...ugh, why?" He demanded.

"Because," You shrugged. He glowered, unsatisfied and came to stand next to you and get in your face.

"That's a stupid answer, what's the real answer?" He demanded once more, and you grinned at him again. He loathed it. He loathed this stupid game, he loathed how his head reeled at the thought of you spending time with your head occupied with thoughts of him.

"Let me fix your eyeliner and I'll tell you," You bargain, the audacity! He looked over to the window to the right of him and seriously considered throwing it open and then throwing you out. Indigo eyes snapped back to the painting where you had clearly redone his face over and over. The whole painting really was wonderfully done despite it's unfinished paint. He could tell you had been spending a great deal of time on it. He loathed it. He loathed how his head reeled at the thought of you spending countless hours with your head occupied with thoughts of him.

"What in the name of the heretic gods? Why are you so fixated on fixing my eyeliner?" He raised a brow, then smirked wryly, "Why, you want to get close to me? Infatuated, perhaps?"

"Maybe. But, in all honesty, it's annoying! Your image is sullied by ruined lineart, let me be a good host--" You repeated his words back at him with a laugh, borderline mocking, "---and fix it for you."

"Gods, fine. Then tell me the answer to the purpose of your artwork."

Your eyes lit up, oh no! That was not the effect he wanted to have on you. He watched as you turned around, fishing a different set of paints and paintbrushes out of one of the many drawers in your study before turning back to him, holding a brush skillfully in hand.

"Alright, stay still," You say as you step into his personal space, the feeling immediately causing him to stiffen. Nonetheless, he rolled his eyes at your words.

"I know, don't coddle me." Scaramouche lifted a hand, pushing his hat back in mindfulness of the wide brim. He folded his arms as you lifted a cloth with your other hand to gently wipe away the smudged eyeliner.

And time slowed.

Your touch gentle and soft against skin that swords couldn't pierce, not pulling away at the crackle of electro that bubbled around his being like a bomb waiting to go off.

He could see the slightest furrow in your brow as you concentrated, the way your lips curved, every perfection snd imperfection on your face, the way lanternlight danced in your eyes, he could smell paint and you and you were so close.

You lifted your brush, slowly, skillfully painting on the red eyeliner. He suppressed a shudder as he felt your breath on his face, the cool paint doing little to ground him into reality.

Scaramouche, the Balladeer, the Harbinger who had done unspeakable things, had the sudden urge to lean forward and kiss you senseless.

It's lust, he screamed at himself. It's just lust.

He tells himself he doesn't want to cradle you in his arms gently, that he wanted to admit he liked how you kept tea for him, that he visited so often that he did, that you always let him in and insisted on dragging him closer, that he hated Pantalone spent more time with you than him, that he didn't want time to stop right here and now so he could live in your presence forever.

He told himself that you didn't feel like home.

That he didn't l---

You pulled away. The moment ended, and everything snapped back into focus and Scaramouche seized himself again, reminding himself of who and what he was and what he wanted and that it wasn't you.

It wasn't you.

"There!" You smiled, and it hurt to see. "All better, now, to answer your question--"

"I don't want to know," Scaramouche said with a harshness in his tone he hadn't intended but let out anyways. He reached, snatching the cup of now cold tea off the windowsill and downed it in one go. He caught a glimpse of your expression, some measure of confusion, dejection, and amusement. "I'll be leaving now. Stop wasting your time on painting, you have better things to be doing, you know."

He walked out, fuming as you chuckled incredulously to yourself with a shake of your head.

As The Balladeer walked back into the night, the eternal cold, he glanced over his shoulder. There you were, standing in your study window, and when your eyes locked you smiled and waved. He reached down and balled up snow, hurling it at your window with the might of a defyed god, the storm-proof window deflecting the hit.

He could hear your shriek, and riotous laughter as he stalked away.

He hated you.

•~°~•

A bored Wanderer was a troublesome Wanderer. This was a common known fact amongst all those in the Akademiya. When one has lived for so long and has repeatedly been kicked down in the dirt, ambitions made null and filled with enough rage induced disillusionment to fuel entire hurricanes, you get a mischievous assistant of Lesser Lord Kusanali known as The Wanderer.

The Wanderer strolled out of the House of Daena with a indifferently bored look in his eyes, having just finished proving the same argument wrong for the fifteenth time in the span of a month.

Nahida would probably chew him out later but it was her fault for giving him so little to do. For some wild reason, the God of Wisdom thought it wise to give The Wanderer a painfully empty schedule, leaving him with too much free time on his hands.

The upside was that Wanderer had less obligations, meaning less mandated interactions with mortals.

But this also meant more time occupied with his own thoughts, staring into sunsets and mulling over things he could never change.

So, entertainment via terrorizing the students in the Akademiya it was!

His next target was ahead of him, walking leisurely down a shaded path, admiring the emerald green foilage, the birds chirping. Things The Wanderer has seen a thousand times, things that lost their savor long before his previous incarnations snapped.

Judging by the uniform they wore, they were a new student. Perfect!

"Your class starts in ten minutes, you know," The Wanderer smoothly approached the student. "You wouldn't want to be--"

They turned. It was you.

Same eyes, same hair, same face, barely changed a day. There was a hardness in your eyes mixed with the luminance of the sun, a reminder of lantern light and the smell of paint.

All other questions he had disappeared, and he wanted to laugh. What were the odds, the cruel twists of so called fate, the ire judgement of gods---did he happen to see you again after everything?

"Ah, you must be the esteemed 'Hat Guy' I've heard so much about!" You smiled warmly, as if greeting an old friend, and it hurt knowing he was and you didn't know but you were just being You. You held your hand. The Wanderer's gaze trailed over new scars, stains of paint and charcoal from a hobby you clearly never let go of.

"....Yes, yes I am. And you are?" The Wanderer automatically replied, and took your hand reluctantly with longing he could barely keep inside. It was like a jolt of lightning through his system when his hands met your, and time slowed.

You may have forgotten him.

But he hadn't forget you.

He hadn't forgotten that he loved you.

[theslumberinggod]

The Dollmaker (Oneshot)

Summary: Upon retrieving a hat for a sour Wanderer, you discover something delightful about your friend, but miss entirely the muse of his makings.

Pairing: Wander X Reader

•~°~•

It felt like home invasion.

The amount of snark and crushing bluntness that came out of Wanderer's mouth painted most with a picture of who he was and they didn't think to look much deeper.

But, you knew better. Behind the disillusioned Hat Guy was someone who's lived a little too long, made a little more than a few mistakes, and had a little too much pain to know what to do with.

While you didn't know the of his extent of history you knew the effect---all colliding into the breathtaking visage of Hat Guy himself, someone who you admired for at least trying to nudge his path closer to the straight and narrow, albeit hesitantly and begrudgingly.

Wanderer was an incredibly private person, distrusting and conniving in every sense of the blistered words, yet--yet, in today's usual excursions he found himself stuck at some event with Lesser Lord Kusanali and the others, and his hat had decided that day to give out and in his words--- "The sun is a curse upon us all."

So you offered to get him another one of his hats from his home.

And to your utter surprise, delight, and horror, he agreed.

Yet, yet with that monumental display in trust that you suspected he was regretting, you still felt like your were invading his home. Why he had come to trust you, would would never know. You were un-beautiful, uncharming, and unlovely, yet perhaps that's why he tolerated you. Of all your awareness of the clockwork complicated man, that was one thing you couldn't piece together. But you digress, you have a task at hand.

Stepping into the modest space cleverly placed away from the street but not far enough to lose track of him, his home was unsurprisingly devoid of much of anything. He had little want or care for basic needs apparently, and you suspected he wasn't human with the way he took blows and the way he turned heads with his damn near otherwordly presence.

The quaint kitchen was empty save for cups, a teapot, a stove starter and boxes of that awful, bitter tea that made your tongue go numb. That is where the semblance of normalcy ended.

His living room was replaced with a workshop that made your raise a brow. Neat and orderly, organized to precision and top efficiency. An unfinished project drew your attention, sitting upright on the worktable with the tools neatly set aside and single consicse parchment with a blueprint.

A doll. An unfinished, elegant, wooden doll.

Shock rippled over you to the point you nearly laughed, and moved over to the worktable to take a better, tentative look. You never guessed Wander to be the creative type with the air of scrutiny he greeted every remotely charming thing, but you should've. His clothing was meticulously styled and picked out, despite wearing the exact same thing every day. His opinion was well informed and immovable--of course, pride of an artist.

Despite said hints of need for perfection, you couldn't help but notice the shelves around the little workshop lined, filled, no, stuffed with dolls. Dolls of cloth and twine to dolls of wood and iron. All placed on display. All made...

...lovingly.

Your snorted to yourself, but smiled, drawing your eyes back the unfinished doll. You inspected it's beauty despite the in-progress state. The gentle beginnings of a charming face, a smile (a real smile!), the subtle slope of shoulders and carefully curve of arms, all carved to assemble in some lively posture, no doubt to be dressed to the nines as the other dolls filling the room.

It was beautiful, charming, lovely.

You felt shame hammering on your sternum. You stood and turned, remember your task and nearly stubbed your toe on a large wooden chest. You made your way to Wanderer's bedroom, feeling once again you had invaded, seen something you weren't meant to.

Entering his uncomfortably bare bedroom felt less invasive. An untouched bed. An arched window perfect for descending through and a rug beneath the windowsill, slightly worn with the inprint of Inazuman-style shoes.

You wove past to the closet, and carefully picked out the perhaps over-decorated (but pleasing to the eye) kasa-like hat. You sigh, taking it into your arms, resuming on your quest and step out when you see a familiar person striding through the center of the small house.

"You," Wanderer sneered, reinforcing the feeling of home intrusion. "How are you so fast?"

"Took a shortcut. Here's your hat," You manage to say, keeping yourself from stammering out apologies, reminding yourself he's the one who told you to go to his house.

"...Thanks," Wanderer snatched the hat out of your hands, firmly resting it on his head, cobalt-electric eyes glancing away from you in what you could only have as the faintest flutters of embarrassment.

"I was getting your hat, did you think I wasn't?" You ask with somewhat forced wryness, trying to soothe whatever tension that settled in the air as if the spirit of Tatarasuna had appeared in the room.

"To get away from that brain-numbing demonstration, perhaps," The Wanderer aptly shot back.

"Aw c'mon, I have my loyalties," You say without thinking, and the Wanderer looks at you sharply with something this time you can't identify but can't label as real animosity, just that thing that made him more than most would peg him, the life too-long lived. The thing that made you both admire and adore him. "Besides, there is nothing in here to snoop around in."

"Get out," Wanderer said in a clipped tone, and you realize where his cutting gaze was so sharply affixed. The unfinished doll. You hadn't been meant to see that after all, and you flush in sheepishness borne out of your own lack of ignorance.

"Mhm. You got real skill by the way, the dolls are pretty," You say as you practically flee the residence, in the terror something less than friendly might be hurled at you. Wanderer does not, nor does he follow.

When you leave, he stared at the unfinished doll, then snaps his gaze to the slightly shifted chest from where you had stubbed your toe. He slowly deflated as he realized you had not, in fact snooped, and seen the dozens of other versions of said doll.

He'd capture that exact gleam in your eye eventually, the shape of your hands, the way you stood. At least, he told himself that.

He knew better than anyone else that achieving perfection from flawed hands was impossible, and somewhere deep inside he knew he just liked the idea of making your everything eternal, so just like the crude little doll that sat in his pocket, the reminder of what he'd lost, he'd never forget you.

[theslumberinggod]

For Enrichment! (Oneshot)

Summary: You teach Xiao what enrichment is, and he realizes how much you mean to him.

Pairing: Xiao X Reader

•~°~•

“Oh dear,” You voice reached Xiao’s pointed ears, gently tugging him out of his keen observation of the night-soaked marsh, “My nail-paint is fading.”

Golden eyes flicked over to you momentarily to catch a glimpse of your frown, before going back out to the sunset-stricken landscape ahead. The frown of yours stirred a concoction of emotions in his chest, eliciting a furrow of his brow as he wondered what there was to be so upset about from the artificial color of your nails fading as it always does. Few would he feel comfortable questioning, because few would he want for an answer he would value---but from you things were different.

“Why do you care so much about that nail color anyways? Why do you even paint them?” Xiao asked, soft voice tinged with its usual rasp and unintentional scrutinizing tone.

Ever patient you were, you looked up and smiled, illuminated by the moonlight. You were leaning perhaps a little languidly on the rail, and the thought flickers through his head how pretty you were against the backdrop of the marsh. He pulls his eyes away from you as you absentmindedly rubbed your nails.

“Well, first off,” You hum, “The color is less pretty when it's all faded. And secondly, it's just fun, you know?”

Xiao furrowed his brow. Fun was not in his vocabulary.

“Than,” He attempted to be gentler, letting himself surrender to the curiosity within, the strange and foreign desire sitting in his head like a nagging little thing, “What is the point?”

