In Sickness And In Health

In Sickness and In Health

Synopsis: You fall ill while Childe’s away, and while he might care about the Fatui’s missions, Foul Legacy doesn’t.

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff Warnings: Being sick, mentions of pain, headaches, and difficulty breathing, worry, general suffering

~ * ~ As a Fatuus, Childe is often away from you. It’s his duty as the Eleventh Harbinger to carry out orders, completing missions in the name of the Tsaritsa while training young, eager recruits to grow into another member of Snezhnaya’s pride and joy. This he explained to you, over and over, before you had even begun to consider him more than a friend. He was so nervous at first, scared you would reject him, disgusted by his status as a Harbinger. It’s only when you finally moved to silently slip your hand into his that his voice faltered and trailed into silence, lips twisting in uncertainty before lifting into a relieved grin when you gave him a smile full of understanding. Since then the constant, nervous reminders of his position have faded away, replaced by dates of absences and return, one mission after another. It breaks his heart to be away so much, but you always wave off his apologies- his home isn’t the Harbor; it never has been, and as long as he returns, you’ll be alright. And yet no matter how dire the circumstances, Childe would always leave you with a kiss on the forehead and a whispered promise to spend time with you when he returns- anything you like, whether that be dinner, travel, or simply a walk. You’d always laugh and playfully hit his shoulder, unable to do any real damage. He knows what you want, you choose it every time, as the comforting arms of his Foul Legacy form around you are incomparable to anything else, the knowledge that Foul Legacy adores you as much as Childe does ensuring you a good night’s sleep after weeks of worry. It makes him smile, seeing how much you love his Abyssal form. He wasn’t even aware Foul Legacy could feel emotions such as love, but the constant, rumbling purr in the back of his mind whenever you’re nearby says otherwise, and his hand briefly rests in your hair before he’s forced to pull away. You’re there when he boards the ship to his destination, smiling and waving goodbye, and his subordinates swear they see the famed Tartaglia’s eyes sparkle as he waves back to his dearest secret standing on the shore. Childe’s only joy in the coming weeks are the letters you send, detailing your normal, mundane life as well as how much you miss him. It’s the only time he genuinely smiles, normally confident smirk gone from his face as an agent hands him a letter almost daily, although they’ve been sparser lately. He opens today’s letter eagerly, making sure not to tear the paper, but his expression morphs into one of confusion when he sees the short, terse paragraph in elegant writing. Zhongli, it must be- Childe knows that script anywhere- and his dull eyes widen in horror as he reads the message. You’re sick. Extremely sick. Zhongli’s been tending to you for a few days, but your fever refuses to go down and the only thing you say when awake is how much everything hurts, mumbling Childe’s name whenever you slip into uneasy dreams. Zhongli assures him that he’ll do his best to take care of and hopefully lift you out of sickness before Childe returns, but that doesn’t prevent his stomach from twisting into a knot of guilt as he thinks of you suffering without him by your side. Foul Legacy whines in his head, to the point Childe can almost see the Abyssal beast curling his claws anxiously as he urges the Harbinger to return home, wherever you are. Childe grits his teeth as he folds Zhongli’s letter; obviously he’d love to go back to the Harbor, but his duties have taken him across the sea, miles away from you, and even if he could go back he wouldn’t dare leave his duties and reveal you as his beloved- the mere thought of the danger you’d be in sends a shiver down his spine. Foul Legacy’s whines turn to hisses, repeatedly insisting to go home, go back, go HELP! And Childe throws his hands up in frustration. “I can’t!” He says aloud, trying to placate the monster clawing at the edges of his mind while his own thoughts race with worry for you. Foul Legacy falls silent, and for a moment Childe thinks he’s won the argument, before he hears a sudden, deadly growl. If you won’t, then I will. There’s barely time to blink before Foul Legacy assumes control of their shared body, inhaling the crisp air and flexing his talons. Without a backward glance he leaves, star-speckled wings spreading and catching the seaborn wind. The agents will awaken to their Harbinger missing, but Foul Legacy doesn’t care- the Fatui’s petty problems are unimportant compared to your pain. His haste is so great that he reaches Liyue Harbor just as the sun is setting, touching down carefully outside your back door to avoid the late-afternoon Millelith. The door’s unlocked, a foreign scent leading inside, and with a growl Foul Legacy enters your home, gaze landing on Zhongli who whirls around in shock. The ex-Archon exhales in relief when he sees Foul Legacy, moving aside to reveal your frail body curled on a bed, fingers clenching the sheets in discomfort. A frantic cry tears itself from Foul Legacy’s throat, rushing past Zhongli to kneel by your side, claws hovering over you, unsure where to place themselves. Zhongli pats his shoulder, trying to