Ngl If You Were To Write The Unspeakable Things You Wanted To Do To That Little Twink Id Read It 10 Times

ngl if you were to write the unspeakable things you wanted to do to that little twink I’d read it 10 times over lmao /lh

wanderlust (ruins in the wind) | scaramouche (wanderer) x reader

✦ tags ; afab + gn reader, described to be taller and stronger than scaramouche, submissive!scaramouche (not proper d/s but he's definitely submissive), virginity loss, handjobs, fingering (f!recieving), creampies, cum-swapping, fingersucking, praise, faux sympathy + mocking, overstimulation, reader carries scaramouche to bed and to a bath, aftercare, love confessions but scaramouche is scaramouche, reader is a mercenary and sword user, scaramouche is demisexual coded a lil bit, petnames (reader calls scaramouche sweetflower + brat. scara calls reader bonehead lol)

✦ mild spoilers for the archon quest and interlude + fic is written in scaramouches perspective

✦ wc ; 7.3k (im about to throw up rn)

✦ a/n ; dear god in heaven a stupid twink with so many problems has captivated me. im insane. i want to fuck this emotionally stunted idiot so bad. also scaramouche is in love with reader he is just fucked up i prommy

✦ synopsis ; scaramouche has never really cared for intimacy or romance. he likes the way you lick his wounds.

Scaramouche is not swayed easily. He doesn't not care for the whims of mortal men, or of finnicky human emotions. He doesn't care about justice or injustice, life or death.

And perhaps, in part, this is all because he is empty. Puppets often are, and with his strings effectively severed - he is nowhere to be found except in the corners. Beneath shadows, and under leaves.

It's important to know that Scaramouche doesn't sway easily, and that he desires little. It's even more important that it's understood of him, that this is not something that has fallen upon him easily. This... feeling he harbors towards you - did not happen easily. It wasn't born suddenly. It wasn't like a beating thrum of hearts that perfectly molded into some sickly fairytale.

In fact, implying as much is insulting. Nothing about this affair feels like those pointless love stories people love to drone about.

Scaramouche wasn't swayed by you easily. If he had to make any comparison, it would be like bracing the storms in Snezhnaya. Frostbitten with ice filling his lashes, withstanding a force greater than nature.

He doesn't understand it himself.

Since he's become the Wanderer, he's had a chance to observe life as it moves. The people who come and go he never too gets close to. Every now and again, Nahida will come and keep eye on him.

He isn't lonely. He couldn't be.

But meeting you has proved that he is capable of yearning for something, unfortunately. A meeting of pure chance, of a wanderer and a mercenary. Neither of you committed to any single place, crossing paths to his detriment.

Over and over, like a cruel twist of fate - Scaramouche finds himself in your company. If you're not aiding him in battle, you're cradling his wounds. Pouring salve over them with a bandage between your teeth and a coy look in your eyes.

Sometimes, you kiss the bruises on his knees. And instead of pushing you, he finds himself crumpling under the weight of your touch. It's shameful. Displeasing.

But despite it, his body seems to hone in on your absence. He thought he'd abandoned such things ages ago. His sensitivities.

And yet, he's like this. Tipping his chin up when you call his name, resisting the feeling when your fingers trace his jaw. He can always feel the lingering heat of you, a sharp line from the bottom of his ears to the point of his chin. You relish holding his gaze, sadistically refusing him when he tries to look somewhere else.

Scaramouche tries to resist it. He pushes and shoves and fleets. He loathes it after all. You always pull away if he asks, but that only frustrates him more.

Sometimes, he dreams about you being more forceful. He can't admit it to even himself, waking up in a fit of shame. A hot flash under his skin as his sleep conjures up images of it.

Scaramouche has been nothing but adamant to forget about you.

But again and again and again - your hands linger on him. Brief touches that awaken every nerve in his body.

Scaramouche isn't swayed easily, but when you come to his quarters in the late evening - he doesn't turn you away. He steps aside to let you, and complains when you close the door.

You're together again for a mission. Or rather, the end of a mission - a successful run of intel gathering on the beloathed Doctor has set you in a far-off inn on the edges of Sumeru.

You'd gotten separate rooms per his insistence, but you've come by anyway. Typical, really.

"What are doing here?" He says, voice flat. You chuckle softly as you come in, steel-toed boots noisy with your steps. You sit on this bed with ease, leaning back on your palms as he joins you in the room. He crosses his arms his chest.

"I was bored."

"If you're bored you can sleep instead of pestering me,"

You give him a small smile, making him deepen his frown.

"My energy is up from all the fighting, I'm afraid. " You reply nonchalantly. He scowls.

"And what exactly am I supposed to assist you with? Stop being a nuisance and get out."

"So cold aren't you, Wanderer," You say, nonplussed "Couldn't you be a bit more kind to your dear friend?"

"You've finally lost it, haven't you?"

"No, not yet. You seem like you'd benefit from some release, too. We could always help each other out. Just like always,"

There's something in your suggestion that makes his skin feel like it'll singe if it's touched. He scoffs, turning his head away from you.

"What are you implying?"

You shrug.

"It doesn't suit you to play clueless," You say, half-way between sarcasm and sincerity "Are you sure you don't have any idea?"

The pressure in the room gets more intense as each second passes. He chokes out his next words, lodged in his throat.

"O-of course not. Don't be ridiculous,"

When you stand up, he feels his stomach tense. His whole body feels strange at the sound of your voice. If he has no heart, what's this tension? This pulse so clearly emanating in your body as you stand to your feet?

It's hard for him to be intimidated, but you walk towards him and he feels himself shrink. A slow walk-back until he's stopped. You place your hand on the wall behind him, next to his head as you smile. Your teeth almost glint when you do.

"What was it you always say about truth and honesty?" You lean in and you're far too close. Your voice drops, a whisper in the night.

"W-what does this have to do with that?"

"Everything, of course." You hum. Scaramouche wants to shove you away when your hand cups his face. It's disgusting. He should shove you away.

His knees feel weak.

"Scaramouche," You repeat, face inches away from his "Won't you admit it to me?"

"Admit what."

"That you wish to be adored?" You say with the lightest laugh he's ever heard in his lie "That you want me to adore you?"

He doesn't know what to say. He scoffs.

"You must have some sort of death wish."

You click your teeth at him.

"Nothing like that. I have a very simple wish, Scaramouche. Would you care to hear it?"

He avoids your eyes

"As if I have a choice."

"I want to know what face you make when I've pleasured you."

Everything comes to a halt. His eyes nearly pop from how wide he opens them, mouth open in shock. A noise of indignance leaves him, ready to push back. Only to settle his gaze upon the seriousness in your face. The... hunger so distinct in your eyes that he can't.