“Why, enrichment, of course!” You answer as if it was clear and plain. Folded arms, the Yaksha tapped his fingernails along his arm, slightly angling himself towards you but kept his eyes on the marsh, remaining diligent. Diligent and doubtful of your statement. “Life is meant to be enjoyed, at least sometimes, Xiao. Little pretty things in life are little and pretty, but doesn't that make them all add up into something wonderful?”

He turned the idea over in his head. Life---meant to be enjoyable.

“I still don't understand,” Xiao answered honestly. “I do not like my nails stained.”

“Well sure,” Patient. Patient you ever were, too many humans got so frustrated with him, and he with them, but the patience you displayed made him wonder if you lived longer than your captivating beauty led him to believe. “But my lovely demon hunter, what about Almond Tofu?”

Almond Tofu. Then it clicked. He did enjoy almond Tofu a great deal. Life he wasn't sure about it being meant to be enjoyed, but perhaps that belief of yours is what led you to him, because for some strange reason you saw him and decided to love him despite his blood-stained soul, so unworthy of devotion.

But he enjoyed Almond Tofu. He enjoyed a cool breeze, the peaceful moments before a patrol, the time spent with you, listening to your musings---the way you looked at him.

Away from the marsh surely crawling with things soon to be slayed, Xiao looked at you.

“To enrich life then?” Into your eyes he stared. He thinks you're enriching. Something fleeting, unexpected, but also here to stay. If you were not here, Xiao would simply go on as he did before. But, he thinks he would've lost something. This---you---were what humans called the spice of life, he thinks to himself. Perhaps more. Much more.

“To enrich life,” You nodded with asureness. “It's okay to indulge in little things every now and then, maybe pointless, but delightful nonetheless.”

You weren't pointless, not to Xiao. Not at all, he realizes in that moment. His own opinion forms; Enrichment was not pointless at all. You were enrichment. And you...

Desire struck him, and he inwardly cringed, tapping his fingers along his arm once more, golden stare intense. You did not shrink, he stood close.

“I…”

“Yes?”

Patient. Patient. Patient.

Beautiful.

He thinks you're breathtaking.

Maybe this once, he would indulge in enrichment other than Almond Tofu. So he leaned forward, and brushed his lips against yours. The feeling was like lightning coursing through him, wonderful and horribly alarming at the same time.

The blush on your cheeks, your wide eyes, the smile on your lips as you lifted a hand to touch your lips---yes that look…

It was Xiao’s enrichment.

You enriched his life.

You made it good.

[theslumberinggod]

Pink (Oneshot)

You seek out the Wanderer when you miss him, and mistake his blushing features for anger when it really doesn't, and he gets fed up with it.

Pairing: The Wanderer X Reader

•~°~•

“Watcha doing?” You ask as you peek around a corner. You had finally found your beloved friend after searching high and low for him. You were beginning to think he was avoiding you! In a lonely hall with sun streaming through narrow windows, the Wanderer sat at a small table with books neatly arranged around him. His hat was set aside, posture tense, and sharp, pale-blue glare fixed on you.

“Studying. Aren't you supposed to be doing the same?” How could ones voice be so soft and sharp at the same time? You mused to yourself as you flitted into the room and took your seat next to him with a cheeky grin. You looked over, noting how the sun spilled over his porcelain pale skin that somehow, miraculously never burned in Sumeru’s intense blaze.

“Yeah! But I wanted to see you,” You answer honestly. You caught on a while ago that The Wanderer responded pretty well to perfectly honest answers. You really did want to see him, maybe poke some fun and start some mischief. Considering you had interrupted him during his study time (which if we’re being honest, is just him scrutinizing and judging every detail of every book he's given) he’ll likely be a little miffed. You judged he was pretty miffed by the sudden furrow in his brows and the slight red on his ears.

“You can see me some other time,” He deprived you of his attention, turning back to his books, slender fingers turning old parchment carefully. “I’m busy, and so should you be if you ever hope to get a good score here.”

“Aw come onnn…” You leaned, bumping his shoulder. “Spare me five minutes! I haven't seen you since Tuesday.”

Your good friend (and crush, but we don't talk about that) ignored you continuously to make a point, tilting his hair and letting his perfect, charcoal black hair fall over the sides of his face, blocking you from seeing him. “Pretty please? Three minutes?”

You leaned, placing your arm on the table as you leaned dramatically, trying to get a look at his face. Following your motion, The Wanderer with all his pettiness within his soul tilted his head moreso, still blocking you from looking at him.

“No.”

“Why not? I want to spend a little time with my friend before Lesser Lord Kusanali sends him off to who knows where again!” Also not a lie. The Wanderer had a habit of simply just up and leaving to go who knows where. The rumors of why were numerous in the Akademiya halls, (as there is little else other entertainment other than one's own wild imaginations) but you knew it was simply part of The Wanderer’s agreements with Lesser Lord Kusanali. The details you were certainly privy to, thanks to one or more late night talks.

You watched as The Wanderer’s ears turned a deeper shade of pink. You frowned, realizing you must’ve certainly ticked him off. A pang of remorse struck through you and you leaned back. You know The Wanderer was endlessly a little agitated about everything, but in a ‘ugh why’ sort of way, never a genuinely angry way. But it seems today you picked the wrong time, and your dear friend didn't actually want your company.

Leaning back as you watch him grip his book harder, you speak, “But I see this isn't the best time---”

“No, no,” The Wanderer sat up straight, glaring at you. The pink had traveled to his cheeks and his lips set in a fine line, the picture of cherry-blossom tenseness. “You actually miss me?”

You avoid his gaze, his glare suddenly containing a different, intense quality that did not quite read like rage but you couldn't gage what it was either. Words jumbled up in your throat and you felt sitting up again would bring you too close to him, too close to those eyes of his, to the faint buzz around his being, remnants and hints at his divine inhumanity that was so terribly ironic to you.

“...W-well yeah. Of course I do! I miss you all the time.” You shut yourself before you could say more, fully aware that the words that just left your mouth held more emotion and meaning than a normal sentiment a normal friend would give.

“By the blasted Archons,” The Wanderer muttered under his breath. “I can't stand you sometimes, you know that? You drive me insane.”

In other circumstances, the words wouldn't have hurt, it would just be Wanderer being Wanderer, but you had just confessed that you genuinely missed him, and you knew that he knew you were being honest.

“Hey know! I get you’re in a bad mood but you can't just---” You sit up, looking at him with a burn behind your eyes when you notice the odd softness that's swept over his features. He laughs, the sound gently teasing.

“Not what I meant.”

“Then what did you---”

Once, you saw the Wanderer use his Anemo in combat. It was very interesting, like watching strings on a harp being plucked, barely kept into the mantle of the instrument. What you saw happen before you was similar, and for a split second you thought you were going to experience the miracle of flight.

But that's not what happened. Hands clutching your shoulders clumsily, gently, he pulled you forward, and kissed you in the same manner.

Oh. Oh!

He pulled away before you could even think about recuperating the soft kiss (soft, soft was not something you'd characterize Wanderer doing anything, but here you were!) and you already missed the subtle thrum of power that radiated off of him and the feeling of him being so close.

“I think I'm hallucinating,” You blurt, matter of factly. Your face is hot, you're absolutely reeling from what just occurred, pinned under the intense, studious gaze of Hat Guy himself. You lick your lips, then immediately gag at the bitter taste Wanderer has left on your lips. “Good Archons, I am not!”

The Wanderer laughs at you, the sound fills up the lonely hall. His ears and cheeks are pink still, his frame shakes with the uproarious melody that's harsh and lovely in a way only this man could ever pull off.

“You need to stop eating so much candy,” He says, reaching up and wiping his lips, turning away from you, back to his books as if he hadn't just kissed you.

“You need to stop drinking so much of that tea,” You try and sound irritated, but it doesn't work. Instead you fall quiet, sitting close to The Wanderer in the later afternoon sun that pours through the windows, enjoying his company.

Eventually however, you lean closer to him to again, and tease him just a bit more with a cheeky grin, drawing out that pink to his ears.

It's safe to say no studying got done on that sunny, sweet afternoon.

[theslumberinggod]

The Wanderer's Tagalong

[theslumberinggod]

Thinking of You Oft (Oneshot)

You have been kidnapped, and facing your untimely and inevitable death. But all you can think of are words unsaid and love not loved.

Pairing: Cyno X Reader

Other: Happy ending! I promise

•~°~•

“You know,” You sigh into the dry air, the shade of the ruined building you were in doing little to combat the heat, “I sometimes get the sense he feels he doesn’t have a true home.”

Your captor, Neth, scraggly with a vaguely wild look in his eyes looked up from the pit he was hastily digging artifacts out of. Exasperation was an underrated word on your fellow scholar’s face.

“What are you on about now?” He groaned, quickly turning back to his pile. “Do you ever shut up?”

“I’m talking about my best friend,” You quip tiredly, “I’m allowed to yap as much as I please, since I’m slowly bleeding out.”

“That’s your own fault, you moron,” Neth hissed at you, slipping further into the pit. Honestly, it sort of was. You weren’t paying attention as he dragged you down the crumbling stairs of the half-buried building. And well--you tripped, and fell forward onto broken railing, giving you a pretty nasty cut that Neth decided he wasn’t going to bother treating, since when he got what he wanted he was going to leave you to die anyways.

When you came to the revered Sumeru Akademiya you had no idea there’d be this much drama---in hindsight though, it made sense. There was too much power at play for there to not be. For the first few years, you only got to hear about it, but now you were the drama. There was something slightly ironic about it, since all you ever really wanted to do was just…learn.

Never once had it crossed your mind to break a rule. Like never once had it crossed your mind that maybe when you’re going down stairs, you should watch your step. Perhaps you got used to Cyno keeping you from hitting your head all those times, you mused with bittersweet somberness.

“Yeah, maybe,” You hum, laying on your side on the hard ground, wrists aching from where they tired, “But won’t you give this dying soul a little reprieve? It will be an interesting story to tell later.”

Neth furrowed his brows, “Gah! Fine, but let me know as soon as you see what I’m looking for!” He said as he tossed another artifact onto the floor in frustration. You winced, it certainly wasn’t the arcane device of mass destruction he had forced you to find, but it certainly was still valuable.

“Yay. Anyways, my friend---we’ve been friends for years at this point---tends to drown himself in his work. Which, considering his job is a good thing, he takes it seriously. But…he seems like he doesn’t know where to go when all is said and done, ya know?”

You looked up to the holes in the ceiling as you felt your own blood begin to drip down your sides under your clothes. You rolled onto your back, weakly pressing your arms to your side in an attempt to slow your fate. “I think he’s just torn, ya know? He’s from out here, the desert, but for the most part he grew up in the jungle. He has origins from all the way out here that pull him towards the dunes, but no one is…well, here for him. His dad is in the Akademiya.”

“How often do you think of this guy?” Neth grimaced, and you huffed out with a sigh.

“All the time. Especially since I’ve been kidnapped, fated to die. I really should’ve told him I loved him. I would’ve liked to be his home---they say true home is where the heart is. I would’ve loved to be that for him.”

The soon-to-be murderer groaned out loudly, “That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You call yourself a scholar, yet let your mind be occupied by thoughts of some…person! It’s disconcerting. Perhaps you do deserve to die.”

“Keep telling yourself that, buddy,” You whispered, sweat beading down your brow, a horrible fatigue settling on you, and you could only stare up at the ceiling, at the rays of hot Sumeru sun slipping through the gaping holes. What was this place? What stories did it once tell? How soon in the next sandstorm, would it all be buried?

When it was, would Cyno walk those dunes at night, to clear his head? Would he think of you too---does he think of you now? Would he think of you long after you’re gone? It’s too late you know, he’ll find you too late.

“You know,” You speak again into the dust you were soon to be a part of, “He tells good jokes. No one else likes them, but I think they’re hilarious. I wonder what jokes he’s come up with today.”

“Please, I can’t take it,” Neth hissed out again, aggravated by everything you were, “Who--who even is this freak?”

“The General Mahamatra Cyno,” You sighed sadly, lovingly, as the feeling grew worse, the faintness, the slight sense of panic, the cold, the weakness.

“...You’re kidding, right?” Neth looks at you directly in the eyes since he kidnapped you, fear all over his dirty face. You can’t help but chuckle.

“No. Not at all. He gives good hugs. I miss him,” You struggled to speak above a rasp, watching Neth pale in complete horror, “Even if I wasn’t, he’ll still find you. There’s no corner in Teyvat you can hide from him. He might not be able to save me, but he will find you.”

“Shut up,” He snapped. “You don’t know…what…”

Your kidnapper looked up and past you as black spots crawled into your vision, as the ground beneath felt warm with your own blood. There was a crackle in the air, the subtle sign of electro that tickled your skin.

“Found you.”

.