reassure the Abyssal monster, and the commotion shakes you from slumber and into unsteady wakefulness, dazedly looking at your love. This must be a dream, it has to be. Childe’s somewhere overseas, completing his latest task for the Tsaritsa; he shouldn’t be back for weeks. And yet, Foul Legacy stares at you, crystalline eye flooded with concern as his whines dip, with some effort, to gentle purrs and he slowly extends a hand to you. “Legacy…” You catch one of his claws in a weak grip, fingers wrapping loosely around the talon before falling back to the mattress, and Foul Legacy whimpers at your lack of strength. Archons, you’re so frail- just how long had you been suffering before Zhongli wrote to him? His hand brushes against your forehead, only to immediately recoil when your skin burns with sickening warmth, far beyond a healthy range. Your eyes flutter shut, too exhausted to stay awake but comforted by the presence of the one you hold dear. Foul Legacy watches you drift into an uneasy sleep, absentmindedly playing with your hair. His touch calms your fevered dreams, and soon your features relax into an expression more peaceful than Zhongli’s seen in days. Legacy’s gentle coos turn to a low hiss as he turns to face the funeral consultant, keeping his claws gentle but his glare steady and pointing at you with his other hand. “Fix. Help. Heal.” And Zhongli simply nods, moving to fetch today’s dose of medication. When he returns, Foul Legacy has curled around your body, cradling your head against his chest and holding your limp hands. The room fills with soft, soothing purrs, refusing to pause even when Zhongli tilts your chin upwards so you swallow the bitter medicine. It tastes like mint and ginger in your dreams, and you nearly spit it out, but the gentle hand petting your hair urges you not to as you lapse back into slumber. From then on Foul Legacy never leaves your side. Day and night he tends to you, comforting your twisted dreams and giving you medicine and making you drink water, when he can. More often than not you feel his cool talons settle on your cheeks and forehead to stave off the heat, and in the fleeting moments you’re awake you can make out his figure keeping you company, claws wrapped around your hands and wings laying over your body like gauzy blankets. His routine is to care for you and nothing less, directed by the vague memories of when Childe’s own siblings were ill, and even when Zhongli stops by, the Abyssal monster refuses to leave you. In a way, Zhongli’s grateful- surprised, yes, but also grateful for the help. He could already see how your condition improved simply by having Foul Legacy tend to you, your breaths coming out easier and sleep being far more peaceful. When you’re in pain, Foul Legacy is too- and on nights when your head feels like it’s splitting open from agony and you can do nothing but cry, he cries with you, attempting to coo and reassure you only to break out into full sobs at the sight of your suffering. But such nights become few and far between the longer he stays, and soon he sleeps the starlit hours away alongside you, the need for constant supervision diminished. He’s napping by your side the day you wake up, tired but lucid, and cup his cheeks in your hands. Foul Legacy jolts awake with a surprised chirp, staring at you like he can’t really believe that you’re here, awake with your consciousness intact, giving him a sleepy smile. “Hi…” Legacy cries out and swoops down to bundle you in his arms, burying his face into your neck with overjoyed clicks and croons. You’re still fragile- he can feel it from the way you lean against him as you thread your fingers through your hair- but you’re alright, you’re okay, and you’ll only get better from here on out. With a tenderness only you’ve had the right of knowing, he sets you back down, the bed cushioning your aching bones, and you open up your arms towards him as an invitation. With a delighted trill he accepts and cuddles against you, claws wrapped securely around your waist and head nudging underneath your chin to make small, hoarse chuckles bubble out of you for the first time in weeks. Your laughter is the sweetest melody to his ears, and Foul Legacy purrs blissfully at the sound. Eventually your hands begin to slow, going from scritches to long, languid pets as sleep tries to pull you back under, fighting against it to no avail. Foul Legacy simply pulls you closer, slotting your body against his as he strokes your arms; his permission to wander back into unconsciousness. You yawn, snuggling impossibly closer and latching onto the scarf that hangs around his neck with a sleepy mumble of goodnight, before peaceful dreams inevitably claim you again. With a soft, affectionate rumble, Legacy pulls the covers over both of you and allows your quiet breathing to lull him to sleep, too, where you can both finally rest. “Love you…” It’s the sun instead of pain that wakes you, filtering through a space in your curtains and bathing you in golden light. You stretch, delicately, and crane your neck towards the Harbinger dozing beside you, before nudging him with a mischievous grin. Childe mumbles, blinking tiredly- it feels like he’s been asleep for days, the only thing on his mind being the murmur from an exhausted but happy Foul Legacy- and when he turns he’s met with the sight of you, the effects of your illness still present but almost invisible due to the smile on your face. “Good morning.”