"Watch your mouth if you wish to live." He spits.

"I phrased it as pleasantly as I can, so don't shy away from me, yes?" You say, soft and careful, returned to that sunlight he's used to "Have you felt it before? Pleasure? Desire?"

"Be quiet."

"What does pleasure look like on that delicate face of yours? Those sweet little features you hide with a scowl? You've told me your story in such detail, Wanderer," You cup his face, forcing his expression forward once more. Smiling, you rub your thumb on his lip "That you're a puppet. Yet, you're fashioned prettily like some sort of porcelain doll."

"You—you, how dare you—"

"I know what your wandering heart longs for. Aside from revenge, from acceptance - you so desperately wish for adoration. That's what you sought for. From godliness, you wished for worship."

To this, he can't say anything. He curses and spits, but he can't form words to counter you. You've seen through him in this way, and while he cannot face his defeat - he can't counter the truth.

Adoration is such an unfamiliar word.

But memories of the beginning of his life come up, push through him like a thorn in his side. Scaramouche thinks of the moments, brief as they were, when he was cherished.

And something washes over him that he wishes to erase.

"You're flushed. Have you realized it? I can give you your every desire, if only you permit it," You tell him, no longer masking the disgusting sincerity in your voice "But I am not so lawless to force you."

"You're twisted."

"Would you have liked me if I wasn't?"

"Who says I can do anything more than tolerate you?"

"The fact you haven't pushed me far, far away."

For a long time, he's silent. Your stare isn't intimidating. You're not intending to intimidate. The storm of conflict ripping through him, the turmoil—it's his own affliction. He can only shift a handful of the blame on you. He will pretend it's all your fault.

But he's wavering in front of you. Why hasn't he pushed you far away? Why doesn't he want to?

He can't question it. But he can't say it explicitly, either. So he tells you a half-way truth.

"...Do as you please."

The way you brighten up angers him.

"Do you mean it?"

"Don't make repeat myself."

Your smile makes him...upset. Not angry, but not happy. He tsks as you lean into him again.

"Have you ever done it before?"

"So what if I haven't."

"Don't be so defensive. I'm wondering where we should start if that's the case. Have you kissed before?"

He shakes his head and you nod, processing the information.

"Open your mouth a little, and close your eyes."

He frowns, but does as you ask. He closes his eyes and waits for you. Your hands are slightly calloused, likely from wielding a sword. But they're distinctly warm. You wrap around the nape of his neck. He can feel you bend down, inching to him. Time feels like it's slowed down.

"Relax, Scara," You whisper against his lips "Let go."

Before he understands what's happening, he can feel your lips on his. At first, he wants to open his eyes. At the same time he doesn't. It's a simple press of lips to start.

But then you open your mouth. And out of instinct, he does the same. It feels like something then, the deep cradling his lips to yours. Your lips are smooth and soft, and your hand is careful.

He can't keep track once you've begun. He can feel his legs wobble, - hands fisted at his side because he doesn't know what to do with them. As if reading his mind, you take his arm until it's around your shoulders.

"Hold on to me, sweetflower."

"Don't call me that," He huffs, out of breath. How is he supposed to breath?

You smile.

"No promises,"

Before he can protest again, you're kissing again. Deep like before, but it feels different. You pull away more and without control over it, he chases the feeling. He can feel the rigid line of your teeth in his lower lip as you tug on it - just before pushing your tongue in his mouth.

At first, he doesn't welcome it but once he adjusts - he finds himself opening his mouth deeper. He keeps repeating in his head. That he'll stop you. Himself.

But every time he works up the false courage, he's melting. It all becomes noise. He wants to know what your tongue feels like again. Why it's so hot and so wet and why he doesn't like when you pull away.

He wants to know what face you're making so he opens his eyes, just slightly. Lidded, to look at you. And you look... well not bad.

Even without having done this, he knows you're experienced. He can feel how easy it comes to you, and in some way it annoys him.

"Cute," You say as you pull away. He huffs out "You're cute, Wanderer."

"Don't. Why'd you—"

Before he can finish the thought, he can feel your arms underneath his thighs - hoisting him up. A sound leaves his mouth as you look up at him. He wants to be angry, but he's flush at how easily you did it. How strong you are. He wraps his legs around, worried he's going to fall.

"Are you insane?"

"We should do this proper in bed."

He feels you set him down on the mattress, his body indenting in the weight before joining him. The weight of you is... odd. The contact is alien. Scaramouche hasn't experienced it, in any capacity, in so long. But never like this. The brief moments are from you but they're so fleeting in comparison.

He's so aware of all of it. Every sensation, the thick tension in the air as you slot your legs between his. He can feel you everywhere, your arms resting on either side of his head. You touch his hair on the occasion, twirling it between your fingers.

All you do is kiss him and you do so awfully slowly. Deeply in a way where you're exploring his mouth and he feels the fight in him curbing. He can feel something stir in his stomach, blood flowing somewhere he wishes he wouldn't. He convinces himself it's just a physical response. Of course he would react like that, he was fashioned as a human so of course—

Your knee presses to his cock and he stiffens. Eyes blown open as you kiss him like nothing happened. He pushes you off a little, eyes widened and you look at him confused.

"You alright?"

"Your—you touched me..."

"Oh, you mean how I pushed my thigh up? Are you sensitive?"

"Don't push it," He hisses, before frowning "It was...well I don't know. It was weird."

"Weird? That the best you can come up with? You can say it felt nice."

"As if I'd say that."

"You sure? That it doesn't feel nice, I mean?"

You do the same gesture as before. The angle puts gentle pressure on him. Half hard through silky fabrics leaves him biting his tongue, an insult he'd prepared—effectively lodged in his throat.

"Your body is more honest than you are," You say, words laced with amusement "You look overwhelmed."

"You must be daydreaming," He snaps. You grin.

"Having you beneath me sure feels like it" You reply, standing on your knees "I want to see more of you."

He sits up with you, unsure of what else to do. You're gentle in your movements. He detests it. He tells himself that as he sits up, eyes steady on your form. You undress him, first undoing all the intricate ties and knots.

Then your hands creep underneath the white robe that's come loose, Rough skin, filled with heat, that he can feel on his waist. He holds his breath.

"Quite the delicate thing aren't you," You whisper, voice coarse with desire "If I hadn't seen you fight, I wouldn't have believed it."

"Shut up."

It's the best he can do. Because the visual and the sensation is all too much. Your hands square on his sides, eyes looking up at him with familiar mischief is too much and he just wants you to shut up. He covers his face with the back of his arm as your thumb dips underneath his shirt.