If the note tucked in the folds of General Mahamatra’s garb was the last words you ever spoke to him, he would never forgive himself. How could he be so blind? Why didn’t he look closer, to all the signs? It was one thing for a fool to run off on his own for the sake of his greediness, it was another to take a life in such a quest.

Had it been a stranger, Cyno would still be enraged with himself for his slip up. But it was you, and there were strings attached, ones he feared if they were severed---would break him.

He pulled the note out, standing under the hot, hot sun, dunes spread before in an endless sea of pale gold against the hazy blue of the sky.

Hello, Cyno!

Even though we don’t always get to hang out, I want to let you know I think of you, and should you ever need company or a friend, I will always welcome you into my home.

Lately I’ve taken to studying the ruins westward, not far from where you like to take your long walks.

Perhaps you’ll take me with you next time. I would love to enjoy the stars with you. - Thinking of you oft, Y/N

For the hundredth time, the General looked upon the hastily given note. You had been on your way to a meeting, you had said. You looked tired, as you so often did, so he did not think much of it. It was only when he read the sweet words that made his head spin and his heart soar for the third time he realized the cry in the note.

Cyno told himself as he marched that he should’ve known sooner, that something in the Akademiya was amiss, that Neth was up to no good. He had always been a little ambitious, but so were so many of the other students, and they had never crossed lines. Especially lines like these.

He should’ve known that your franticness that morning wasn’t from your usual rush to not be late, he should’ve known! It was his job, it was his duty! To not only enact the law but keep it, to make sure it wasn’t broken in the first place---and the one time he missed something, you were set as the price for his failing.

The General could not lose you, he could not lose his home.

Memories of a childhood forgotten, an origin beckoning him back, a duty and calling him pulling him the other way…Cyno often felt tired. But then he met you, and suddenly when returning from his long walks and many hunts, he did not find himself returning from a place he couldn’t quite settle in, or returning to a place he couldn’t quite call home, but returning to you.

He should’ve said it sooner!

So now when he holds you tight in his arms, stopping the bleeding in your side, he says it again and again, the words he should’ve said sooner.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…”

You still breathed, and your heart still beat, but Cyno didn’t know for how long. He only knew if he was just fast enough, maybe he could save you. Maybe you could wake to hear those words.

He did not stop for shade, he did not stop for night, as if he was on a hunt once again, not a hunt to bring down that hammer of justice, but to get his home back.

Over the dunes now soaked in nighttime blue, you are still unconscious in his arms. He took the time to listen to you breathe, hoping your lungs would never cease, praying and begging to gods old and new that you’d stay alive, to forgive him for messing up so terribly.

It was a beautiful night, he thinks to himself as he slides down carefully another slope of sand with you bundled securely in his arms. You would’ve loved it, he thinks. To see all these stars up in the sky, the whole universe on display, the moon beaming brightly down as his guide.

Your breathing shifted, shallow. No. Please no…

Cyno looked down to you, ruby red eyes violet in the dark of the night, his stoic expression changed with one of apprehension. You looked back up at him, awake, and alive. You drew in a deep, full breath, smiling in relief at him as you awoke.

You were alive. And you would live. It was not too late.

“...the moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

[theslumberinggod]

Peripheral of My Mind (Oneshot)

The General Mahamatra cannot get you out of his head, and it's troubling and embarrassing and wonderful.

Pairing: Cyno x Reader

•~°~•

The General Mahamatra prided himself in the ability to separate his work life from his non-work life---not that much existed of the latter. He was good at changing mindset, relaxing during breaks (destroying his colleagues and friends at TCG) and partaking in hobbies he enjoyed (telling jokes so bad people would beg the Archons to send them deaf).

Then you came into the mix. You made the lines Cyno carefully drew to help him separate the often brutal task of a Matra and well…being human, blur in an unprecedented way that was both pleasant in a strange twisted way, and incredibly annoying, even embarrassing.

You were a scholar at the Akademiya. You fell into the category of people Cyno must keep an eye on as a part of his job, however you also fell into another category of people which had a very short list of names. This shorter category of people were people Cyno decided he wouldn't have to worry about.

Tighnari was respectful of knowledge and such, and Alhaitham was rational and reliable, and ‘Hat Guy’ seemed too busy destroying his peers in verbal debates to consider trying anything drastic. And then there was you.

You were just you. Cyno was sure that you couldn’t commit a crime if you tried! With your luck, you’d probably run right into a Matra during a hypothetical crime. He couldn’t even think of a single scenario in which you would even want to---since your study was on rocks. What horrific crimes of forbidden knowledge could one want to pursue in the name of ‘greater good’ involving the forming of volcanic rock?

You being you in all of the pleasantness of one less soul to be concerned over…at least in the law sense, Cyno has saved you from many almost-falls down stairwells. This would not be an issue if the thoughts of you would just not follow him into his working hours.

When The General Mahamatra was set to work. thoughts of his social life were not on his mind. Any time not working on reports, participating in trials, investigating, patroling or tracking down wrong-doers during his working hours he contemplated and studied the law and the nature of the power that resided within him. If not that, meditation.

However even as he drags a sorry soul through the sand back towards Sumeru City, he could not help but think of you. Did you get any sleep today? Did you eat? What were you studying today, had you found anything that excited you particularly? Could he think of a pun that would elicit another delightful laugh from you?

“...That’s why it’s of the utmost importance! The Lesser Lord Kusanali would understand! It’s for the greater good!” The sorry soul begged as Cyno tugged him over the crest of an enormous sand dune with ease. The General snapped out of his thoughts, ever stoic gaze scarlet and hard as he looked over to his prisoner.

He had completely missed everything the foolish scholar had been saying. What were his excuses again? Cyno could probably guess.

“Save your pleadings for Lesser Lord Kusanali,” The General’s firm gaze and level voice shushed the wrong-doer, and they continued on their way through the hot desert. The new silence granted Cyno the quiet he needed to wrestle with himself to focus on the task ahead, and not you.

It seems he could not escape the thoughts of you. As he returned to Sumeru City and settled back into a more stable and familiar routine of reminding the Akademiya that law will be obeyed, you still danced in the corners of his mind. It was the most perplexing and frustrating thing, that you had somehow wormed your way past the barrier of his.

The halls of the palace stretched long and wide, warm Sumeru sun grazed his skin as he passed windows, dutiful on patrol. His route took him through the Akademiya and then the palace. Then his break would be in about three hours. He glanced out the window as he passed, noting where the sun hung in the azure sky above the trees, just to double check. He tried his best to contemplate today’s case, to use the new albeit same-y experience to enhance his watch, to better equip himself for future encounters but…

…You! You lingered there in his peripherals. He could not escape the thought of you, it was too tempting to dwell on. You looked holdable, Cyno thinks. Were you someone who would like to be held? What would your hands feel like in his? The thought alone is enough to make heat that was from the land’s natural temperature creep up his neck, to his face and ears, turning tawny skin a deeper shade.

A childish, silver-bell giggle interrupted The General’s thoughts. To his utter horror, Lesser Lord Kusanali had been walking down the hall, and he hadn’t even noticed. He paused, gripping his polearm and gave her a nod. “Lesser Lord Kusanali, may I help you?”

The fair-haired Dendro-Archon smiled, emerald-green eyes crinkling as she lifted a little hand and giggled again, “Oh nothing, General Mahamatra. I just can’t help but notice you seem distracted, is everything alright?”

Cyno’s ears burned, and he felt his mouth run dry. The only sign of anything amiss was the blush on his face and the split second he everted his sunset vermillion gaze away from his superior before he let out a soft breath, stealing himself. He was the General Mahamatra, he had spent years hardening himself to carry out the heavy burden in which he willfully took on.

“Everything is fine, Lesser Lord Kusanali, it has been a long day,” The excuse was good enough. He did just get back from tracking down a fool in the desert. Something flickered in the Archon’s eyes and the child, ever wise and intuitive, smiled sweetly up at him.

“Why don’t you take your break early, General? You’ve worked hard, you deserve it.” There was something in her tone---all the genuine fondness and kindness Archon Nahida was famous to have along with something else. Something knowing, almost teasing. What for?

Not one to argue with the Lesser Lord Kusanali, Cyno bowed his head, “Thank you, Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

In the most professional manner he could, Cyno fled, unable to comprehend why Archon Nahida was giggling to herself all the way down the hall. The General decided to use the break to get some food that wasn’t the rations he had to carry with him, and some water that wasn’t warm.

With helm and polearm set aside in his quarters he set off for his quest for food, stopping when he saw you. There you were, carrying books stacked precariously as you made your way down a small set of stairs. His heart raced as it often did just before combat and watched calmly as you struggled to make your way down, ready to leap into action.

“Hmm--oh hello General Mahamatra!” You smiled softly when you saw him, eyes alight in an expression no one else gave him. So many looked at him with indifference, weariness, fear, but you----that single expression on your face made Cyno feel like the most loved and important man in the world. “How was the--”

He was already moving as you missed a step, view blocked by your collection of books. He caught the tomes that slid off the top of your stack with one arm, and you with the other, arm out and kept you from falling face first into the rough, stone tile floor.

Your face darkened with blush and you laughed at yourself, and Cyno carefully stepped away, you and your holdable self with your holdable hands, with that sweet laughter and the presence that followed him frustratingly into every moment of his day, into the halls of secrets, into the world of law and justice, into the hot desert, into the dunes when it was cold and dark and quiet, you were there.

Right then and there, he decided there was nothing in this world that could keep you out of his working hours. He would just have to find a way to live with it.

The General insisted on carrying your books for you, making a dry, deadpan pun. One which you laughed at heartily, causing his face to heat up. As he followed you down the hall, he dearly hoped you had missed the way he looked at you longingly.

[theslumberinggod]

I have written a lot of things, and I very few stories have I actually finished. So it's been a huge achievement for me it actually finish writing something!

It was really, really sad for me to finish it. I loved this thing I made, with my own love and hands. I didn't expect to be so sad to be finished with it. I guess that just goes to show I did something right, that I've learned to love what I make, enough to mourn when it's time to be done.

But it's also been really fulfilling. I did it! I did a thing! I finished something, I told a complete story! It was scary and hard because I worry I won't do it right, and I probably didn't in a lot of aspects, but now I can go write more, and do more!

If you have something sitting on the cusp of being finished, please go complete. Give that story an ending. Your beautiful ideas deserve it.

Thank you for reading what I have to offer, and I hope it makes your day better.

[theslumberinggod]

The Wanderer's Tagalong, Part 9: Wouldn't

•~°~•

Enormous trees swayed in the storm, rain fell down in droves, brontide shook the dark sky, occasionally lit up by a sharp stroke of lightning. There was a chill in the air that mixed with Sumeru’s humidity, slipping through the cracks of the old abandoned building The Wanderer and his beloved tagalong had taken refuge in.

Wanderer’s arm was loosely slung around your waist, awkwardly yet comfortably positioned there. You leaned back into his shoulder, while his cheek brushed over your hair. His hat sheltered you both from stray droplets that slipped through the cracks of the just-good-enough shelter of yours.

Had you been anyone else who had plopped themselves down so close, pressing into his side and invading all scraps of his personal space, using his hat as shelter, they would have been launched into the stratosphere without a second thought.

But you weren’t just anyone else.

You lifted your sketchbook, angling the page towards him to show him what you had been working on, something inquiring spilling past your lips. He tilted his head slightly, following your charcoal-stained fingers as you pointed at what you had conjured. A ruin guard toppled over, with the Wanderer himself sitting triumphantly lazily on top, the posture of an unbothered conqueror.

The Wanderer chuckled, ego fueled and mixing with amusement at your clearly satirical depiction. With his free arm he reached, plucking the pencil out of your hand, ignoring the small noise of protest you made for drawing a little heart on the edge of the page before handing the pencil back to you.

You giggled, a delightful sound as he watched flush crawl from your cheeks to your ears, accompanied with a grin that made the scar on your cheek crinkle. You flipped to another page, the parchment crinkling softly and the sound of charcoal scraping thick and precise lines mingling with the sound of rain against stone and dilapidating wood, wind dragging through trees and gaps, and thunder gently shaking the air.

Tomorrow, you would both be in Sumeru City. For some weeks now, The Wanderer had been dreading his return. He was afraid (him, afraid! He was disgusted at the notion, but it was what it was) that when you both arrived, the end of your travels would mean the end of the companionship between you two.

You were a tagalong. Someone the Wanderer wouldn’t leave behind, at first to not perpetuate the awful cruelty of abandonment and betrayal that had been handed to him, something that he now knew you were already well acquainted with, a terrible thing in common that had spawned a sense of kinship.

Then you simply became a habit, so to speak. Then, a want, then a necessity. The Wanderer liked having you around, no, no he loved having you around. Never in his wildest dreams (if he dreamed) would he imagine letting a silly, adorable little mortal like you get so close to him.

But here you are. And though the end of the road approached, the end of the way of life they had both come rather accustomed to was near, the Wanderer had resolved he would never let you go. And he had a sneaking suspicion, with how stubbornly you stayed at his side---that you would never let him go either.