I hope you’re doing well, could you write for Scaramouche where the reader kisses his insecurities away-

Have a good day!!

KISSING HIS INSECURITIES AWAY

a/n: hope this is sufficient 😭 can’t wait for his voice lines to be released so we have a better understanding of his character

notes: reader works for fatui

masterlist

you and scara had been together for just barely a year now, and yet, scara still didn’t quite believe it. you noticed it when he didn’t react well to your touches in the beginning, inching his cheek away or jerking his hand from yours. but as the months passed and seasons changed he slowly let you in. even if that only meant getting to hold his callused hand for an extra few seconds.

you knew of his past and knew when you should stop prying, but sometimes you wished he would let you in. you had to roll your words in your mouth to see how they feel before letting them go, just to be certain scara understood how much you cared for him and wouldn’t judge. it was a slow process, but you were willing to wait.

you were both out on a mission and had separated from your crew to let them do the dirty work, perks of being in a relationship with a harbinger was that he went easy on you. if they needed help they’d call so for the most part you and scara wandered around the premise as you both competed against each other to kill any enemies in your way.

when nightfall came you both slumped against a tree, your breath visible in the air from the cold wind. scara was beside you drawing circles in the dirt, gazing elsewhere.

his other hand was free so you reached over and laced your fingers with his. you felt his body go stiff before he let you lock your fingers with his and rub your thumb against his palm.

“why do you try?” he asks, his voice mellow.

“what do you mean?” you hum, observing the chipped nail polish you had begged him to let you do the other week.

“try with me,” he adds, “it’s pointless.”

you turned to look at him, but his eyes were still downward. the light from the moon lets you see the pale glow of his skin and the bags under his eyes.

“you’re not pointless,” you slowly say, not knowing where he was going with this.

he looks down at your interlocked hands.

“i’m holding my breath every day, waiting for when you inevitably leave.”

“i’m not going to,” you easily assure.

“that’s what everyone else said,” scara dryly laughs, voice empty, “I have no clue how to do this shit. You know I’m a literal puppet. I’m not meant to love.”

“everyone deserves a chance to be loved,” you start, pulling his palm to your lips and letting them graze his knuckles, “i’m gonna stay and show you.”

he finally turns his gaze towards you, eyeing your hand in his.

“i don’t believe you,” he says, leaning his head on bark of the tree.

“I’ll keep trying until you do,” you hum, taking your free hand and maneuvering yourself so you’re straddling his lap. one hand holding his and the other grazing his cheek.

he raises a brow at you, his other hand instinctively holding your waist.

you lean down and place a chaste kiss on each of his cheeks and watch in glee as they bloom pink. his grip on your waist hardens and you take that as an encouragement to continue. you move your lips to his jaw and leave a trail of kisses down to his chin. and finally, you give him a kiss.

at first, he doesn’t respond. but after a few seconds, he pushes you up closer to him and kisses back with more fervor. his fingers interlace with yours and you only pull back for a breath.

“believe me now?” you whisper, curling a strand of his hair behind his ear.

“i’m not sure,” he starts, “you’ll need to do it a few more time,” he adds, a sly smile upturning his lips.

you give him a half-hearted shove but ultimately fulfill his request.

a/n: hope you approved anon 💓 if anyone has requests i’ve opened them^^ ty for reading and here’s to hoping tumblr doesn’t fuck up the layout of this 🍻

secret relationships with them. includes xiao, albedo, cyno, childe. gn!reader. modern au! slight college au?. no warnings. wc: 1,428 . semi proof-read.

xiao — [✧]

despite being in the same circle of friends, no one has seen you and xiao interacting outside hangouts. no one has seen you two talking for at least five minutes, either one of you always talking to someone else. and so, no one would think you two are close, right?

in truth, your relationship with xiao was never meant to be a secret. if one were to ask either of you if you two were together, you two would answer the same thing: yes.

though both of you had never agreed to keep it under wraps from your friends, it just seemed as if it was a normal thing to do. you two were still friends, at least to others.

no one even notices the changes when xiao starts telling them that he'd drive you home, always shrugging his shoulders if they'd ask him to drive them home too.

often, on the weekend, when hutao proposes to meet up for lunch, you and xiao always come at the same time—and like always, you'd tell them you caught up to him in the parking lot.

he would sit beside you every time, only because there were no seats left, and hold your hand under the table. sometimes, he places his hand on your thigh, brushing his thumb over them as he talks to kazuha about something you have half the mind to listen to.

though you suppose you aren't hiding your relationship, you don't talk about xiao to hutao or yanfei. they'd never shut up about it, is what you say.

sometimes, when you're saying goodbye to everyone else, xiao waits for you by the corner, waiting for everyone to leave. he'd hold your hand more freely in the car, placing his lips on your hand as he murmurs a small i love you.

because your relationship isn't in the open, xiao is always frowning whenever yanfei brings up another man's name, telling you that you just have to meet him.

still, even if you and xiao sometimes decide on telling them that you have been together for months now, you two find it amusing whenever they seem so clueless. maybe for a few more months, you'd keep it a secret.

albedo —[✧]

keeping everything a secret was more of an agreement made by you. initially, you were afraid of what others would say. you had made such a fuss about not falling for him—because god, albedo was always competing with you in everything.

at first, albedo had pointed out that no one would be surprised should you tell everyone you two were together. they're already expecting it, he says.

but your relentless whining and pouts made albedo agree, only on the condition that you'd start talking to him more on campus.

and no one notices the way how albedo's gazes go from observing to loving. he wouldn't be able to count on his fingers how many times he had looked up from his laptop to find you laughing along with your friends.