You pull the bottom of his turtleneck up slowly, revealing his abdomen. Your gaze is fixed on him, keen in taking in every detail.

"Stop looking so much. You're—."

"You're beautiful," You say, rushed in a sharp breath. You look at him between your lashes and the sarcasm he had prepared dies on his lips. Everything comes apart "Without even trying, you've reached divinity,"

What is he supposed to say to that? He flushes, heat rushing to his face all at once. You tilt your head to one side as you lay him down slowly. His clothes are all splayed, pants low on his hips - shirt pulled just over his chest. Humiliating.

"You like being adored don't you?" You're hardly saying it to him. It's mostly to yourself, in between pressing kisses along his stomach - slowly till you're up to his chest "You always react to it nicely."

"What are you doing?"

"Foreplay," You state smoothly "Normally, I'd get right to it but I don't feel like it with you."

"With me?"

"When you've coveted something, you savor it more when it's finally yours."

You push him up towards the headboard before joining him. Undressing him fully, white robe discarded with the shirt too. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He's lived a long time. It's not like he doesn't know what happens here. At least in theory he does.

But it's different in practice. He's floundering, watching you as you slot yourself between his legs. Stood on your knees, you mimic his state of undress. He's never seen you like that before. There's scars on your body he's never thought of.

He can see your breasts. The shape and softness and swell hidden behind something that pushes them flat. And you take that off too, without thinking twice about it. He's so conscious of it, he can't look away. Your whole body is there. Shoulders and stomach and chest and back and Scaramouche is... taken by it. Desire doesn't come gently.

"You can touch them," You say, noticing his fascination with a laugh. He swallows, pushing himself up with his arm, using his free hand to hold one. He can't fathom the feeling until they're in his hands.

Fascinated, he wants to retract at the intensity. Yet, he wants to know more about it, cursing himself for hundreds of years of disinterest.

"Your intrigue with my body is surprising," You say, looking down at him "I thought this was more one-sided,"

"Not that you've ever been bright, but surely getting this far is enough of an indication of where we stand. Use your brain for more than swordfighting, will you?"

Your grin is so bright it's blinding and he can't stop himself from letting the corners of his mouth twitch up. He pulls his hand away, laying back in attempt to cover his expression up.

""Since when have you coveted me?" He asks.

"Since the beginning." You reply

He doesn't get a chance to ask about it more. You lay on top of him again, hovering slightly as you kiss more. It shuts him up effectively, quietly huffing as you pull away. You go quiet, no longer mouthing off at him, your plane your palms over his sides.

You kiss the corners of his mouth as you hold him - tracing his jaw with feather light kisses. He rests his arms over your shoulders like before, resisting all the sounds that threaten to leave his lips. There's a tear in his cheek from all the biting.

Slowly, slowly like water trickling through a creek - Scaramouche feels your mouth. Your tongue feels like it'll burn him as it trails down his neck. Teeth sharpened on every inch of him. You do it languidly, each part of him attended to carefully. He can feel your lips on his chest, and he stiffens,

But you're not concerned. He stares at you as you fondle his chest, thumb brushing over his nipples and waiting for his reaction. You must be pleased with whatever you see because you start to go in circles, slow and precise rolls of the hardened bud between your fingers.

His body has always been like this. He's gotten used to enduring pain in order to fight, but the sensitivity is familiar. He bruises easily and he used to hate cuts.

But it's different like this. Being so attentive to everything, like the soft fat of your chest pressing against his ribs. Your hands on his back, dipping into his waist band, your mouth and his cock that's twitching so desperately between his legs the longer this goes on.

You slowly tug his shorts from down his waist, until it's just his undergarments left. His cock is hard now. The tip is leaking just enough that it's making a damp circle where it's restrained. Your hand cups the outline, thumb pressed over the slit.

And Scaramouche whines. Never in his life has he felt it. He couldn't picture it if he tried, but he feels it and he whines.

You grin against his skin, a smile on your lips as you touch him tenderly.

"Was it weird this time too?"

"S-shut up, just sh-shut up."

You lay in his side, taking all of it off till he's all bare. His cock is hard, stood to attention. Without a warning, you wrap your hand around the base, craning your neck to kiss his pulse. Your teeth tug on his ear lobe as you stroke his shaft, go agonizingly slow.

And Scaramouche is twitching in your hand. He's so hard and his head feels like there's vines wrapped around his whole body. His hips move without his permission, rutting into your palms.

"Have you touched yourself before?"

"Of course I have, but it's—it's n-not—Archons,"

"It's not like this, right?"

"Hnnn."

Like a body that's never felt pleasure before. Scaramouche forgot momentarily, that he never has done anything in this body. Not pleasure nor pain, like a brand-new weapon. Sharp. Untouched. He has this realization as you fist his cock without any mercy and every fiber in his being is working to stop himself from making a mess in your hands.

He doesn't want it to be over too soon, but you're relentless. He's gasping for air by the time he feels it. Eyes blown open in something akin to fear.

"S-slow down, slow, I - please, slower."

There's something terrifying about being so close. It's the come down. It's the inevitable drop that's going to follow. And even if he'd rather eat glass than admit aloud to anything vulnerable, he is so starved of touch and it's only taken him up until now to know. You feel so good and Scaramouche is so late about it that all he can do is beg you to slow down.

But of course, it's not that easy. Why would it be?

"Why should I?" You taunt, and you're expecting an answer. He can hear that you are and he wants to kill you for a minute.

"I'll—It's going come out, if you just—"

"You can cum, Scaramouche." You say, voice all breezy "I told you I'd give you anything you desire. You want me to keep going, don't you? Even after you cum?"

And then, relenting a little, he shudders.

"Don't stop. D-dont stop, ngh."

"Cum for me, Scaramouche. Show me what face you make."

He can hardly bear the shame as he cums. Like the body of an arrow, pulled so taut - Scaramouche feels all the tension in his body release at once. He shudders, hard, covering his face with the back of his hand and trying to muffle his voice.

Humiliated, he pulls his hand back and huffs. He can't imagine the expression on his face, confirmed by the satisfaction on yours when you look at him. With your free hand, you tilt his face towards you - kissing him one more time until he's chasing your lips.

"Did it feel good, Scara?"

He's in too deep. Far too deep. He feels like he's being held captive by some force.

"...It was fine."

You grin.

"Good boy."

"Shut up," He says, half-hearted and increasingly desperate "Just—"

"Just kiss you?" You tease, as he makes effort to climb over you "Is that at all?"