You slipped from his arms, the lack of your warmth noticeable as you leaned to grab your satchel. You carefully set down your sketchbook, leaning to guard it and the contents of your bag from the occasional drops of and splashes of water that slipped through the half-roof of your shelter.

The lack of your form being so close to his, something he had grown uncomfortably comfortable with spurred him to do something about it. He leaned, deftly grabbing your sketchbook and leaning back against the wall, tilting his head and casting his pale violet eyes over to you. You perked up, saying something with a furrow of your brows, words nothing but gibberish and nonsense, but the meaning thoroughly conveyed. ‘Give it back!’

You held out your hands, making a grabby motion, childish and delightful. The Wanderer could not stop the smug smirk from appearing on his lips, as he unclasped the sketchbook. He had not snooped through this one yet, and he watched your eyes widen as he stuck a thumb in a random place in the pages to go about seeing what you had drawn these past few weeks.

Curious. You had not quite had this dramatic of a reaction to him sifting unwelcomed through your sketchbook before. You lunged at him, closing the small distance between you and he lifted his arm, putting your sketchbook well out of your reach as you collided into him.

With a huff he tried pushing you off, but instead you stayed put, putting your hand on his shoulder and leaning your weight on him as you tried to retrieve your precious item.

“What’s in here that you don’t want me to see, hmm?” He purred out your name teasingly as he quite easily pushed you off. You yelped, falling backwards and he watched from the corner of his eye to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself as you fell back on the damp ground.

“Wanderer!” You yelled out in defeated protest, eyes wide and face graced with a glorious flush, the sight making The Wanderer feel funny inside. He ignored it, without warning falling backwards onto your midsection, drawing out a surprised squeak from you.

“Wanderer,” He said in a mocking tone, thumbing through your sketchbook, cleverly using his Anemo to keep stray rain from splashing onto the pages. He lifted his arms up, pushing his hat back to flip through the pages as you squirmed, trying to get free and grabbing at his arms to try and retrieve your precious item.

Your pages were filled with the usual, and he made a silent note that your art had changed, even improved. It made sense to him, as you spent so much time doing it in your free time. Once, he had little appreciation for art. It seemed a little pointless to him, but he had begun to find charm in the way you weaved beauty out of nothing, and perhaps he was just the slightest bit biased that the Wanderer seemed to be a subject of a great many of your drawings.

It seemed this time around, your sketchbook was mostly him. Didn’t you ever get tired of drawing him? Spending so many hours on the same person, the same eyes, the same lips, the same hands or---

“Wanderer!” You groaned out, having given up trying to free yourself from him, uselessly tugging on his arms. The Wanderer didn’t look it, but he could be impossibly strong if he wanted to be. He kept looking through the pages, ignoring your pleas, until he landed on one that made you fall silent.

Once again, you had drawn the two of you together. It was a start of a drawing, just quick strokes to indicate where everything ought to be placed. Both of you walked side by side, hands intertwined---

Your hand glanced over the Wanderer’s chest, slipping under his jacket and leaving that funny feeling with every touch. He froze, eyes widening as your fingers pressed down where his ribs would be. Warmth and a lightning like sensation jolted through him and he yelped, jumping upright as he escaped your attack.

You laughed, sitting up and taking the opportunity and grabbing your sketchbook, eyes filled with a mix of mirth and miffed. You clutched your item, holding it away and The Wanderer’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. To fall prey to such a stupid tactic, he regretted ever letting you know he was ticklish. He wanted to get payback.

But his mind was stuck on the feeling of your touch, and the drawing you had been working on. Just like that one he wondered if you ever finished--the one of them talking to each other so happily--it was now burned forever in his mind, imprinted on his ugly soul. Holding hands. Such an intimate gesture, that once he thought would be silly and stupid and no one could convince him to partake in, that there was not anyone in the whole world he’d ever consider letting that close.

But here you were.

It always came back to that, to you, didn’t it? All the things he used to be, to think, had all stayed the same yet all changed at once. He once hated conversation, but would do anything to hear you talk endlessly, he once hated company, but would do anything to feel your presence, he once hated touch, but would do anything to let him hold you, and wipe away your tears, and bring that sun-rivaling smile of yours to light.

You were that pull, the tug, the drag---one he was afraid of, one he was pretty sure was going to drive him crazy. You were the pull that moved the sea to reach to the moon, the pull that dragged rivers down the sides of cliffs in crashing cascades, the pull that lulled the wind into spilling back down and meeting the earth once more.

He could not imagine parting ways with you. Leaving you behind, just going back to his regular schedule. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Thunder rumbled, and you both stared at each other. He felt your eyes on him, they didn’t burn, but he felt it, you staring at him with some measure of apprehension but that lovely look of yours.

“Hey,” As he said your name his voice got all caught up in his throat, and he felt it, the walls closing in and the air becoming a little too cold as he fought himself for a moment of vulnerability, one the broken, burnt-black parts of him were sure you’d turn your nose up at, but he knew from experience you’d welcome. He held out his hand. “I love you.”

You had no idea what he just said. He knew you didn’t. But you listened anyway, without knowing what it could possibly mean. You took his hand, looking at him trying to figure out what he was trying to tell you with earnest want, a want you both shared. These words were words he’s never said to anyone, words he wished were said to him, he said again. “I love you.”

They felt wrong and awkward, but he knew with time, they’d feel right. He turned his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, and tugged you closer. Your eyes widened, your gaze intensified as all of your attention was zeroed in on The Wanderer. “I love you.”

His hands were shaking. He felt a little small, but you looked at him like he was the whole world. You squeezed his hand, and you were both close, and that pull was stronger than ever. He lifted his free hand, tilting his hat back so he could look at you better, eyes narrowing just a bit, suddenly aware of how close you both were. He could see the smudges of charcoal on your skin, each strand of hair out of place, the little scar on your cheek you got from your long travels in this world, the curve of your nose and the exact color of your eyes.

“I love you.”

He leaned forward, this time not resisting the pull, and closed the gap gently, clumsily, lovingly.

One day, he could let you in on all his clever quips, his jokes, his teasings. One day, you could hear him engage in a duel of wits with the other scholars. One day, he could understand every word you said, and hear you talk and talk, about this and that and all the things you found so funny and beautiful.

You could trade words for hours on end, and one day, you would understand it. You would both laugh, cry, jeer, scold, together. Oh, the glorious commentary on the mundanity of this world you would make together.

But right now, words were not needed.

The End.

•~°~•

Thank you so much for reading this series to its completion. I genuinely hope it brought you joy. I hope you have a wonderful day, you beautiful person. - Sleeping God

[theslumberinggod]

𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑻𝑶𝑹, 𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑻𝑶𝑹.ᐟ

xiao has been noticing some symptoms in you lately and decides to go to baizhu for some advice…

⟡ content — xiao x gn!reader ; absolute fluff, i'm talking very silly and cute ; baizhu and qiqi appearance ; reader has a massive crush on xiao and it goes utterly over his head ; but xiao is just trying his best to be caring ; 3.2k words

⟡ a/n — xiao lovers please rise 🙂‍↕️ banner art by dsmile9 on twitter!

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In his time as a doctor, Baizhu had seen it all. Every weird and wonderful thing about the human body. Every high and low of the human experience. He thought there was little that could shock him now. However, he was disproven at this very moment when the Conqueror of Demons showed up at Bubu Pharmacy.

There actually didn’t seem to be wrong with the yaksha in terms of ailments. No gaping wounds or visible signs of karmic corruption. Baizhu did observe that he appeared more bashful that usual with how tight his arms were folded across his chest, but he did well to hide it under his stone-faced expression.

What was wrong was that he was standing here.

Willingly standing here.

Not being dragged in a half-conscious state by little Qiqi or another one of his companions who certainly cared about his health more than himself.

If Xiao was at his doorstep, the situation must be rather serious.

“Conqueror of Demons,” he greeted, resting his chin on his hand. “Now, isn’t this a welcome surprise?”

Qiqi hopped down from her stool behind the counter, shuffling towards Xiao with unbelieving eyes. She poked at his leg, checking that it was really the yaksha in the flesh. Xiao let the young girl prod as he unfolded his arms and spoke.

“Baizhu, I need your assistance.”

A request for aid? From the Conqueror of Demons himself? Baizhu stood up straighter, his curiosity changing from amused to serious.

“I-it’s about Y/N.”

Ah, I should have known. Yes, he was familiar with you. The person who had brought Xiao to the pharmacy in the aftermath of a particularly dangerous patrol. He could never forget the worry carved into your face and the tenderness in how you brushed his hair away from his sweat slicked skin. As to your relationship together, he had his internal speculations, but never heard anything official as of yet.

Baizhu nodded. “Qiqi, would you mind closing up the pharmacy early today?”

He looked over at Xiao with a soft smile, “Come with me to the back. We can have a discussion there.”

The room Baizhu led Xiao into was reserved for consultations with patients who had more complicated presentations. The furniture inside were all crafted from the same dark wood with gold embellishments. It contained a bed with white linens, a chest of multiple drawers containing all sorts of herbalist components, a low table for working with accompanying stools and chairs, and a bamboo screen for privacy where a wash bucket and cloth were set up behind.

Rather than sit on the bed or in any available chair, Xiao chose to stand. Baizhu sat in his chair by the table, legs crossed. Qiqi joined them soon after, plopping herself onto a stool.

“What seems to be the problem?” Baizhu asked.

Xiao sighed, brow twisted with concern. It was probably the most emotion he had seen in the yaksha. “Y/N hasn’t been themself lately… I believe they might be ill, but I can’t conclude what the ailment is.”

“And may I ask why you came to me? Wouldn’t it make greater sense to have them see me directly than through a middle man?”

Xiao shook his head. “Each time I’ve asked about the state of their health, they dismiss me.”

“I see…” Baizhu hummed with understanding.

It wasn’t uncommon for people to ask about the condition of their loved ones. But to see the Conqueror of Demons show such care for someone despite his reclusive nature. Curious indeed.

“Well then,” he continued, taking his pen and flicking open a notebook in front of him to a fresh page, “what symptoms have you’ve observed so far?”

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patient has been showing signs of increased clumsiness…

Xiao wasn’t a master at interpreting emotion, but he was adept at observing them. Any flicker of change in someone or something’s manner could be the difference between blocking a strike or being fatally injured. Not that being in mortal danger applied to this situation right now, but the skill was transferrable. Right now, Xiao was observing you from the balcony of his room at Wangshu Inn. You were assiting Verr Goldet with hanging some new decorations far below. The boss, however, had currently been pulled aside to help an elderly couple with directions.

Standing on a step ladder, he watched as you hung up a red colored ornament to one of the lantern poles that lined the deck of the inn. His keen senses spiked. The combination of you on your tippy toes, the unstable structure supporting you, and your focus being entirely on hanging the decoration instead of yourself did not have many positive outcomes. Instantly, Xiao went from being on the topmost floor to behind you. Traces of his teleportation manifesting as green wisps of energy in the air.

You felt the ladder stabilize beneath your. Your heels fell back down as you stood properly.

“Thanks Goldet!” you called over your shoulder before turning around fully to ask, “Tell me, would the flower or butterfly one look better—”

The rest of your question caught in your throat. Verr Goldet was not there behind you. Rather, a certain teal haired protector who you had grown close to.

You were introduced to Xiao by Verr Goldet herself who believed it would be good for you and him to meet. Being apart of the adventurer’s guild meant that you had interacted with many different individuals, and could share your knowledge of the mortal world. As time passed, strangers would turn to acquaintances, then acquaintances would turn into friends. The label of which Xiao himself bestowed upon you on an ordinary afternoon. It made your heart both soar at the heartfelt admission and sink to hear such a definitive term. You always hoped there would be room for something more.

Xiao blinked up at you on the ladder. In a matter of seconds, he saw your eyes go wide with recognition, then your feet slipping against the ladder’s surface. Thankfully, he had reflexes as quick as an electro thunderstorm. You tumbled forward, straight into his arms.

“X-Xiao?!” you squeaked.

He didn’t let you go just yet. Instead, he tightened his hold on you, trying to let the shock of the fall pass over you.

“This ladder is too unbalanced,” he said. “You should be more careful.”

You could only nod. Your brain was more occupied with your proximity to Xiao. How you could see the different shades of amber in the irises of his eyes, and the shape of his lips.

Some part of your consciousness pinched itself, and you whipped your head away.

“I-I didn’t realize. That’s my mistake,” you answered with a sheepish chuckle.

He gave a short sigh before gently letting you stand. The places where his strong grip held you still tingled against your skin.

“Also… the flower one,” Xiao mumbled.

You cocked your head, thinking you had misheard him. “I’m sorry?”

Xiao folded his arms, nodding towards the lantern pole.

“You asked about the decorations. The flower one would… look nice.”