if you ever made it to the lecture before him, albedo would tap three times on your table—i love you.

when you walk past him in the hallways, albedo brushes his fingers with yours, smiling lightly as he talks to aether about his new findings.

you always end up in the same places for lunch, with you telling amber and eula that you want to eat in that specific place. eula wonders why albedo and his companions are everywhere you go.

no one notices the lingering stares and the suppressed smiles albedo sends your way. somehow, you are the only one who notices the subtle expression on his face, and he tells you it is meant for only you.

still, as the days pass and you begin to regret your decision on keeping it a secret, albedo would remind you of the consequences, humming as he'd hold you.

and once you finally had had enough of albedo continuing the agreement you both made, you'd come up to him once your classes end, and grab him by the hand.

you'd tug him along after, entwining your fingers with his as he lets out a small laugh, telling you that he found you cute.

cyno — [✧]

no one suspects cyno to be romantically entangled with someone, hell, it is a mutual agreement by those who know of him that he barely had any emotions other than that of discipline and justice.

no one suspects that it is you who had wormed the way into his heart, the stoic and straightforward cyno's object of affection.

even before you had met him, he was always an enigma to you. always hearing of him from your friends but never getting too close to meeting him.

and when you did meet him, he kept you at arm's length, always brushing you off; his serious personality almost pushed you away. hint: almost.

and similar to cyno pursuing individuals who had done something wrong, he would pursue you to the ends of the world, wanting to hold you behind closed doors.

every time without fail, cyno would wait outside your lecture hall, ready to reprimand you so that you'd come along with him. no one knows that he leads you home, your finger intertwined.

because many view cyno as crude, he has vowed to keep you safe from others, resorting to keeping you as someone who has constantly broken rules that he cannot overlook—it is only he and you know otherwise.

despite being seen as a threat to others, cyno often accompanies you at night when you need to submit requirements, talking to you laxly as if there is no other person in the world.

and really, even the people who he considers friends do not know the secret between the two of you, always hiding you from them so as to not let them know that he has one particular weakness.

and being his weakness, when there are no more lingering eyes of those who he considers enemies, cyno takes you in his arms, nuzzling his face by your neck as you'd laugh.

often, you sit across him from his desk, watching as his brows scrunch up, finishing whatever task he had left. he looks pretty, you say, and he simply hums.

and while cyno is eager to let others know you are his, he will have to put up with it for now, keeping you to himself within the shadows.

childe — [✧]

with childe, your relationship with him is more of a game. though both of you had initially agreed to tell everyone else that you were officially together, you had told him a small joke—one that you two laughed about the whole time.

who would confront the two of your first? would it be hutao? or would it be kaeya? maybe keqing if she was nosy?

childe was always touchy, even before the two of you began dating. no one questioned the back hugs, the holding of arms, or the constant poking of sides.

hiding your relationship with childe was easy, at least you thought so at first.

even when you are together with your friends, childe makes it a point to never linger for too long with you, either deciding to sit on the couch with kaeya or argue with xiao about god knows what.

when everyone is saying their goodbyes, childe simply waves at you, telling you that he'd see you next week—no one knows he'd wait a few meters away, watching to see if there is no one else but you who can see him.

and not once have you gushed to any of your friends about childe. you had not told anyone about him holding your hand in the car or him zipping up your jacket.

as the days go by, you begin to grow annoyed at the game you had put yourself in. you were stuck in your own dilemma.

but once, keqing had told you that childe keeps looking your way. just when you had lost all hope—ready to admit to everyone that yes, we are indeed together!—keqing comes to the rescue.

xiao follows after, scoffing that childe has not kept his eyes off your for the past hour. then, you remember that childe had taken one too many drinks for the night.

and not even a minute later, childe is announcing his love and adoration for you. always a lightweight in alcohol, you'd watch as he stumbles towards you, laughing.

at least now the game is over, and no one had won.

NOTES this originally had kazuha in it but i couldn't write him bc i really couldn't envision it in him HSAHHASHS might be my last post for a while as i'm running for honors and i really have to focus on that

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nepenthe

Warning: slight angst/ much comfort - sfw, domestic (unconditional love), character perspective | sending love to our sad boys 

character x GN reader | anthology

Includes: Childe, Dainsleif, Diluc, Kaeya

Hope.

A dying concept. One withering away slowly, painfully, until nothing but the hollow truth is left behind. Hope is debilitating - so why not let it go?

Keep reading

cupid’s chokehold

pairing/s: cyno, diluc, scaramouche x gn!reader

summary: it’s simple, really. one moment you’re laughing, the light of the sun brightening your features, and the next his heart is beating out of his chest, face warm and breaths short, an almost pleasant twist to his gut when you lean close. you look at him with fondness dancing in your eyes, and he realizes, oh, he might just be in love. or — the moment they find out they love you.

note: this is really just an excuse to write diluc being whipped, also this was supposed to include childe heizou and xiao but i lost motivation so here ya go!