"You love asking idiotic questions." He says with no real bite. Fed up with being under you, he scowls. The humiliating mess he's made in your hands in covering your palms and he goes to wipe it away

But before you can, you prop yourself up on your elbow and lick your hand clean without even flinching. If he wasn't so embarrassingly turned out, he would've used his vision to blow you into the next room. He pulls your hand away from your mouth, expression dusted pink.

"What are you doing?"

"Cleaning? You taste nice, Scaramouche," And with the most annoying self-satisfaction, you stick your tongue out "Wanna try?"

He doesn't have a chance to ask because you're pulling him ontop of you again, hair tugging on the roots of his hair and kissing him. He can taste himself, and he winces. It's bitter and salty, but the way you're moaning into his mouth is tricking his body because he can feel something stir in his stomach again.

He pulls away, nose scrunched.

"That was awful. How'd you do that without flinching? What's wrong with you?"

"I've tasted worse. Yours really is pleasant." You say with a grin. He wants to shove you away. He wants to kiss you again.

You take a minute to get comfortable. Pillows placed under you, you lay on your side - gesturing for Scraramouche to join you. He does, of course he does. And he stares at you, frustration and desire and want all culminating to make something awful.

"Do you want to stop here?"

"I don't like owing people favors," He says flush. You give a deep, belly-laugh that makes him want to suffocate you.

"What a bad habit you have with honesty, Wanderer. What do you want to do? Do you wanna try touching me while you get it up again?"

He nods, not even bothering to counter your crass words. Your face softens. And everything has taken a shift from hard and fast, to noticeably intimate. Scaramouche can feel the tension in the air, clinging to his rib cage as you reach for his wrists. You open his hands up, shaping them - before you pull them towards.

It's not brief like last time. It's a full touch, his whole palm squishing the fat between his fingers. He looks up and your eyes are lidded, like you're enjoying. He's trying to remember how you touched him, how to mimic it.

So he gets ontop of you, determined to accomplish something. Just like you minute ago, bodies pressed together. He gropes them both and looks up at you - aware of the differences between you. Of height and of stature. He rolls his thumb over your nipples and you make a sharp noise.

And with a little more confidence, he ducks his head down. Drags his tongue from your clavicle, down the valley of your breasts - teeth scraping the skin lightly. He can't bring it himself to kiss you, but he can bite. He's always been good at biting.

So he bites, gently, running his tongue on your hard nipples. Sucking gently. Watching as your expression changes, the way you swallow around spit the more he does it. Scaramouche may doesn't like losing.

"There you go," You all but coo, and his resolve wavers "That feels good."

His chest aches at the approval.

"Do you want to try touching me? Like, actually touching me?"

He feels something that he wants to bat away. A rush. It sweeps past him all at once. He's never really thought about such things before. About...another persons body. He always thought it wasn't programmed in him. It was another thing that added to his inhumanity. That's how he thought of it.

But this is the first time he's ever felt anything like this towards someone, and the gravity of it makes him weak. He hates that he's weak. He hates how bad he wants to touch you, after all.

He nods, and you grin. He moves so you can take your pants off, and watches as the material rolls down your thighs with a deep breath.

He sits back, between your legs. Helps you take the rest off until you're naked, and watches as you spread your legs. It's not like he doesn't know. That he's never seen or read, but it's so different.

He must look hesitant, because he hears you chuckle form above him, making his expression twist. You snake your hand down, fingers pulling yourself apart. He can see inside. It's all wet, and all soft. There's heat coming off it and Scaramouche doesn't know what to do with himself.

"You can touch right here, my clit. Slowly, like this."

His hands are trembling as he reaches out. His hand resting on your navel, he drags his thumb on your clit in the same way he did before. You shudder, pushing your hips up. He does it again, in slow circles. Thoughtfully, watchin as your body pulses under him. He's so intrigued by it. Nervous to make a mistake and careful to keep the momentum.

You groan and Scaramouche almost pulls away.

"Haah, there you go. You think you can go a little farther than that?"

"Farther?"

"Get me ready so you can put it in," You say with missing a beat. He gasps "If you want to, still."

"H-how do I..?"

"With your fingers. You don't have to go too slow, but don't push it in at once. You'll feel a little resistance but it should be alright."

Reading his face, you laugh before showing him. He watches you, intent. Your hands pushing into your sex, one finger first. It's a well practiced movement. Your brows are drawn together tight as you pump them in and out - stretching yourself out in front of him.

He can hear you take your fingers out, and you gesture him. You spread your legs for him as he comes up to kiss you. He can only assume that's why, but before you can reach - he's feeling your fingers slip between his lips.

"Open up, sweetflower," You pull his lip down with your thumb, pushing thick fingers into his mouth "Thought it was only fair."

"Mmph," When it registers what he's tasting, sweet and slight in comparison to before, his eyes flutter. He's transfixed by it, and suddenly feels his hips nearly rutting for friction. You taste good, by comparison.

He doesn't know whats happening to his head, but he doesn't stop you when you start to move. Fucking his mouth open with your rough hands that he's starting to long for.

"Messy little brat," Your voice is full of adoration, breathy. It's effecting you at least half as much as it's effecting him "You love making messes, don't you?"

He huffs and frowns but he does. He hates to admit it but he's enjoying the coaxing. The petnames, the empty-headed responses. Whatever his body is experiencing is out of his control. Even when it's frightening - when its awful, he wants more of it.

"Look at you drooling all over me," You say, a little meaner. It's that sickly taunting. He's heard you do it tens of times. In interrogations and in arrests "Maybe if you're nice, I'll let you taste me, really. That'd be nice right?"

He blinks up at you, unsure of what else to do. He hears you groan.

"Sometimes, you make me angry enough that I want to be cruel to you," You admit, pushing your fingers out until his mouth is stretching "But other times, like this, you looks so desperate to be loved that I want to give you the world. What should I do?"

His cock twitches hard.

"Your innocence is intact. Cock untouched and needy, it's cute. Would you consider kindness or discipline if I ruined it your purity?"

He pulls aways with a huff. He's desperate.

"Mercy," His voice is hoarse. It's the only time, he'll ever be able to say it clearly "It'd be mercy."

You smile at him.

"Good answer. Come here."

Scaramouche nods. He has to get the angles right. Even after watching you do it, the task feels impossible. He shakes the nerves out of him and watches you instead, focusing on something else.

He's never been to keen on appearances. On bodies and of what makes someone attractive and what doesn't.

Maybe, it's the knowing you. Knowing what you look like half-asleep, and knowing that you're a rowdy drunk and know that you've kissed some of the other people in your platoon and maybe it's because he knows you well enough. But he is reacting, intensely, to the sight of you with your legs spread.