Never had such simple words caused a flutter in your stomach.

If that wasn’t enough, Xiao remained with you, lending a hand where he could. He didn’t want there to be an accident if he had left you alone. What he didn’t expect was that you seemed to be more clumsier as time continued. Unable to step on the ladder without your knees wobbling, tripping over the boxes of decorations, dropping the tools every time you went to hang a decoration up. Considerate as he was, Xiao climbed ladders, moved boxes, and hammered things in place for you without protest. Though, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but be concerned.

Verr Goldet returned to find the pair hard at work. She observed, amusingly, how obvious you were being about your feelings and how oblivious the other was in seeing them.

Ah, youth, she mused to herself.

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patient has been experiencing raised bodily temperature…

Telling Xiao not to worry was like telling the waters in Chenyu Vale not to flow. It was a simple law of nature; a force unable to be stopped.

“I’m feeling perfectly fine,” you emphasized for a second time.

You were seated on the small sofa in your living room. Beside you, Xiao also sat, straight-backed and gloved hands in his lap.

Xiao had come to your home to visit. Both out of curiosity as to how mortals lived in their own dwellings and curiosity about you. More specifically, why you had been so flushed recently. Whenever he saw you, he noticed the pink that spread from tips of your ears to apples of your cheeks.

“There are signs that show otherwise,” he stated, bluntly.

Ever since that time he helped you decorate the inn, Xiao had been much, much more attentive towards you. Eyes examining you up and down with little subtlety. Under such a gaze, how couldn’t you become hot and bothered?

“I am not familiar with mortal health, but I have noticed you’ve grown more…” Xiao searched for the right descriptor in his head, “…redder, recently.”

Archons, does he know about it?! you thought to yourself with alarm. He turned towards you, and you stifled a yelp. There was no way in Celestia this was how he would find out.

“It may be due to some kind of illness.”

It took a moment for his words to register in your head. An… illness?

Sensing the confusion on your face, Xiao moved nearer until he was right by your side. He lifted a hand up to your forehead, an action he had observed many adults perform on children to assess their temperature. If he was correct in its function, then this should allow him to draw an appropriate conclusion.

Your body locked up.

He was so, so close once again.

“Even now,” the slight gravel of his tone reverberated in your ears, “your face is heating up. It is likely a fever.”

He pulled away. You exhaled a breath that you subconsciously held.

“I can take you to see Baizhu. He will know what to do.”

Xiao stood up, implying that he would take you there right now.

“No, no! There’s absolutely no need!” you protested.

The emphatic rejection made Xiao frown.

“I-it’s nothing that bedrest can’t fix.” you said, attempting to provide a convincing cover. “There’s no need to waste your teleportation powers to transport me.”

“It is no waste if it concerns your health,” he answered.

“You know what,” you shot up from the sofa, “I’ll go to my room right now to get some sleep!”

Xiao opened his mouth, prepared with his own protest. However, you were faster than him in continuing your sentence.

“You should go now, Xiao. I wouldn’t want you to catch whatever sickness I have.”

Though he appreciated your consideration, as an adeptus with a completely different constitution, he was certain mortal ailments would hardly affect him. However, he couldn't explain all that to you with how fast you marched away to your room, leaving him behind.

He saw your head poke out from behind the door of your bedroom.

“Thank you for visiting me!” you called out before shutting the door.

If Xiao knew this word, he would have used it to describe the exact emotion he was feeling at this moment: Flabbergasted.

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patient’s heartrate is frequently elevated…

Even after the fever incident, Xiao, to your relief, still wished to see you. You half expected him to be so bewildered by your actions that he would no longer want to be associated with you. So, you two returned to your ordinary routines of meeting with each other.

Xiao liked having your company in the evenings before he went out on patrol. As you sat on the edge of his bed, you would tell him about your week’s completed commissions. For Xiao, it served many purposes. Tactically, he could get insight any threats to Liyue that he couldn’t detect if you were involved in or overheard any significant commissions. In those first instances of meeting with you, Xiao would have said that that was the only purpose your stories held for him. But, with each passing night, Xiao realized he rather enjoyed hearing your voice. The cadence of your tone soothed him the same way notes played by a skilled musician captured an audience. He then found his lips curving into a hidden smile whenever you described a particularly frustrating encounter. Cheeks puffed in annoyance that drew a word from his vocabulary that he seldom used: cute.

Tonight, however, you appeared to be in no such mood for stories.

You were quiet, slowly flipping through pages of a novel as you read. It wasn’t strange for you to complete your own activity during this time, but Xiao had come to anticipate your conversation. His concerns about your health bubbled to the surface once again.

If he had focused more closely on you, he would have seen that your attention was far from the words on the page. Not looking at Xiao meant your heart could be less out on your sleeve and instead encased within muscle and bone where its supposed to be.

Xiao glanced back at you, eyes glued to the novel. He wouldn’t push it. Maybe this was the rest you were speaking about previously to help you recover.

He grabbed his shoulder armor from the bedside table, preparing to put it on himself using one hand as he had done hundreds of times before.

Two hands grasped the armor, lifting it from his own grasp.

“Let me help you.”

Your voice was delicate, almost hesitant as you reached out.

Xiao wordlessly accepted, sitting down on the bed to grant you easier access. You adjusted the spiked armor piece, making sure it laid flat and the black material beneath was secure around his shoulder.

Whilst you didn’t look up at him, he freely observed you. There was something beneath your avoidant gaze and bitten lower lip he couldn’t quite decipher. At the same time, there was something in his chest that stirred.

So unfamiliar with these new emotions you seemed to bring for him, Xiao could only think in somethings.

“Thank you,” he said. “You are very kind.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “It’s always easier to have someone else helping you out.”

Fitting the amour in place, you went to pull away. Suddenly, Xiao caught your wrist with his hand.

The breath escaped your lungs. You blinked rapidly, wondering if you were imagining all this in your head. Xiao brought two fingers to your wrist, applying light pressure onto your skin.

“Your pulse...” concern laced his voice as he spoke. “It is quite fast.”

How could he even sense such a thing!? You cleared your throat, trying to temper your shock.

“It’s always naturally this high,” you answered as light-hearted as possible.

“Mhm,” Xiao could only hum with mild suspicion.

Willing his jade spear to materialize, Xiao weighed it in his hand, readying for the night’s patrol.

“Look after yourself,” he said gently. “I’ll return tomorrow.”

With a nod and a lilt in your voice you replied, “I know. You always do.”

Xiao headed to the balcony. He did not turn around to face you, and therefore missed your tender gaze and your fingers brushing over your wrist where his gloved touch still lingered on your skin.

Disappearing into the night, Xiao made up his mind. He would go consult Baizhu about your condition and see what the course of action he should take. Surely the well practiced doctor could provide some necessary answers.

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During the first part of Xiao’s recounts, Baizhu had a pretty good guess about what was happening with you. By the halfway point, he wondered if he should even continue feigning writing patient notes.

Xiao finished relaying his information, hands now on his hips—expectantly. “What do you think is happening?”

Baizhu tapped his pen against the page of the notebook. It certainly is a very special type of sickness… he thought to himself. How would Xiao react if he told him he diagnosed you with 'lovesickness'?

“Will Y/N be okay?” Qiqi asked, tugging on Baizhu’s white coat. “I like Y/N. They always give warm hugs.”

The doctor gave a reassuring smile and patted Qiqi’s head. “Yes, they’ll be alright. I’ve made my assessment.”

Xiao prepared himself. If it was serious, he needed to know how to best help you. Comparatively, Baizhu appeared not the least bit troubled. Turning to the adeptus, he drummed his fingers against the table.

“Did you notice a particular trend in the occurrence of these symptoms?”

“A trend?” Xiao repeated, resting his chin on his hand.

Maybe it had to do with the weather? Or something you had eaten on those days?

“Yes, they all seem to happen when you’re there,” Baizhu answered seeing Xiao unable to come to a conclusion. “Being more clumsy, feeling hot, a fast beating heart, but only around a certain someone…”

Xiao’s brows raised. “Am I the cause of Y/N’s illness? Is my karmic debt responsible for this?”

Baizhu shook his head immediately. “No, no, Archons no! I can assure you that these symptoms have nothing to do with your karma.”

He sighed, trying to switch his words. “Rather, it’s more to do with your… character.”

“My character?” Exasperated confusion was permanently affixed to Xiao’s face. “This ambiguity you speak with is unhelpful.”

Baizhu had done some tough things as a doctor. But trying to subtly hint to a somewhat emotionally unaware individual that someone had a crush on him was certainly one of the hardest.

He paused a moment. Was it really his place to reveal this? Wouldn’t it be far better, and more meaningful, for you to tell him on your own?

“Some symptoms that people report are actually very normal parts of everyday living,” he said, adopting his most professional tone. "My recommendation is for you to ask Y/N how they’ve been feeling recently, and to tell them that it’s never healthy to keep things bottled up inside.”

Finally, some advice for Xiao to action.

“You think I should be more direct in my confrontation?” he asked.

“Yes, but not too much to arouse anxiety.”

Xiao nodded thoughtfully. He should have known that it didn’t have to be a physical illness—maybe your symptoms were a manifestation of stress or worry you were experiencing. Talking it out would be a good step. Even if he was not the most skilled at it, he would try anything to help you feel better.

“I will take your advice. Thank you, Baizhu.”

He bowed his head in thanks. Baizhu gave a hum of what sounded like satisfaction.

“Tell me how it all goes, Conqueror of Demons.”

Baizhu’s voice as he spoke was a little too singsong for Xiao’s taste. But, he was one of the best doctors in Liyue, so who was he to second guess his words?

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[theslumberinggod]

[ 3 + 1 ].

premise. in which entails your daily life being in a relationship with the one and only eccentric wanderer. (alternatively: wanderer's love for you comes in many forms. you welcome them all the same.)

warnings: established relationship, hurt-comfort, slice of life, wanderer is called kuni. jealousy (wanderer), angst. FLUFF fluff fluff. wanhida family goals

a/n: ITS SCARAMOUCHE WANDERER SEASON his event broke me btw [in tears]

BACK TO MASTERLIST || ASKBOX !

# observation one: unconventionally clingy

early on in your relationship, this side of the wanderer remains quite privy to himself alone. this is because he has a very, very uncanny similarity to an aggressive and guarded cat that hisses when given an ounce of affection.

this does not mean he doesn't like your outlandish and grand displays of affection, though; its actually the opposite. (LOL)

the true crux of the matter lies in his inability to let down his guarded pride to admit that he thinks your affection is his lifeblood. (basically, “ew, affection... do it again”)

he's a menace (affectionate), and if you were one for critiquing that aspect of his character, you wouldn't have been in a relationship with him by now, anyway.

however—there is always a however when it comes to him—this does not mean that wanderer doesn't come across points of anxiousness over the fact that his less than affable personality may be something you will grow sick of one day.

he knows he isn't the best choice of a romantic partner; seriously, what were you even thinking... but when he establishes that you are indeed now an irreplaceable part of his life (which will take a long time, good luck), he clings to you with a fierce desperation underneath all that thorn and bristle.

this is part of his visceral fear of abandonment—you are the one thing that he adores, cares for with his entire being (nahida as a close second), and to watch you slip away from him due to his own misgivings will spell out a death sentence for him.

(so please, treat him gently; cradle his cracked palms and broken psyche, and slowly, emphasis on slowly, but surely, he will learn to return in kind.)

this ‘clinginess’ comes forth in his proximity to you. once he has felt comfortable with your relationship, wanderer is quite unafraid to show how touchy he is in his own way.

whether that is to get groceries in your shared home, following after you like a second shadow when you go to the grand bazaar, or even shooing away people that harass you (tba), the wanderer's gaze and all his efforts are always directed to your will.

(you dubbed this as ‘scary cat boyfriend privilege’—and are rewarded with a painful flick to the forehead. ouch.)

—☆★☆—

“where are you going?” the slender hand that stops you from leaving your comfy bed does little to help your need to fall back into the blissful arms of sleep.

“just going to go get some water, kuni.”

waking up to the sight of the wanderer in all his divine glory certainly isn't one of the things you expected in your life, but you welcome it all the same. leaving a simple kiss to his forehead, you pry your hand away with a gentleness you reserve only for him.

he flushes, a lovely red adorning cheeks, to the span of his neck. oh, how you love seeing him melt.

“you won't take too long?”

he doesn't need to breathe, but he sucks in a breath anyway, face twisting to a deep set frown—your telltale sign that your kunikuzushi had a nightmare.

an unanswered question. you won't leave?

your hand caresses the silky soft strands of his purple hair, that in which wanderer nuzzles into. he doesn't seem keen on telling you, and you respect that. you'd wait for him as long as he'd like.

“of course i will. not going anywhere, silly.”

why would i? you convey in that same gesture. i love you.

the tightness of his face relaxes, his grip on your hand loosening. right—you weren't. (you were not going to abandon him.)