CYNO

He finds it hard to believe that you’d be so incapable of writing a simple essay. You once admitted to him how you only got accepted into the Akademiya through sheer luck, but he didn’t believe it then. The Akademiya is known for its strict rules and thorough examination of every student it takes on.

But seeing you struggling not to plagiarize an essay is truly pushing his patience. He’s not one to snap or bark out harsh words to those undeserving of it — and he can think of no one more undeserving of his wrath than you — but it is frustrating to watch you stumble even at the easiest of assignments.

“I think I’ve got it! Oh, I made a little mistake on the spelling there, but this is the one that’ll blow my professors away! Cyno, can you proofread this for me?”

He’ll tell you later that he didn’t mean it, and you’ll accept it without hesitation with an accepting smile — but right now, the searing sun made worse by the humid weather makes a short fuse even for the most patient of saints.

“If you can’t do something so simple, then I see no point in partaking in this fruitless endeavor. The Akademiya is harsh and has no room for error, you would be better off leaving than continue struggling futilely.”

He didn’t mean to come off so harsh, as if he’s belittling all your hard work and effort and telling you that you don’t belong in the Akademiya. But the damage has been done, and your hopeful look turns into shock at his outburst, retreating into yourself and quickly retracting the paper you’d been in the middle of handing out to him. Your face closes off, clutching your essay close to your chest and darting your eyes anywhere but his general direction.

“Sorry,” you say, awkward and fumbling, resolutely not meeting his eyes, “For being annoying, among other things.” Then, you rise to your feet abruptly. He can see the way your fingers are clenched tightly at your paper, tight enough to wrinkle the edges such that he knows you’ll regret later for ruining yet another paper. “I won’t bother you again.”

Your voice is uncharacteristically quiet, almost sounding choked off. You turn and give him a brief glimpse of your face, and he realizes that you’re on the verge of tears.

He catches your arm just before you can take a step forward. “Wait.”

You freeze, muscles tensing beneath his touch. He instantly releases you after he feels how uncomfortable it must have made you. The silence between you is so tangible he can almost see it permeating the air, cloying and thick and utterly unwelcome.

He parts his mouth a few times, going through every possible scenario where he says the wrong thing that pushes you to the edge and makes you hate him forever. The mere thought is enough to steal him of his breath. No, he can’t have that, can’t bear the thought of a world where you aren’t there greeting him brightly in the morning and being so shameless as you fall into step beside him despite his rank and engage him in idle chitchat. He doesn’t think he’s ever told you before, but he looks forward to that part of his day the most.

After what seems like eons of standing in silence, he finally speaks. But what comes out of his mouth isn’t the apology he rehearsed in his head.

“Why did the bike fall over?”

You turn to him with an almost incredulous look, eyes wide with unshed tears that he berates himself for. Then, hesitantly, you ask, “…Why?”

The response comes naturally to him, years of reading through his notes and making them himself has all but ingrained such information in his mind.

“Because it was two tired,” he delivers this with a straight face, tone flat and completely at odds with the nature of his joke.

You stare at him for a moment, lips parted in surprise at the sudden joke. He sees your grip on your paper loosen, shoulders relaxing, mouth twisting into something he can’t quite discern, and then—

“Pft.” It starts out small, quiet as you bring a hand to cover your mouth, before it dissolves into a full blown laugh, the kind that has your shoulders shaking and eyes closed, head tilted back and the sound of your laughter filling his ears. He’s never considered that laughs could produce such pleasant sounds, so it comes as a surprise when yours makes something in him want to lean forward to hear more. Or perhaps it’s just you.

The light from the sun bounces off your skin, making your expression all the more radiant.

And Cyno? Cyno doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a mesmerizing sight before.

You’ve never laughed at his jokes, or rather, he’s never seen fit to tell you any of them, seeing as you’ve always been so at ease around him that telling a joke was never necessary. He’ll have to rectify that, he thinks, watching the way your mouth curves up in a smile, eyes dancing with mirth as you finally meet his eyes.

And he’s suddenly struck by the thought of how much he likes seeing you like this — hair mussed from the wind, exhilaration lining your lips, breaths short from laughing too hard, and gazing at him in delight.

And maybe he’s overthinking things too much, maybe the pounding of his heart and the sudden intake of breath is a result of something else, but he wants to believe it’s because of you.

Later, he’ll come up with a proper apology, something a little less joking and a little more serious. But right now, you’re looking at him like he’s the only person in the world, and that’s all that matters.

DILUC

The sun is particularly hot today, bordering on sweltering, but still, you insist on accompanying him in this menial task of picking grapes.

Diluc has always preferred solitude since he came of age, doing things alone and being lost in his thoughts have become things that he finds strangely pleasant, almost calming. But you’ve never been one to settle in silence, always needing to voice your thoughts and fill the room with chatter about all sorts of topics. It’s something he should dislike, all things considered due to his preference for quietness, but you, he finds, have always been an exception to what he considers the norm.

He wonders why.