And he thinks that he'd take you in whatever way you asked of him, no matter the fact he'd prefer to die than admit it.

He starts with his middle finger, slow. It's what you describe, there's resistance. But he wasn't prepared for how warm you were. Hot inside and so wet that he hardly has to try to go further in. You moan above him and it's nauseating how much he wants you to do it again.

When he's down to his knuckles, he pulls out and pushes back in. A repetitive motion until there's no longer any resistance. And he repeats the action, stretching you out until it doesn't feel too tight. He feels around, instinctually, committing it to memory because he has no idea where things go after things end.

He hits a particularly spot, different from the rest. Spongier and noticeable, and you choke on air.

"It feels good there," You say, laughing through it "But I'm getting impatient. We can get into another time."

The promise of another time rings in his head loudly as he pulls his hands way. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He watches you sit up, and your expression is flushed and panting. And you're smiling, because you're always doing that.

But for the first time, Scaramouche is relieved and not entirely agitated. He can't believe the state he's in, but the shock can only come later because right now he's vulnerable and dependent on you. For clarity and guidance and reassurance and everything else.

So he's relieved when you're sitting across from each other and you kiss him so innocently. It's terribly tender. When you pull away, you kiss the corners of his mouth. And his eyelids and the place where his ears meet his jaw.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing you."

"Why."

"What do you want to hear? The truth or something to appease you?"

"The truth." He insists.

"Because I like you."

He hates how how that makes him feel.

"What was the other answer?"

"To embarrass you."

Being seen through like that is worse embarrassment than being effectively confessed to.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I like you? Isn't that what people usually do here?"

"Would you answer me?"

"Obviously not. As if I would."

You laugh again and kiss his lips. You're so welcoming it's gross. So inviting. So sweet. He resents your generosity.

"Then why would I? Silly question, no?"

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Are you concerned about me?" You say, voice shrill with delight. He scoffs.

"No. But it'd be uncomfortable to see you act pitifully about it."

"I dare not ask for your heart, Wanderer."

"I don't have one, remember?"

"Wherever you hide your longing is your heart. You have one somewhere, deep down. This much, I'm sure of."

"Hearing you wax poetic makes me shiver, you bonehead." He says, failing to put any sarcasm in his voice. You merely laugh again, more soft this time.

"You'll have to forgive me." You say, another kiss but this time to his shoulder and Scaramouche breathes out "Lay down, sweetflower."

The saccharine sweet petname makes him feel a little sick. He lays down, unsure of what to do with himself. From what he knows, it's supposed to be the other way around.

The bed creaks under your movements. Scaramouche watches you closely, as you climb over him. Your knees end up on either side of him, effectively sitting on him. It dawns on him all at once what you're doing. His eyes widen as you place a hand on his chest, your feet over his thighs.

Reality sets in when Scaramouche watches you above him. Like the whole world has come to some kind of halt. Pride, anger, retaliation. All of the parts of himself he's sworn to honor when this is over, burn away to nothingness as he watches you. Your breasts hovering over him, and your palms pressed to his chest and your eyes.

Scaramouche has so much ire for you. He complains about your recklessness and bad habits often to anyone who will spare him time. How you're airheaded and that all you know how to do is wield a sword and drink poor liquor in poor taste.

There'd be nothing more embarassing that falling for someone as stupid as you are.

Scaramouche watches you sink down on his cock. You're deliberate about it, your hand around the base as you guide the tip to you're entrance. He can't even describe the sensation in it's entirety. His whole body gives out the minute he feels you stretch around him.

You're hot inside. So hot it feels like his whole body is melting. Tight enough that he can't imagine the whole thing going in despite the fact he's watching it happen. You lower yourself slowly, inch by inch and Scaramouche doesn't know what to do with his hands. He grabs your hips out of instinct. Gritting his teeth overwhelmed, he groans as he bottoms out.

"Oh, fuck." Scaramouche tosses his head back, groaning. It's guttural and deep, his cock throbbing. A dull heat settles in the base of his stomach.

Every muscle in his body is working over-time trying to keep himself from cumming. He opens his eyes to look at you, the expression on your face twisted in pleasure and the task becomes so much harder.

"You feel so good," You mumble, leaning forward "Haah—Scaramouche, you feel good. Can I move?"

"Ngh, y-yes."

You nod. Scaramouche is transfixed by the sight of you. He hates to admit it, reluctant to submit himself to such a reality. But he's not in any position to deny such an obvious sight. Your always-charismatic, always-charming face is pinched with focus. The arch of your body, the weight of your thighs and the shape of you lit well under the low lights. You are beautiful to the point it's agonizing and Scaramouche can't deny himself the pleasure of looking. Not that he deserves it. Not that he feels he's allowed, but that he can't stop himself from trying to etch it into his mind.

You were always meant to be another alliance of need. Scaramouche needed brawn. Just like he needed allyship in that foolish traveler and archon.

So he can't wrap his head around how he's landed here precisely. How he finds himself underneath you and fucking you, and feeling pleasure from you. It escapes him. It fills his head. He understands it now, why he all the other Harbingers seemed so obsessed with screwing their subordinates.

You bring your hand down between your legs as you find a rhythm steadily. Your fingers rub your clit in hard fast motions, and you're trembling. You bounce on his cock easily, and each time he pulls out - he can hear how wet you are when he pushes back in.

He moans brokenly, throat hoarse and scratchy as he holds onto you for dear life. Struggling to catch his breath. To think anything other than this feels good. Scaramouche wants to cum again, already. He can feel that knot in his stomach, like a rope pulled on two ends and he wants to make a mess.

"You can cum again, sweetflower," You say, noticing the strain in his movement "But that doesn't mean I'll stop."

His eyes widen as you grin at him.

"I'll stop when I get to finish. Make sense?"

Scaramouche knows he couldn't hold it if he tried. He curses at you but the words come out slurred.

"Hngh, 'm it's—I'm gonna—"

Scaramouche cums a second time, harder and faster. It feels like something is crashing into his ribs, whole body seizing tight before he thrashes. His cock is sensitive, releasing inside of you. Thinner than before, he opens his mouth letting out a groan.

Just like promised, you don't stop. You don't even slow down keeping the same steady pace. He's still half-hard but he's so achy. He can't keep up with it, eyes feeling watery from the sensation. He's humiliated and angry that he's about to cry, but he can't form the words to express it.

"What a crybaby you are, Wanderer," You say, voice filled to the brim with affection "Do you want me to stop?"