“hurry up and come back, then. it's far too early.” his voice is still thick with sleep, though that doesn't temper his signature sass at all.

i love you too. goes unsaid.

your grin sharpens, teasing. “aww, don't miss me too much, okay?”

anddd there's the signature scowl. “...never mind, don't come back.”

“hey!”

shuffling to hide his face from you, wanderer sports a genuine smile, hidden from your sight.

because in your presence, the wanderer stills, and all thoughts of a doomed eternity fall short of how he commits himself to you—wanderer loves and loves, loves you, for you nestle in the space his heart was meant to be, holding onto the mere wisps of your identity and weaving it into the mosaic of his soul.

it's silent save for when you plop yourself back to the bed, bearhugging wanderer and complaining about waking up early again because you stayed up all night playing tcg with him. (he's at 10 wins and 5 losses and he was not going to be caught lacking).

“you do realize that's entirely your fault, right?” he gloats. “it's not my fault my card bested that lawachurl of yours.”

“what?! no way, mister! my all geo team is still superior, mind you-”

once, wanderer wondered about the concept of infinity.

everlasting devotion. of unabashed care and trust. as he listens to your ramblings as the night falls to day, he figures that what you currently share fits that concept just fine.

# observation two: (very) jealous tendencies

it isn't in wanderer's intention to be jealous. well, so he says.

really, he isn't! after all, what was there to be jealous of? absurd! looks, intellect, an extensive range of vocabulary not limited to insults and creative verbal attacks; wanderer boasts quite the sizable number of pros that get most people falling at his feet. (his outward personality leaves much to be desired, however, but his snark does have a certain charm. probably).

and of all the bashful akademiya seniors and well-intentioned young women (and men), you managed to get into a relationship with this black cat of a derisive puppet. this is an achievement worthy of celebration, for not just anyone can take the wanderer and burrow into his many, many guarded walls and claim the title of being his lover.

yet, wanderer is the more jealous one in the relationship.

he knows that you won't cheat on him, and trusts that you won't look at others in such a way. but still, your boyfriend can't help but doubt. be patient when working out his jealousy, for it is a double edged sword—on one hand, wanderer was so adorable when he was jealous; sulky, clingy, hot you name it! and it was very flattering, knowing that he loved you enough to want to keep you all to himself.

but, the other side was quite... a piece of work. should you attempt to tease him about such a thing, it ends in three ways. one, him flying off to god knows where and leaving you alone (😐), two, restricting you from hugging and giving him affection (😭), and worse, giving you the silent treatment (😨). choose your ammunition wisely.

and from this, be prepared for the wanderer to monopolize your attention all to himself— with said admirers mysteriously off the grid or too afraid to approach you for fear of his wrath. i'll say it once: a jealous wanderer is a force to be reckoned with. (and we love him for it)

(he was chided endlessly by nahida for this; “you're scaring all the researchers that want to do a thesis review with [name]!” she says.

a sly smirk was his only reply).

—☆★☆—

“what, and here i thought he had more bark left in him.” wanderer huffs haughtily, with the researcher dashing away as if his life depended on it.

“you'll get scolded by nahida again, you know. i don't think the dendro archon's trusted aide should boast a terrifying reputation.”

he snorts. “lesser lord kusanali has better things to do than chide me for harassment.”

“but you don't have better things to do than scaring away poor kimiya?”

that gets you an eye roll that could reach massive highs of ‘what about it?’ from your boyfriend. “you're overthinking.” (translation: you're right).

“uh huh, sure i am.”

“whatever. who you talk to and interact with is none of my concern. it's not like i care about such things anyway.” he retorts. “i'm not possessive.”

so he says. “by the way, his pickup line was pathetic—‘are you anemo because your beauty blows me away’? atrocious.”

your eyebrow raises in return. really, who was speaking about “not caring” and then judging right after? well, it's fine because he was kinda right.... cyno would definitely get along with that guy.

“it was sincere! i think he has to be commended for his efforts, no?”

“you call that effort?” his face scrunches to a dissatisfied frown.

kinoya, kimiya—he doesn't even remember his name anymore. wanderer doesn't care for those that waste his time, and more especially to those that attempt to get close to you in particular. honestly, what a cheap trick.

and you! you were seriously humoring that moony researcher earlier. you even smiled at him! wanderer seethes, crossing his arms. “its quite irritating, knowing that they flock to you under the guise of—what was it he said? right, ‘shared academic pursuits.’ it was too obvious.”

“first of all: that's rude, second, he really needed help! anyone would feel sorry for him.” you tut, pinching the smooth of wanderer's palm. you wisely decide not to comment on how he immediately interlocks hands with you.

you snicker. “and he was only asking for advice on his research topic, silly.”

“hah! how nice — you're defending him now.” it's incredible how wanderer has the uncanny ability to be just like an annoyed cat that dunked itself into a bucket of cold water; and the way he frowns at you only makes you let out an even worse fit of laughter.

wanderer drinks in the sound, resonating it with the beat of his soul, your laugh the heartbeat echoing deep within his veins. he is reduced to nothing with you—with you, his face relaxes; wanderer may be indifferent to humans, but with you, your mere existence is enough for him to falter like a human, weaken like a human.

and weakly, perhaps in an attempt to save face, he speaks, “you didn't deny it.”

“deny what?”

“...defending him.” (if he were a cat, his ears would definitely fall flat right now).

you let out another light laugh, but sparing your lover the torment, you cling to the side of his arm instead.

“i never had such intentions.” stating it quite firmly, “i'm only saying that there's no competition to be made, darling.”

he gives you a skeptical look in return. “was there even any?”

“none at all.” you lean closer to him, and the wanderer leans into the touch of your hand on his cheek. “since you're winning.”

the flustered blush you receive and the subconscious squeeze of his hand in yours conveys all you need to say.

that did the trick. wanderer's smile is satisfied—smug. “clearly, you managed to make the right call for once.”

“well, i could hardly resist you.”

afterwards, you note that the wanderer's pace doesn't seem as fast as usual anymore. no matter the jaw dropped stares of others at the two of you cozying up together, he never let go of your hand once.

(the next day, kimiya comes to you with a sheepish smile saying that he'd like to focus on his own without your help.

“was it your doing?” you look at the wanderer by your bedside table fastening his vision in pace, voice deadpanning.

“hah? why would i waste my time over some insignificant mortal?” he replies, but as he's putting on his hat, you see him smile to himself.

that little...)

# observation three: secretly? protective/considerate (green flag!!)

if you ask anyone who knows the wanderer on a personal note, you'd find out that he is, indeed, quite considerate—hidden underneath alllll that snark and aloofness and haughtiness, the wanderer cares for those who have helped him in some way, and with you as his partner (romantic), that care is multiplied tenfold hundredfold.

this quality of his, despite being endearing on paper and practice, is reminiscent of that of an aggressive mother hen; if you count wanderer as a hen that pecks someone incessently to show his care.

he chides you like an exasperated young maiden, but the soft way he handles your bruised arm littered with injuries from your recent run in with some strange fontainian seahorse contradicts his harsh scoldings.

(“bested by a fish? are you serious?”

“excuse you, i needed to get it's horns for materials, okay?!”

“...remind me why i'm stuck with an idiot for a companion.”

“uh, because i have a great personality, and you love me?”

“a decision i've made that's quite hard to defend, honestly.”

you stick your tongue out at him. yes, his habits also become yours.)

or how he tells you you're hopeless at cooking, but always manages to excuse himself to cook for you the moment he notices even the slightest decline in your health. one concern though; he throws the bento towards your head—so minus points for domesticity. (...he has cut heart shapes into the vegetables before and has never been the same since.)

if there's anything you can count wanderer for, he will do it. you could ask him to attempt to pluck the very fabric of reality for you, string together the stars and leave them at your feet, and he will do so, huffing all the while (he never means it). he's just smitten like that; not that he would ever verbalize it—yet. his hushed and vulnerable whispers of asking you to let him stay by your side are your closest road to his admittance.

he will not serenade you with ‘shallow declarations of love,’ as he tells you, but you know that he will always be there for you, for better or for worse.

—☆★☆—

fury is an emotion wanderer was once very accustomed to—it reminds him of electric violet, of three betrayals and of yearning for a constitution he was never fated to reach.

and fury tugs at the strings of his being the moment he sees the droplets of tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision.

“who did it?” something bitter and violent manifests in his countenance, his vision pulsing angrily with gales threatening to harm. (it does not harm you, though. it never does.) “who did this to you?”

his grip on your shoulders tightens the more you refuse to answer, both from anger and fear. you're never this silent; and his panic increases when you opt to bury yourself in his neck. wanderer sighs.

“hey. i'm asking who made you cry like this, idiot.”

“...”

“fine, i won't call you an idiot, then.” but impatient way he speaks the syllables that make your name betrays his worry. “just talk to me.”

“...can we just stay here like this?”

“....”

“sorry, that was a little-” you say, voice strained, pulling away; but the wanderer tugs you close, allowing you to hide from the world that seems so out to get you. (he knows that feeling well, after all.)

it's he who entangles himself with you, listening to the steady rise of your heartbeat, wiping away your tears.

“i didn't say you couldn't hug me, stupid. it's fine. do as you like.”

if it were a person that did this to you, that would've been better murder was never really out of the table with him, but when faced with something he is unable to solve for you; whether it be a bad day, bad luck, or even something he cannot control, wanderer finds himself at a loss.

because the concept of love, with you, is foreign—terrifying, even. betrayal and scorn were his guiding compass, and to be rid of it and to be seen by you, held by you, and to know that you were not going to follow in the footsteps of those he once clung to was far too good to believe. (yet he tries. for you.)

returning your embrace only passively, he tries to scramble for words of comfort—and when he fails to find the nerve to do so, he does the only thing he can allow himself to do.

with the kindness and gentleness he fostered (still fosters, thanks to you) from his memories as the kabukimono, the wanderer holds you, if only to remind himself of his place by your side, unchanging and adamant—as you remind him of his place beside yours.

he leads you to calm yourself down, albeit roughly as he tells you to stop fussing over trying to help him get you something wipe your tears with—and for all his flushed visage, he lets you cling to him, seeking his comfort.

i'm here, it goes unsaid. wanderer knows you'd pick up on it anyway. please talk to me.

(“if i die from this, i'll come haunt you as a ghost.” you shake like a leaf in his arms, clutched tight and staring at anywhere but the ground. who comforts someone by putting them almost 80 feet up in the air? heights are so not your thing.

“like i'd let you.” wanderer says, rolling his eyes. “and you're shaking too much. just keep your eyes on me, will you?”

“...was that flirting?”

“i will drop you.”

“wait, i'm kidding!” a particular breeze leaves you in goosebumps, with wanderer tightening his grip on you. “don't let me fall, please?”

“are you stupid?” he snaps, but urges you to look at the sight of the sunset on the horizon. his hold is more gentle this time, too. “why would i let you fall? now stop shaking and hold on to me.”

you think you fell just a little harder for him that day.)

—and if you decide to press a kiss to the back of his nape as a way of thanks, you're rewarded with a playful gale and a little zap to deter you in response.

“watch it, [name].” he says, but the shifty eyed way he doesn't meet your eyes isn't fooling anyone here; neither is the red on his cheeks. “you're too close.”

“hehe, sorry, sorry, couldn't resist.”

nonetheless. he supposes the growing smile on your face in place of your tears are sufficient payment for wanderer's efforts. hmph.

he'll let it slide for today.

(he does a lot of that when it comes to you.)

# deciding conclusion: totally in love with you (real not clickbait)

saying it outright: being with the wanderer is not a smooth road. it is full of hardships, hurt, and learning. there will be many times when his built in self destruction (read: abandonment issues) will kick in, hurting you in the process.

getting him to say ‘i love you’ will seem impossible at first, and there will be times when his doubt pierces your heart and renders it tattered to pieces. he's doing his best chat, pls help him

he will not be able to utter sweet words of adoration like you do, or return your embrace as easily as you would with him—and there will be many moments when he will feel as if he's not enough.

but nourish your affections, stay consistently by his side, show him that he is worth loving, worth staying for, and like the foundations of a steadily built tower, his trust and love for you too will grow.

(it will sometimes feel tiring, it will feel hopeless, and it's more than what you've bargained for, but it will all be worth it in the end.)

because you know he cares; it's in the way his expression morphs into helplessness when he sees your face fall in an argument, how he doesn't push you away when you kiss him and shower him with hugs, and when his hands lock tightly in yours in a sea of people, with you only in his sights. how his eyes betray him to look at you with fondness and warmth.

(it's wordless whenever wanderer decides to hold you tight at night, hugging you like his last lifeline. especially after a disagreement, with only the quietude of the night to observe.

he said some hurtful words today. that much he knows.

“are you asleep?” his voice is muffled against your shirt, and he may not need to breathe, but he inhales your scent anyway, memorizing the sight of you in his arms like a promise. “...you probably are.”

silence. “i'm sorry.”