“And just then, a hilichurl comes out of nowhere and starts throwing rocks at me — rocks! They have crossbows and shields and those battering things, but that one chose to use rocks to attack me! It’s like he thought I wasn’t even worth the effort!”

He idly plucks a group of ripe grapes from a vine, listening to you retell your encounter with a hilichurl that led to you discovering its camp that held a precious chest, only to open it and find nothing but cabbages. You bemoan how it was a total waste of effort, all that fighting just for a few pieces of vegetables you don’t even like.

A small, amused smile flits its way into his lips. It doesn’t escape your notice.

“So you think my suffering is funny, huh?” You narrow your eyes at him.

He turns away and briefly considers the merits of admitting to smiling, not at your plight, but at the various inflections in your tone as you regaled him with your story and the little laughs you let out when you got to a funny part and the way you looked at him with a smile so wide it crinkled the corners of your eyes, reflecting the light from the sun in its near-blinding intensity.

When he turns back to face you, he’s met with fingers on his lips and something small and round being pushed into his mouth. His teeth bites down into it, tender and sweet. A grape, he realizes, meeting mischievous eyes set upon a face that’s full of promises for future teasings and pranks.

The pads of your fingers are soft against his lips. His eyes wander against his will, landing on your lips twisted into a smirk, and his mind conjures an impossibly dangerous thought. Perhaps your lips would feel softer against his.

And then heat is creeping up his skin, searing red across his neck that reaches his cheeks and stops at the tips of his ears.

It’s nothing ostentatious. Not like the stories told in books where they meet each other’s eyes across the room and falter as their hearts beat as one, where they meet in the carnage of a battlefield, offering each other’s hands and knowing without a doubt that they will only ever have their backs for each other until the day they die. It’s not even one where he holds your hand and feels the way his heart leaps at the contact as he realizes what it might mean.

But this is still as meaningful, still as beautiful, suspended in time and carved in stone upon his memories until the winds of time erode it away.

A gentle breeze blows past you, and he catches the barest hint of a scent that consumes his mind and fills it with thoughts of nothing but you and your fingers lingering on his lips and how he’s never wanted to kiss a person more than he does now.

And oh, oh.

It’s a fanciful thought, but he imagines if his life were to become a book, then it should be one with an ending that intertwines with yours.

He considers that, for such a book, it would begin like this — the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Diluc Ragnvindr is in love.

SCARAMOUCHE

If Scaramouche were the kind to think thoughts that would have him put below the pedestal he’s placed himself at, he’d think there must be something wrong with him.

“Did you really think you could have defeated those monsters all on your own? You’re lucky I was nearby, otherwise you’d be nothing but a bloody splatter on the ground.” His words are as harsh as ever, carrying that biting tone that’s labeled him unapproachable and unlikeable to most anyone — that is, most anyone who isn’t you.

He doesn’t understand you, the reasoning behind your actions and words and generally everything about you that makes you so infuriating. It grates at him, not knowing something, especially when that something pertains to you. Though why that would even matter is beyond him.

You smile at him, a sheepish little thing, utterly unrepentant and unaware of the possible consequences your actions could have brought. Not that he cares if anything happens to you. He’d just rather not deal with the trouble of handling your papers should you die under his service.

(That was, admittedly, a very weak argument that he’ll chastise himself for later. A Harbinger would have more pressing work to do than handle every paperwork about a dead subordinate. Not that the fact about him handling your papers upon your death was untrue, only that it’s only your paper among his countless other subordinates who’ve died that he’ll bother doing.)

Your mask fell off somewhere in the middle of that rather pathetic fight. It’s a breach of protocol to not be wearing your mask while on duty, but Scaramouche chooses to ignore that particular rule. He’s a Harbinger, he’s the one who decides the rules. Having to order you to go fetch your mask to put it back on would be a waste of time and effort. Much more efficient to simply speak this way, he reasons. It’s most definitely not because he wants to see your eyes and the myriad of emotions that pass through them. And even if it is, it’s only a way for him to better read your expressions and discern whether you’re lying or not. He can’t have anyone betraying him the Fatui.

“I apologize, my lord. It seems I’m still unaccustomed to my new uniform.” Your voice carries a sort of lilt to it that makes it more tolerable than most people he’s ever spoken to. It’s not a compliment, lest his mind go against him and begin creating false narratives, it’s an observation rooted in fact. The sky is blue, the stars are false, and your voice isn’t unpleasant to listen to.

He does frown at your explanation. “Unaccustomed? It’s hardly that different from your previous uniform.” He would know, of course, he spent hours watching you in it. Not that he was watching you simply for the sake of watching, no, never, he was merely criticizing your choice of color scheme and the scuff marks and dried blood that never quite went away no matter how many times you washed it. You’ve complained to him enough times about it in a way that no subordinate should to their lord, but he was in a good mood then, so he let it slide… among countless other things he let slide.

You pull at the collar of your uniform. “It’s a bit constricting. I think they may have gotten my measurements wrong—”

He scoffs, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. “And you didn’t think to tell me? What use would I have for a recruit who can’t even move properly because of a tight uniform?”