It's a genuine question, a way out. It kills his remaining pride to shake his head no, but he does. You chuckle above him, so airy like you're not fucking him like this.

"Say it," You repeat, slowing down which makes his heart sink "Say you like it." '

"Fuck you, f-fuck you," And then he shivers as you stop. It comes out as a cry "I like it, fuck you,"

You're so delighted by his response that you bend down to kiss him. You're limp, likely at your limit so your bodies are pressed together and your arm inbetween them. You're touching yourself, using him really - all while kissing him and it's all messy. All of it is unclean and impure and so messy and Scaramouche sticks his tongue out in hopes you'll make it messier.

"Gonna cum," You say, between breaths "Gonna cum soon,"

And Scaramouche can't do anything but brace himself as you do. His whole body is begging for mercy but the feeling you tightening around him is addictive. It's terrible. It's so terrible and lecherous and Scaramouche wants to kiss you again. You moan the loudest you have all night and he shudders as you fuck yourself through it.

When you finally, finally stop - Scaramouche is all but broken from the experience.

"We should shower before bed," You tell him, somehow cognizant "But give me a minute."

"Hn."

__

It's at this point Scaramouche has effectively given up on protesting whatever is happening here. After trying to stand and having his legs give up - you promptly carried him into the bathroom and set him on the counter like some sort of delicate houseplant.

Other than seeming a little tired, you seem unaffected by the whole thing. Meanwhile, Scaramouche feels like he just braced the worst storm of his life and can't find it in himself to recover fast enough.

So he lets you do as you please. Lets you help him into the bath - knees pulled to his chest and face in his knees contemplating killing you just so he can pretend this didn't happen.

But when you join him, humming that same tune from Mondstadt that your mother taught you, he can't find it himself to actually kill you. Maybe this new body has caused him to go soft. Whatever he is, he hates it.

"Sweetflower," You hum, behind him and pouring some scented soap over his back "Lift your head a bit,"

Maybe it's the exhaustion, but he find himself pushing is head back onto your shoulder. Frowning. Pouting. You seem surprised by it.

"Hi there,"

"What's your problem?" He questions, voice full of frustration. You giggle.

"Not sure."

He hates everything. He hates himself for turning around, pushing himself further into you until he's half in your lap - his face in your shoulders.

"If I catch you kissing another one of those idiots you call comrades, I'll have their head."

You freeze before your shoulders shake with laughter. He feels your lips on the top of his head, arms around his shoulders as he comes closer.

"Who should I kiss instead, then?"

"Shut up. Stop asking stupid questions." He says, looking up at you. You laugh a little, pressing your mouth against his.

"Yeah," You agree easily "Stupid question."

And I know it's hard enough to love me (But I woke up in a safe house)

pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader warnings/tags: babygirl vash, Depressing Pillow Talk, slighty nsfw towards the end, sharing one bed trope, title taken from let's get married (MITSKI VERS) word count: ~4.2k

“My husband and I would like a room,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around Vash’s and lean into him. You feel his body startle at your touch, his gaze on top of your head as you play the part of the excited bride. You think he might pass out on you if you don’t get him to room, and fast. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“In this shithole of a town?” The innkeeper asks with a raised eyebrow, looking from you to Vash, who only lets out a sheepish chuckle as he scratches the back of his head. Despite his sluggish breaths, his slow blinking gaze, and the red slowly staining his shirt.

You shrug, trying hard not to be impatient. “There are worse places.”

There are. You’ve survived them. Compared to the slums of December or September, this shabby, worn inn is paradise.

“Yer right ‘bout that,” he laughs, acquiescing, as he tosses a ring of keys into your hand and takes your pouch of money. Vash is slumped into you now, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to place the full weight of his body on you. To anyone else, it would look as if he was clinging to you, the picture of a loving couple.

“Cheers to the happy couple!” the man calls out, tipping his hat down as the two of you move to the stairs in front of you. 

Vash grins brightly, and manages a cheery, polite, “Thank you!” as the two of you pass.

You can’t resist the huff of a laugh that escapes your lips as you make your way up the stairs, and then into the small, modest dust lined room.

Vash collapses on the bed with a sharp exhale, and you immediately move to take off his shirt but his hand stops you by the wrist before you can.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering. His fingers tightens, just imperceptibly, (even on the brink of sleep, he’s overly conscious about his strength, you think). In a way, it feels like he’s wordlessly imploring you to stay. “Jus’ need sleep. Not gonn’ take long.”

You blink. His fingers loosen, and in a few seconds his breathing has evened out into steady breaths. You’re relieved. He’s already stopped bleeding. From the months you’ve traveled with him, known him, he’s healed quickly enough that any other person wouldn’t understand. You still don’t. Not fully. But you’ve never asked questions. And as long as he never asked you any questions, that was fine with you. 

You stay on the bed, by his side for a few minutes, watching him. You take off his sunglasses and put them on the nightstand after wiping the blood off them. He’s an unusually pretty man. Too pretty for No Man’s Land. You trace his face with your eyes. The beauty mark right under his right eye to his parted pink lips. Then down to the rise and fall of his chest to the plates of the cybernetic prosthesis of his left arm. 

Lost technology. Not many people had access to that kind of technology. Or the knowledge to build that arm, let alone repair it.  

Standing, you give him one last glance, reload your revolver and tuck it into the holster at your side, before you leave in search of medical supplies to patch him up when he wakes. You scope out the town while at it. It’s small; a handful of residents armed to the teeth with guns, and even less children. There are pipes that run through the town that you assume are fed fresh water by a nearby plant. You locate a medical shop at the center of town. 

You buy antiseptic, gauze, and a few other things, before making your way back to the inn. The innkeeper gives you a wink.

When you open the door to the room, Vash is awake.

The sound of his harsh breathing fills the air. His metal hand fisted into the sheets so tightly you think it might tear. You meet his frantic gaze, and almost immediately, he slumps in relief, eyes dropping to his lap. 

You quietly shut the door. “Nightmare?”

Sometimes, in his sleep, you hear him call out for a woman named Rem.

He lets out a loud laugh. You pretend not to notice the shaky undertone of it. “I slept for longer than I thought!” His metallic hand curls and unfurls, catching on the dull light of the room. “I thought you…” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away. 

“I brought supplies.” You place the bag on the table, next to Vash’s nickel revolver. You turn back to him: “Strip.”

His arms immediately make a cross on his chest, as if he’s already stripped, face bright red.

“I can do it myself—!”