“.....”

his lip trembles, his grasp on your arms bruising if not for your non-awareness. there's a wetness growing against your shirt, and small sniffles.

“i'm sorry.” and gently, so gently, wanderer presses his forehead against your shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of your body. “i shouldn't have snapped at you and told you those sorts of things.”

i'm sorry i hurt you.

please stay.

please don't let go of me.

i need you.

i love you.

when morning comes, you wake up to the sight of the wanderer in your bed, face nuzzled in your chest.

there are tearstains on his face.)

getting him to be open and vulnerable is akin to keeping a rusty, torn boat afloat; it will not be easy, no, but you know that he tries, (so very hard) to make it work. that he fights desperately against his own clumsily strung tethers and rebuilds himself anew, if only to understand and perceive you—to love you as you deserve.

and when that time comes, wanderer will cling to you, desperately, completely, and make sure your efforts will never ever make you regret giving him the chance to open up and be with you.

—☆★☆—

“what would happen if we ever broke up?”

dropping such a bombshell in the middle of having the wanderer on your lap was not how he thought things would go to, granted how pleasant the atmosphere was—he'd agreed to going on a much needed date (your words) with you after lesser lord kusanali had just graded him on one of his essay papers. (he got an a, obviously)

you don't think you've ever seen such a distraught look cross wanderer's face—aside from the time you finally beat him at tcg (5 out of 4); and you've never seen him look so angry either.

rather, he looked scared.

“what brought this idea on?” he tries to lodge out the words, trying to act coherent. but underneath, a storm brews—his hands are shaking. wanderer feels like he's swallowed a bag full of needles.

am i not doing enough? was i too harsh on them when i scolded them for fighting that damn mechanical desert robot? he's scared. or... do they really....

the mere idea of you being tired of him—sick of him, and ready to leave him behind leaves an ugly, disgusting feeling. like acid on his skin.

perhaps, you don't love him anymore? wanderer panics, senses going overdrive. was it that argument months ago when he hurt your feelings? he knows you know he apologized, and he's doing everything in his power to make sure he wasn't repeating that mistake anymore—but why would you say this out of nowhere?

or maybe it's because he didn't notice you feeling uncomfortable in your relationship? no, you would have definitely told him if so. then what is it? you don't just say things like this out of nowhere so seriously-

“i mean... at this point, i think i wouldn't ever want to break up with you.”

“...what?” wanderer blinks.

“you heard me.” cupping the sides of his face with your hands, you restate your words with more vigor. eyes determined. “i don't think i've ever loved someone so much as i love you. heck, not even close! kuni, if we break up, i might actually never recover.”

and the wanderer falls. how could you even say such a thing?

“that's... you're shameless.” he states it like an insult, but his hands go up to hide his eyes, hiding his embarrassment from your romantic words. “why would you even say something so out of pocket like that? you utter fool. you almost made me think i-”

- would lose you. even thinking it made him feel nauseous.

“why are we still dating then? but really, i mean it. i love you too much.” you coo, and that, in return, leads the wanderer to release an exasperated, weary sigh. if he were human, he's sure his blood pressure would never be normal because of you.

but contrary to his attitude, he relaxes his face and allows you to hold him. lightens up, even. you continue, rambling on, “be honest, you know you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

and that brings out such a bright and dazzling smile on your face that the puppets sarcastic smile is replaced by a real one when you huff and smack at his head. (all is well.)

“you're so unromantic.”

indeed, being with this strange, eccentric puppet was certainly a challenge in more ways than one. nonetheless, you know he cherishes you—because with you, the wanderer is different. he's bristly, infuriating, and honestly a pain (lovingly), but he cares for you.

he tells you to stop ogling at his pretty face and do the dishes, yet he never minds the attention at all. he tells you that you were a fool for accidentally getting yourself injured by eremites because you wanted to save some fungi, but follows you anyway and makes sure no one messes with you.

he says he probably wouldn't miss you while you're gone, but is always the first person you see when you return to sumeru city. it's these little things that make you love him, and you know the feeling is mutual—even if he'll act indifferent about it in the meantime.

“hey, kuni?”

wanderer's eyes are closed, serene. once he knew that you were not, in fact, going to break up with him, he relishes the feeling of his head resting on your lap. it was safe, warm, and everything to him; but he'd rather let the world burn before he tells you. “what?”

“thank you for letting me love you.”

....

“...idiot.” is all he says. you can feel him shift to the side so you won't see his face. “you don't have to thank me for that. that's so sappy...”

(and if you ever saw the slight sheen of glossiness in his eyes, you keep it to yourself.)

i should be thanking you. he thinks instead. i'm glad you love me.

so many things pop up in his head for this, so many unspoken words—and he may not be able to convey such things to you; he might never be able to, but you know that he loves, loves, and adores you.

because you accepted his past, his sins and his imperfections and treated him with tenderness and care. and you know that no matter how many sides of the wanderer you have yet to explore, you will love each one.

and that is enough for him to never let go.

a/n: IM CRYING I FINISHED THIS RIGHT ON TIME AFTER HIS EVENT and his growth has come so far,,, so proud of him 🥹

[theslumberinggod]

its so freeing when you realize you can literally write whatever you want 

[theslumberinggod]

Life Is Good (Zhongli X Reader)

You celebrate Zhongli's birthday from the comfort of your little cottage, reminiscing on how tumultuous life had once been.

Pairing: Zhongli X Reader

•~°~•

A deep chuckle reverberated through the air, “My dear, what have you been up to?”

Golden evening sun spilled through the humble cottage’s little arched windows, splashing on the utter disaster strewn about you. Pots and pans were stacked nearly to the ceiling, every surface was stained with some sort of ingredient, sugar, flour, and other necessary baking items were haphazardly left on the counter.  You stood there in your little kitchen, apron caked white in flour, sugar, eggs, hair messy, brows furrowed in a deeply serious expression.

You held your wooden spoon out like a weapon, brandishing it at your husband before he could take another step inside the small cooking space. 

“Not another step, my dearest,” You threatened, “I am not done with my surprise yet.”

Zhongli stood there, gloved hands placed behind his back, a brow raised. His golden eyes flicked over the disastrous scene, and the corner of his lips quirked up in a gentle, knowing smile. 

“But, I am already here…?”

“Shoo! Go get changed into something other than your work coat! You smell like the dead!” You stepped forward, frantically waving your hands. The state of your husband’s aroma was greatly exaggerated but it caused him to lift an arm to get a whiff of his sleeve. 

“Very well my dear,” He chuckled and turned, letting you chase him out of the small room into your shared bedroom. 

He let out a chuckle, shutting the door before you could protest further. Goodness that man! The nerve to come home early so randomly. You turned on your heel, flitting back into the kitchen to finalize your surprise. 

“I will call you out when I am ready, Zhongli!” Zhongli, Zhongli, Zhongli---it had taken some time for you to get used to calling him that. Something other than Rex Lapis, something other than his many, many names. 

As you attempted cleaning up, glancing out the window at rolling hills and rising mountains, catching sight of your chickens picking through the backyard, it dawned on you how idyllic this all was. 

Here you were, making a birthday cake for your husband of some-two thousand years or so in a little cottage on the outskirts of the capital of Liyue, without a single worry other than being this mess you had to clean, chickens to feed, and if this birthday cake turned out alright or not. 

You closed your eyes. 

Once, you were Miles Lapis, the sword to the word of the God of Contracts. He spoke, and you would carry his verdict out. The first Millelith, his most devout soldier.

Should you have to take up the blade again, should you once more face a battle where you waded knee deep in ichor and the bodies of friends and foe, you would do it. You would do it.

But you hoped that time wouldn’t be any time soon. 

You were enjoying this period of peace, this period, this chapter of a new life. 

You opened your eyes.

You exhaled shakily, peeling yourself away from the hallways of your mind, smiling to yourself at the domestic sight around you, shushing ghosts of the past for the pleasant aroma of the present. You went about decorating Zhongli’s cake, listening to him shuffle in your shared bedroom. 

“Is it ready yet, dear?” Zhongli called through the door. Oh no, he really had been patiently waiting and you had went and got lost in your thoughts again.

“Almost! Okay, you can come out, o sit at the table!” You called, not having to raise your voice much because of the small space of the home. Curiosity in his eyes, Zhongli stepped out. He had changed in  his ‘casual’ attire, which was really just a less tightly done up version of his work clothes. He always liked looking pristine, and you couldn’t complain, it was like an extra sugar coat to the eye candy he already was. 

The former Archon slipped out the small back door just past you as you dramatically used yourself to cover the cake, causing him to let out an amused noise. You watched with glee as he spotted the set table, a lacey tablecloth pulled over it with your best dishes set out, the patterns glinting in the setting sun. 

Hurriedly you discarded your apron and glanced in the mirror by the door, grimacing at the messy state of yourself, but shrugged it off. Zhongli has seen you in worse states---covered in blood that wasn’t yours and such. 

Wiping your hands off with a damp dishtowel, you grabbed the cake and shouldered through the rickety little door out onto the patio, endeared to the sight of Zhongli already soaking in the sight of the sun setting over the countryside, dragging the curtain of night from the highest arches of the endless sky sprawling above Liyue’s twisting landscape. 

You loved how he enjoyed every little thing. Every little day, and all it had to offer. He turned to you when you entered the porch, and you unabashedly grinned, holding up the cake. 

“Happy Birthday, Zhongli!” 

His eyes widened, and bemusement crossed his features, “This is wonderful darling but…my birthday?”

“You silly, handsome little dragon,” You shook your head, setting your glorious creation on the table, its size and weight enough to cause the poor thing to wobble a little. You plopped down in your chair, looking up at him. “Don’t tell me you forgot today was your own birthday?”

Zhongli let out a laugh as he leaned back in his chair. There was the slightest flush on his cheeks, a somewhat flustered expression only you could ever draw out with your terms of endearments and teasings, “I suppose I was quite caught up in the week. I’m the utmost grateful for your remembrance, or I would’ve missed out on this delightful thing you have conjured for me.”

You flushed, before reaching out and gently smacking his slender hands as he reached for the cutlery. “Thank you my darling, but I will be serving you.”

Zhongli chuckled, but made no comment on the human customs you had latched onto. Humans adored traditions, and even though you gave up your humanity a long time ago, you latched onto little bits and pieces like this. You cut him a sizable slice and handed it to him, eagerly watching him like a hawk as he took a small bite, polite as ever and savored the taste.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, “...Is this Old Sumeran Chocolate from…?”

“Yes,” You nodded rapidly, “I pulled some strings and called some favors, but I got my hands on some. It was quite sad watching this kind of chocolate disappear since it was our favorite, but I found out there are preservation efforts and I couldn’t help myself. I just had to.”

The way Zhongli smiled made the weeks of scrounging pocket change and wrangling Xiao and Lumine for help, writing letters, endless failed cakes and slaving hours away in the kitchen all worth it.

“You wonderful creature,” Zhongli closed his eyes as he took another bite, pure delight on his familiar features. “Do you remember the first time we had chocolate like this together?”

You furrowed your brows as you leaned to cut yourself a slice of cake, “I don’t think so. It was my go-to snack for so long until people stopped growing it.”

“You’re the one who introduced it to me,” He said with a hum, gentle and soft with his words, “It was just before battle, during the Archon War. Before the Millelith were established.”

You paused mid-slice of the cake. No wonder you didn’t remember that. That was before---before this. Before you and Zhongli sealed a contract that turned you into Miles Lapis, the First Millelith, his sword-arm, his.

Life had been a blur of panic, looming death and the crushing agony of loneliness. You had lost all you knew and loved long before that contract was sealed, long before the war finally ended. 

The chaos didn’t end after you and Rex Lapis became partners, not even the panic, the looming death, even the loneliness, but the cracks had been filled with Rex Lapis, your commander, your god, your friend, your something more. He had given you someone to love, and gave you someone to be loved by---a sturdy foundation for which stars could not remove.

You could only remember vividly the day it happened. The day the contract was proposed---sitting in the battlefield, the memory foggy but clear and sharp as a knife---

You pulled yourself out of your thoughts, away from the ghostly hallways in your head, once again immersed in the cool evening breeze, the golden light that made Zhongli’s eyes glow, the sprawling countryside filled with greens and beautiful hills and cliffsides, trees and flowers.

Zhongli, patiently eating his cake, here, at a small table, in a small cottage, celebrating his birthday---his 6-thousand-something birthday, but right now it was only his twenty-eighth birthday. 

“...Did it work? Did it lift your spirits?” You ask quietly as you focused on fixing yourself a piece of cake before taking a bite, savoring the delightful taste.

“Yes,” He smiled softly, lifting his eyes once again to you, “It was so unexpected. It was just a little chocolate. But it was precious---I realized that night you were quite precious, and I would be quite bereaved should I lose your presence.” 

You smiled bashfully, “We were both lucky I lived long enough for us to both come to the conclusion that we should not be separated.”