“Well, you did tell me not to bother you anymore with my inane concerns, so I figured you wouldn’t want to hear about this…my lord.” The last part is added almost as an afterthought. He decides to let it slide.

He does recall something along those lines, sometime when he was in a foul mood and had no patience for your presence and the contradictions it brought in his behavior. He remembers being lost and dumbfounded the next day when you turned to leave after giving your report instead of lounging on his office’s couch and telling him about your day and the gossip you recently heard. He hadn’t actually meant for you to stop talking to him, but he was too proud to say so to you, which resulted in a week of silence on both parties. It was completely unbearable, but Scaramouche would sooner cut his own head off than admit it.

“Fine. You’re allowed to speak such drivel to me again, since you clearly can’t function without any sort of assistance from me.” It’s easy to twist the situation as if you’re the one who’s been dying to talk to him normally again instead of the other way around.

You laugh beneath your breath, something bordering on a giggle — a giggle, of all things. The last time someone had the audacity to giggle in his presence was…was a long time ago. Something he won’t dwell in.

“If you insist, my lord,” you say, an almost teasing twinkle in your eyes, and Scaramouche has never been more grateful exasperated that you aren’t wearing a mask. Who do you think you are to show such an emotion like happiness in front of him?

He’ll let it slide though. Just this once.

“Let’s return to the camp. I don’t want to be seen any longer with you looking the state you are now.” He deliberately ignores the fact that people will only see the two of you together once you’re back and not at this lone clearing. You turn to place your mask back on and he lets you. Wouldn’t do much good to have others see your face and plot whatever nefarious schemes their minds will cook up, like talking to you or, gods forbid, flirting with you—

And then he stops, completely frozen in place and unable to hide that shock that bleeds through his carefully crafted mask. He’s lucky you’re standing behind him, otherwise he’d have to kill you for seeing him in such a state. Not that he believes he’ll be able to go through with it, but the thought is needed though not necessarily appreciated.

He turns to you after he’s gotten ahold of his expression, eyes scanning your features and, with an almost sickening lurch in his stomach, finding that you’re not exactly unpleasant to look at.

Your hand reaches out for his arm with worry, and he nearly reels his hand back at the sheer audacity you have for assuming he is someone who needs worrying for but—but.

He rather likes the feeling of your fingers brushing against his skin.

So he lets you close your hand around his arm and look at him with through a mask he knows harbors a concerned look behind it. He nearly laughs at the notion of someone being concerned for him, but alas, you’re such an anomaly that even he can’t bring himself to mock even the worst trait you possess.

You are truly the most vexing person he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Perhaps if you keep touching him like this, he’ll let that one slide too.

You’re on your phone, curled up on your side when the door opens.

The bedroom is bathed in the dim yellow of a lamp, while a mellow playlist sings out from a nearby speaker. Outside, the rain is tapping, gentle but insistent, against the glass of the window pane. The arrival of summer storms always makes you just a bit sentimental — they make you think of lazy Augusts in Monstandt growing up, free from the shackles of school work and the damp grass tickling your ankles.

You’ve been in Liyue many years now, and still the recollection persists; you’ve always been a creature of nostalgia, of sights and scents and feelings long since pressed into the scrapbook of memories.

The bed shifts, the weight of another person making it dip and sag. You let out a huff, chuckling when hands slide under your shirt, wrap around your waist. “Took your time.” you murmur, but let out a louder little giggle when lips press against the back of your ear. 

“You’re so ticklish.” Zhongli speaks into the warmth of your skin and you can feel the hum of it seep underneath. “Missed you today.”

It was Sunday, his busiest day. You missed him too.

Your fingers lace together over your stomach, and for the first few minutes, you both simply bask in each other’s presence, re-fitting yourselves around each other as if you’d forgotten in the hours you spent apart. The honeymoon phase, Hu Tao called it, and while you pout at the term, Zhongli just laughs and buries his face in your hair, delighted.

“You’re my honey, anyway,” Zhongli tells you, making you splutter and blush.

Oh well. If it makes him happy, you’re not going to contest.

Zhongli is tracing sweet little spirals on up and down your stomach, and you want to roll your eyes, give Zhongli an impatient glare, but you’re enjoying the ministrations far too much to protest. You make a small noise, instead, and drop your phone so your eyes can flutter closed and fully experience every touch and stroke that your boyfriend seems insistent on giving you.

You tilt your head back so that Zhongli can scrape teeth and tongue down the column of your neck, exhaling at the way each pressed kiss sends want to curl in your gut. After his workday ends, you’re free to do whatever you want to each other, and you don’t mind admitting how much you love to push the limit of whatever Zhongli is willing to give. 

Besides, you both have very few things you can call yours to begin with. A little mark or two won’t hurt.

“I have an early start tomorrow,” you sigh, breath starting to quicken. You shake off Zhongli’s hands to reach around behind him, keeping him in place by locking your fingers at the point of his nape. “We can’t do too much.” Still, the little moan that escapes you when Zhongli’s thumbs wander up to flick and rub at your nipples betray your true sentiments. “I mean it.”