Vash the Stampede. The humanoid Typhoon. The Sixty Billion Double Dollar Man. The man you originally only followed after to collect the criminals who swarmed to him, like flies to corpses. The man who leaves a trail of calamity and disaster in his wake. The man who continuously, everyday, without fail, begged you to leave the criminals you captured alive. A constant enigma and a headache. A walking contradiction. 

“I’ll leave the room,” you say. “Don’t take too long.”

You leave the room, leaning against the wall, and wait two minutes.

You open the door, and Vash jumps with a yelp, stripped to the waist, arms covering whatever he can manage.

Scars cover his entire torso, running all the way down his flesh arm to his hand. Deep scars, shallow scars, scars that have never entirely healed, leaving the skin dark pink and the flesh caved in. There are more scars than there is unblemished skin, missing chunks of skin replaced with metal plates and seams.

It's not a pretty sight, but you’ve never much cared for pretty. 

His face is flushed. “I thought—”

“I lied.”

“!?”

You shut the door with your heel, and then grab the gauze and antiseptic. “Turn around.”

Wordlessly, he turns, ears reddening. You direct him to sit on the bed, and then you begin to apply the antiseptic. The two of you sit in silence. You, disinfecting his fresh wounds and wrapping his back, while you also ignore the way his body tenses at your touch, his pointedly straight gaze, the constant bob of his throat, as if he’s looking for the right words to say.

He reluctantly speaks up. “You’re…not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you reply. Just a few scrapes and a bruised arm from where you had landed wrong after trying to dodge multiple rounds of bullets from the latest batch of criminals that had schemed to capture the humanoid typhoon. After hauling them to the police, Vash hiding away, you had gained yourself a hefty paycheck before being run out of the city, a bleeding Vash in tow.

You’re nearly done. The wounds aren’t nearly as severe as they had been only a couple of hours ago. The skin has healed enough that it’s already forming a scar. You don’t know much about Vash the Stampede, but you know enough to understand that he isn’t human. Not completely.

But he smiles. He laughs. He detests the very violence that nurtured you. He likes pizza and donuts. He’s moved to tears almost as easily as he seems to get hurt. He’s good with children. They trust him. Children love him in a way they don’t you: pulling him down to their height, climbing him, leading him and all his long limbs along. The way he takes their words seriously, nodding with all the gravity of a legal proceeding as they talk about the weather, their favorite foods, the silly argument they got into with a sibling. He smiles, and when he turns that smile onto you, it makes you think of everything warm and how you had forgotten what it meant to be happy.

He may not be human, but he is. Everything good about humanity that had been lost and forsaken when mankind crashed onto this unforgiving, harsh planet. 

You pull away, resisting the urge to press your fingers down on his skin, to trace the map of his scars and feel him shudder underneath you. He’s as warm as a furnace. The heat of his body stays with you. “How do you feel?”

He beams at you, one hand on his upper arm as he swings his arm around. “Perfect!”

You sigh. “Don’t push yourself now. Let me finish wrapping you.”

He retreats back to his original position, still smiling, all reservations about his partial nudity forgotten as he waits for you to finish.

Vash speaks. “You didn’t kill them.”

You glance up. You can only partially see his expression from your position behind him, but the pull of his lips is unmistakable. He’s smiling. And you don’t need to look at him to see it. That sweet smile of his that pulls at his eyes and softens his entire face. 

Your hands still. You hadn’t killed them. The Archie Brothers, the two brothers infamous for targeting banks and other commercial properties, who had gotten wind of Vash being in the city and emptied hundreds of rounds into the bar the two of you had momentarily settled in for a quick drink. It’s not as if you could’ve killed them in the first place. Vash was nothing if not easygoing, but keeping the criminals you turned in for a paycheck alive was the one thing he firmly enforced. Going as far to shield their bodies with his own.

He’s so troublesome sometimes.

You want to ask if he would’ve let you in the first place. If you had a choice. 

You force yourself to wind the bandage over his arm. “You must be rubbing off on me.”

Vash turns, faster than you anticipate, eyes wide. You can see the pale irises of his eyes. He’s delighted. “Really!?”

You blink, staring at him in silence. He goes red, jerking back, scuttling backwards with his hands like a crab until he reaches the end of the bed and then air. He falls back first, legs raised up in the air. 

He sits up with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “I…I guess I got a little ahead of myself…”

“...pffft.”

He straightens just as you dissolve into full blown laughter. And when your laughter dies down he’s looking at you, eyes wide, like he’s seeing you for the first time. You clear your throat and look away, embarrassed. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed in front of him.

“...Something on my face?”

He jumps, frantically waving. “No, no. I just thought,” he hesitates. “You should laugh more.”

Something in your chest gives. You can’t stand it. Not when he looks at you like that. Eyes shining, lips curved softly, face animated like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

People like him aren’t supposed to survive No Man’s Land. They aren’t built to. But you’ve seen with your own eyes how capable Vash is. It didn’t take much to kill a man in these lawless lands, but you had never seen him miss his target. Your didn't need to take pride in your aim to know it was excellent. You just didn’t have the same consideration for criminals Vash did. A life or two wasn’t something you lost sleep over. Casualties happened. And if it was a criminal, then it was simply divine judgment.

You stand from the bed and walk towards the desk. You take a doughnut out of a brown paper bag and throw it to him.

“For me?” He exclaims, easily catching it, even though you had thrown it to him.

You don’t respond. He enthusiastically tears it in half, and offers you the bigger piece.

You shake your head, the quirk of your lips, fond. “I don’t like sweet things.”

“I see…” he says thoughtfully, as if he’s digesting the information. “That makes sense. You don’t normally eat…”

It strikes you that this is the most you’ve ever talked about yourself. You’re unusually talkative today, and he notices. You find that you don’t mind. It’s alarmingly easy to talk to him now.

In the handful of months you’ve been traveling together, you’ve learned that all the crimes attributed to him had been the work of his twin, a man called Million Knives. A man you had managed to steal a glimpse of only once before Vash had locked you in a closet before rushing away. You were still sore over that. Even though he retrieved you soon after, apologizing profusely, accepting your cold shoulder with grace. Until you couldn’t bear the way he trailed after you with a pathetically sad expression on his face, and told him to stop. 

You never asked him for details. Of why his brother was terrorizing towns and cities, stealing plants and lives along the way. You’ve never pushed. You weren’t following the man to learn his life story. You were in it for the money.

Until one day, you realized he knew your exact bar order by heart. The kinds of alcohol you’d drink, and the kinds you wouldn’t touch. It was a small thing. But he looked so pleased when he placed the glass down, as he waited for you to drink it.