“You know there’s no such thing as luck,” Zhongli hummed, shaking his head.

“Is that so, my silly dragon? Look at your shirt. Surely you didn’t do that on purpose.”

He looked down, eyes narrowing at the sight of some frosting that had fallen onto his coat. He sighed, wiping it carefully off. “...I simply was too busy getting lost in your eyes and delicious cooking.”

Your face warmed at the compliments, heart aflutter---for even after all this time, he still managed to make you feel butterflies, “A flattering excuse, my darling.”

Conversation passed between the both of you as the sun began to disappear behind the mountains and the air chilled. All your chickens began to meander into their coop, crickets voiced themselves and night birds called out. The air chilled a little more, the warmth from the lantern above you both making itself known. The conversations that passed between you were of today’s events and of times long past, conversations others would find strange and absurd but were to you nothing more than an elderly couple discussing the lovely highlights of their long life shared together.

As the cake steadily disappeared, and you both wandered back into the kitchen to clean up together (you had insisted on doing it yourself, but Zhongli insisted otherwise) and quietly laughed and talked. Eventually, you had cleaned up, and the both of you lay back on your bed in your small, modest room, hands intertwined.

“I hope you had a good birthday,” You whispered, laying on your side facing him, blankets pulled to your chin. He smiled softly with a gentle hum, the tiredness of a mortal body hanging both over you, the tired, sleepy kind.

“I have. It has been delightful, one I will remember for many years to come.”

“...And…thank you,” You squeezed his hand, looking away, “Thank you for this. I like…I like our life right now.”

He lifted your hand and kissed your fingers gently, drawing your gaze back to him “Me too.”

“This life is good.” 

[theslumberinggod]

The Wanderer's Tagalong, Part 8: His Grand Exception

•~°~•

Touch felt alien---or just downright wrong. Every time anyone brushed against him he stiffened, maybe it was apprehension, maybe it’s because it’s been so long anyone brushed their fingers along him with the intent of being loving and gentle.

If he closed his eyes he could hear the brontide in his mind, of memories so, so long ago, disjointed from the rip-and-tear as a result of choices made at Irminsul. He could maybe once remember loving hands crafting him carefully.

Memories that were less faded and tainted with bitterness and rage, friends and those he called family would keep him close.

Then more clear and vivid, in dark rooms soaked with the saccharine smell of alchemy, heretic magics and choking medicines, all he submitted himself to in the name of a still unattained goal, touch was hated, and abhorred.

Yet, here you were. Someone he willingly opened his arms too, to sink into his embrace. It felt all awkward and wrong, he didn’t know where to put his hands or how hard to squeeze. He didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were warm, arms wrapped tenderly around him and face buried in his shoulder. It felt nice, but he was apprehensive all the same. He wanted to push you off himself, but he also wanted you to stay.

Or---maybe it was that feeling again. A pull, gentle and constant to you. When did he start slowing his pace on the long road when he noticed you looked tired? Or times he added sugar to his tea so he could share, or stopped at inns so you had a bed, or eyed stalls for more art supplies and maybe some new clothes. When did he exaggerate himself to draw a smile off your face, or listen hard to try and decipher words you said in a futile attempt to understand you more?

When did he start holding you close when you woke up in your fits of panic and despair, letting you soak his shirt with your tears until it stuck to his skin?

When did he start caring enough, that every inconvenience you brought, was something he was content with dealing with?

You carefully mended his clothes, and lovingly filled your precious, limited space in your sketchbooks with his image. You talked and talked, to him of all people, you pointed out things you found interesting in the countryside or the city, all things he’s seen before but you seemed enthusiastic to share your wonder and awe with him. You somehow found out what herbs he used for his tea and collected them off the side of the road. You carefully pulled bandages around his wounds, eyes furrowed in concern.

You were just a tagalong. Temporary. Or---you were supposed to be. ‘Tagalong’ for you was holding a different meaning. You soaked the air around you with unbridled optimism and a grit The Wanderer found himself deeply impressed with, that had the uncanny ability to lift his spirits.

You at some point became a friend, then more like a companion. The Wanderer couldn’t imagine himself going anywhere without you now, in fact he was terrified at the thought.

He dreaded returning to Sumeru, back to his studies. Would the halt of travels sever your ties? You could not follow him into the academic halls, where you could not read the language or understand a thing. Would in the end, would you have proved only seeing him as a means to an end?

Would you be the one who felt abandoned? Would you feel more lost than ever, like he had so much of his long, upsetting life? Nahida would care for you, he was sure---but what would he do, when every day and every night for half a year had been spent with you?

The Wanderer shushed the thought as he felt your hand rub his back slowly, in a soothing motion as he jolted at another deafening crack of thunder. From the corner of his eye he could see spiraling lightning strike nearby. It rang in his head. He could deal with the thunder high up in the sky, but this was so close and ringing, reverberating in his chest woke up something so deep inside.

No, no you couldn’t see him that way---a means to an end. He couldn’t just…let you slip away. Nahida might have plans for you when she finds of your existence, maybe you’d even get excited as you so often did and explore all Sumeru had to offer. Either way, he refused to let you go.

Not when he crumbled at the sight of vivid, violet lightning. He hadn’t meant to, he was disgusted with himself, horrified at the ugly, pathetic moment of vulnerability. What had he been this entire time to you, other than a pillar of safety? He was wanted and needed for what he had, the strength so small compared to what it used to be. How would you react watching it fall apart?

The Wanderer hated himself for thinking you’d act anything less than caring.

You had pulled him away from the open sky, under an overhanging cliff. Not quite shielded from the rain and the wind, but just enough. Your hand felt warm in his, and you let go, watching the Wanderer grapple with the slip up---and you opened your arms.

How could he refuse?

The pull, so gentle and constant and overpowering. Who were you, so naively filled with love? How could he refuse. Oh how he hated all things sweet, but you were the grand exception, the opportunity to feel something other than rage and hate and bitterness, and all the things that blackened his soul into a dry, dead crisp.

Pressed into the rock side, you held him close, and reminded him of the horrible pain and the longing of the things lost so many years ago. It was bittersweet, he thinks. He loved it. He loved…

…How foolish this was.

He lowered his head, burying his face in your messily hair, inhaling deeply, wanting to feel all of you. All mortal things are fleeting, and you were no different. But oh, to feel loved, wanted and needed, cared for and thought of, treasured and valued---even if he knew he did not deserve it one bit.

The apprehension of the warmth that you soaked him in was mixing with all the feelings of longing, he still didn’t know what to do, helpless to your gravitational pull, something he wanted to run away from but terrified to let go of.

He could only come to a single conclusion:

You felt like home.

[theslumberinggod]

The Wanderer's Tagalong, Part 7: Ache

•~°~•

Have you ever wanted to make someone smile?

Have you ever wanted to make someone laugh?

Have you ever wanted to hold them tight, tight within your arms, and feel their warmth and share all of yours? 

Have you ever looked at someone, and see the cracks rippling beneath the surface? See the hardness in their eyes, knowing it was born of hurt? Have you ever see someone, and seen years of agony and the crushing, suffocating lack of love carved crudely into their being?

Have you ever wanted to start sealing up those wounds yourself, and pour in them every ounce of love you had?

Have you ever just desperately wanted to love someone…even in the smallest ways, to the biggest?

You pulled your needle and thread through the fabric of the torn shirt, the black material smooth and of some intricate weave that took some extra precision to sew up more cleanly. You leaned over your work out of a force of habit, to see the stitches better and be more accurate with your movements.

You inhaled---it smelled like the wind, and that bitter tea He loved so much. You were baffled how he could drink that disgusting drink, it was bitter enough to the point to make your tongue hurt. It was the only thing you ever saw Him drinking. He never ate---except when to occasionally snatch food off your plate when you made your favorite breakfast over the fire.

Your travel companion would reach under your arm when you weren’t looking, swiftly and deftly taking a piece before drawing back and tossing it in his mouth. He’d give you a smirk, pale bluish-purple eyes glinting in amusement. He’d say things you didn’t understand, and sometimes he’d laugh.

You decided in the end that you’d act surprised every time he did take from your food---he did every single time you made that particular meal. It made him laugh.

The lack of understanding in this strange, dangerous, beautiful and breathtaking world had forced you to hone your perception. You noticed things you were sure if anything made sense, you wouldn’t have. You noticed how the air changed around Him when he used his magic, how the pendant hanging on his chest and lines under his clothes would light up. There was a strange, jagged symbol intertwining on the back of his neck that would glow too.

You glanced up from your work, where He sat in front of the fire, boiling water for his bitter drink. His coat hung loosely around his shoulders, and you could see clearly the strange markings that crawled up his chest and around his neck. They lay dormant, appearing nothing more than faded tattoos along his oddly smooth skin. What was the most odd though, was the hole in his chest.

It was small, opening like a cavity into his being, as if he was hollow. It was shaped distinctly of what reminded you of a chess piece. Why did he have that there? Did it hurt? What was it for---maybe it was a keyhole? Many questions that wouldn’t be answered.

When He had begrudgingly given  you his tattered shirt to fix after a skirmish with strange, hulking beasts that seemed to roam ungoverned over the land, you had pointed it out. You saw the shift in His gaze, and took note of the sharper edges to his soft voice. You did not know what he said, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he meant.

Your name being called pulled you out of your thoughts and He was looking at you with that slight furrow in his brows that once in your first few weeks of travel felt like knives. He tilted his head, inquiringly.

“Just staring off into space,” You answered with a sheepish smile, looking back down at his shirt in your hands. He hummed in acknowledgement. Words not understood passes easily between you, as did the quiet silence. You paused before your resumed your needlework, wondering if he would come over and as you things or make comments, if he’d poke you in the shoulder in what you saw as boredom and playfulness masked under the hardened guise of irritation.

Your perception was keen, it had become very keen. You had discovered your dear friend was someone who hurt a lot----it was written in his every movement, it swirled in his eyes and the way he jerked his hands or held his arms close to himself. The way he seemed to hesitate before reaching out,  the way he stared so hard into nothing, the way he walked along the road, the way the air shifted around him when he talked or uses his magic----it was pressed into the strange tattoos on his skin, the hole grinded into his chest, revealing the lack of anything inside.

Despite all that, he had been generous to you, kind, even affectionate.

He bought you a new sketchbook. He ruffled your hair, he let you lean into his chest and cry all the heavy aches that came with these long travels. He tugged on your wrist to lead you somewhere, he smiled at you sometimes, and he laughed.

He was a friend, a real one. A real friend, that in these long months, you couldn’t wait until you figured out the next little word in his strange, difficult to speak language. To close that gap.

His actions had said so much to you, and you hope yours did too. A longing started working its way in your chest, it was big, so big it crawled out your chest into your arms and seemed to pull on your fingers like strings.

You hoped, so, so badly, that all the times you made him tea, and made him laugh, and showed him something you found, all the times you patched up his clothes or patched him up, all the times, all those times it said it. It said what you couldn’t say. It said the words you couldn’t communicate. You hoped so, so badly it did.

Your name was called again. He finished his tea and was carefully putting the fire out, snapping his fingers, that beautiful, strange light dragging the fire out of existence. The sun had been down for a long time now. You frowned, lifting up his shirt, demonstrating the unfinished state of your work.

He shook his head, standing up and made a shooing motion towards your sleeping place. He said things you didn’t understand---some ‘no’ you think, as he pointed at the dark sky where the sliver, crescent moon hung high.

You needed to sleep. He was telling you to go to bed, that it was late. Finish tomorrow, he was saying. His eyes were hard and concerned in a mess of pale purple, the stars and moon glancing off his figure, making his skin perfectly white and figure somewhat daunting.

“Fine, fine,” You sighed dramatically. That got a snort out of him as he walked in a circle around the camp, doing what you could only assume as a quick lookout. You carefully folded his shirt, taking in a deep breath. It smelled like wind, something else you couldn’t define, and that bitter drink he loved so much. You put it in your satchel and closed the latches, taking your cloak and wrapping it firmly around yourself and laid down on the ground you had gotten used to sleeping on.

Stars glittered above, and He came to sit next to you. Your eyes drifted to the oddly shaped hole in his chest, the evidence of something missing. His pale eyes searched the horizon for something or nothing. They snapped to you. He spoke.

“I wish I could…” You sighed, trailing off. You wish you could do many things. He shook his head, coming to his own conclusion, reaching out awkwardly and ruffling your hair. You smiled.

He pulled his hand away, going back to whatever he did on these long, cold nights. He sat so close, that strange energy that radiated around him seeped into your very being, and you watched from the ground as his eyes filled themselves with something like a storm.

That feeling in your chest burned, the aching, painful desire to reach out.

You wanted so badly to make him smile.

To make him laugh.

To hold him tight.

Both your actions were plenty loud.

But few words spoke so powerfully, as ‘I love you.’

And how desperately did you want to say that to him, and have him understand.