“Y/N,” Zhongli says, a whine colouring his tone. He pulls you closer, brings you so that every inch of your back is pressed against his chest. He’s shirtless again, you notice, woeful. “It’s been so long, I’m starting to forget the feeling of being inside you.”

It makes you want to break. It makes you want to be broken.

But you have so many errands to do tomorrow, and it’s only the fact that you haven't seen him all day that you’re even home and not elsewhere, poring over whatever menial task Keqing has given you.

“Tomorrow babe, I promise,” you say, and you turn around slowly in the circle of his arms so that you can tell Zhongli your next words to his face. 

You know even before opening your eyes that the other is pouting, the plump jut of his bottom lip and his furrowed brow greeting you when your gazes meet; an enamoured laugh escapes you. He’s just so damn cute. Like this, you know you’re adored. Like this, you know you’re wanted.

“I missed you too, you know,” you whisper, assurance spilling fervently and easy from your lips. “I don’t want you to think I don’t.” you lean forward to kiss him, light and chaste, the sweet sound of it softly punctuating your sentences. “I just want to finish this one thing first.”

Zhongli is so wide that when he flattens his palms across your lower back to pull you closer together, he almost fully envelopes you in his arms. You’d hate to admit it to anyone, but it’s one of your favourite things, to be encompassed by Zhongli, to feel completely surrounded and not be cognizant of where he ends and where you begin. 

It’s intoxicating, to be cherished like this. You inhales; cotton, musk, citrus. You give him a tiny grin before reaching up to cup his face in your palms, squeezing gently. Affection makes your heart sing. That’s your whole world in your hands.

Zhongli wrinkles his nose at you, before pressing your foreheads together, understanding.

“It’s okay, I get it,” he says, and you know he does. You’re both terrible at keeping a sustainable work-life balance, but ever since you started dating officially, you both promised to try. “Tomorrow, then.”

You inhale sharply, eyes fluttering shut when you feel Zhongli press his nose to yours, the little touches leaving you breathless. You bite your lip, yearning to have him inch just a bit closer. It’s so intimate it makes heat sear up your neck, settle around the tips of your ears. Oh, you want this. You want him.

“Can I still kiss you though?” Zhongli whispers.

Please, you try to say, but you’re already surging forward to slot your lips together, jaw falling open so Zhongli can slide his tongue into your mouth, wet and silky. You moan, tangling your legs so that they’re entwined, inseparable. “Babe,” you whine, as Zhongli nips at your bottom lip with his teeth. “Please. Don’t stop.”

“Can’t, won’t stop,” Zhongli murmurs, pressing wet open-mouthed kisses all over your face. “Want you. Always want you.”

The words make your heart stutter, stop, restart. You’re never taking this for granted, Zhongli’s unrelenting, steady adoration. And you know he feels the same about you.

“Want you too.”

You roll over until Zhongli’s body settles over yours, pressing you lightly into the mattress. Zhongli nudges your knees apart so he can tug them around his waist, encouraging you to lock your ankles together at the small of his back. 

Leaning down, Zhongli finds his way back to your mouth, and the blood coursing through your veins feel like molten gold when he licks into it, curls his tongue around yours; it’s dizzying, almost, feeling the weight of his desire in the spit-slick glide of his lips, in the velvet thickness of your shared breaths. 

You never want to be unburdened of it.

You kiss like this, slow and sensual, the desaturated yellow glow of the bedroom filling your head with a pleasant hazy buzz. Hands stroke without intention, content to simply feel muscles ripple and flex underneath fingertips. The music playing on the speaker has faded into silence, and only the occasional giggle interrupts the sound of your lips meeting over and over, in the quiet of the space between.

Eventually, the pulsing ache tightening your gut peters out into warm embers, and you both become content to just press your lips together as exhaustion makes your eyelids start to droop and arms heavier to lift.

“Babe, m’sleepy,” you say drowsily; you yawn against his mouth, making the other snicker into the side of your throat.

“Me too,” Zhongli says, after his chuckles die out. He guides your head to lay on his shoulder, tucking it neatly under his chin. “It’s late, anyway. We should sleep. You have an early start.”

You’re barely conscious now, but you still pucker your lips so that you can place a soft smooch on whatever patch of skin you can reach. Your mouth feels tingly, pleasantly so. “Turn off the light before you drift off, please,” you murmur, before placing your hand on his chest. Like this, you think you can feel Zhongli’s heartbeat against your palm, pounding lightly underneath his ribcage.

How sweet, you muse, your thoughts starting to split and scatter in the moments before slumber. But aren’t you forgetting anything?

Your head jerks, just a bit, when you remember. 

Oh. How could you forget?

“Love you. Goodnight.”

It’s only when you feel a kiss pressed to your brow and you hear words whispered into the crown of your head that you deem it safe to go to sleep now. These are the sights, the scents, the sounds you keep close, intrinsic to the person you were, you are, you hope you always will be.

“I love you too.”