You knew his fear of you becoming potential collateral damage, but somewhere along the way you think you had grown on him. Somewhere along the nights listening to him cry out in his sleep for a woman named Rem, somewhere along watching the sliver of light heralding sunrise on the horizon together, somewhere in the silence in the dark of nights shared. 

You think he’s grown on you too.

“Have you eaten?” He asks. 

“Not hungry,” you reply, glancing out the window. Pitch black other than the glow of a single lone street lamp nearly a block down. “I’m going to sleep.” It wasn’t often you got to sleep on a bed, and you planned to make full use of it.

You go to the bathroom to wash up. When you walk out, Vash enters the room with a load of blankets. You look at him curiously.

“I asked the innkeeper for some blankets.” He laughs, recalling the conversation. “I said that my…” he trails off. “My…ah…wife…” Red paints his cheeks, and he looks away, raising the mound in his arms a bit higher to cover his face.

“...”

“...”

You watch as he makes his way to the other side of the room, keeping his gaze pointedly straight, and places the pile down. 

“You’re sleeping on the floor?”

“That’s right!” Vash pats the floor a little too vigorously for your liking. “Just like usual!”

You look at the bed. It’s big enough for the two of you so you had assumed you’d be sharing it… You’ve never shared a bed together before, but you had no problems with it, not with Vash.

He darts into the bathroom quickly enough that you don’t have time to say anything else. You hear the water run, turn off the lights, and get underneath the covers.

Then you wait.

When he leaves the bathroom, he gingerly folds his red jacket and sets it down on the chair. You wait until he passes the bed to strike, grabbing him by the shirt, and hauling him down onto the bed.

He yelps, a surprised, high pitched, noise that tears out of his throat. 

“We can share,” you say to him, his face inches apart from you. You can see his wide eyes, the bob of his throat working, pink lips parted as he stares at you, but your gaze is resolute.

And that’s that.

You figure that it might be easier for him to sleep if you aren’t facing him, so you turn to face the wall. You stare at the wall for ten minutes, waiting for him to settle into his side of the bed. Not even a faint rustle of the sheets. You wait a little longer. You can’t even hear him breathing.

You turn back around to face him and immediately he draws back even farther from his original position, on the tip of the bed where he’s precariously close to falling off.

A nervous chuckle. “I…”

“Sleep. I won’t say it again.” You study him, his slightly panicked expression, the grip of his metal hand fisted into the sheets. Oh. “Is it me?”

“N-nothing like that—!” He inches forward, just a little bit (still keeping his distance), puts his hand underneath the pillow, and squeezes his eyes tight. You watch him for a few seconds longer, specifically at the bead of sweat forming on the side of his temples. Your gaze drifts down, from the delicate slope of his nose to his lips.

You turn back around. 

Silence settles in the room like a muffled blanket. You still can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, and for some reason, sleep doesn’t come to you as easily as it usually does. The bed is too soft. 

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s because you’re awake. Maybe it’s because you know Vash isn’t asleep. 

“When I was a child, a plant saved me.”

A few heartbeats pass.

Vash’s voice is softly hesitant. It feels like something gentle and your stomach coils tight, as if in preparation for the inevitable recoil that always follows. “Were you sick?” 

“I was.” The darkness reveals patterns in the wall, and your eyes go blurry with them. “The entire town was sick. Children were dying.” Religious fervor had taken ahold. Daily ritual acts of praying and calling out for salvation.

Taking you to your town’s plant when you were on the brink of death had been your mother’s first and final act of love. Afterwards, your mother often recounted in a drunken stupor that she was sure you were going to die. That it may have even been a mercy if you had. The plant cured you. Your mother was sure of it, the plant worshiping denizens of the town were sure of it. Nobody knew how. Nothing except for the fact that shortly after—

“The plant died the day after. I’ve never forgotten it.” You killed it. It was the first life you took.

It changed you. On a fundamental level. Something had happened to you on that day you can’t even remember. But that’s something you don’t think you can share. How sometimes, you don’t even need to dodge bullets.

That plant died, and now you are here, sharing a bed with a self proclaimed pacifist who refused to kill under any circumstances. A man who defied all logic and reasoning. A good man anyone would call misguided. A fool. An idealist.

In the end, lives would always demand sacrifice. It was either you, or them. It was kill, or be killed.

You don’t know what face he’s making behind you. Is he horrified to know that your life had ended before it started? That you were responsible for taking away the source of life for hundreds of people? That your existence was predicated on sacrifice and death before you even learned how to walk? You were at inherent odds with the idealism of pacifism. With him. Not out of choice, but because of circumstances out of your control.

Maybe a part of you wants him to hate you. Maybe a part of you is looking to be understood. But you thought that part of you had died long ago.

You shut your eyes, prepared to go to sleep.

Vash exhales. “I don’t…”

You open your eyes.

There’s a conviction in his voice you don’t understand. “You didn’t kill it.” You wonder how he can be so confident. “The plant saved you.” I know it did. 

You face him once more. He’s closer than he was before, close enough to easily touch. “Sometimes,” you start, hating the way he’s smiling at you in a way that touches his eyes, framed in the pale moonlight. “You really make me mad.”

His jaw comically drops open. You watch as panic instantly overtakes his face until he realizes the lack of heat in your words. His lips push back together to form a pout. He says your name.

“Why is your brother stealing plants?”

Money. Power. Recognition. Those would seem to be the most likely answers, but you’ve seen the wreckage that Million Knives leaves in the wake of his destruction. It’s cruelty. It’s too calculated to be careless. It’s pure hatred. You can’t fathom a man like as Vash's brother. Twin brother. 

But then that voice inside you speaks. Are you really any different?

Vash blinks, and then his face falls, gaze downcast. It feels odd to see him like this. You rarely catch him without a big, sheepish smile on his face nowadays, especially when he catches you looking at him, but you had seen him with a forlorn expression, shoulders slumped, in your early days of traveling together. When there were no children to demand a ride on his back, when the two of you momentarily passed an overcast shadow, in the darkness of the night when he thought nobody was looking.

You almost regret asking him in the first place. But he’s so close you can count his pale eyelashes, and you lose your train of thought.

“You could say it’s…” his mouth twists, “revenge.”

Revenge.

He’s not the first misanthrope in these lands. You think the occasional mass murderous thought, and you resist acting on it more often than you didn’t, the days before you met a blonde pacifist gunman. There’s only so much a human being can take.

You think of the kaleidoscope of scars that line his body. You only saw the ones on his upper body, but you don’t doubt the existence of countless others everywhere else.

It must’ve hurt. It must’ve been other people. People intent on capturing him. People who wanted to hurt him. You hate them all. Every single person that has permanently marked him a way that wasn’t theirs to do in the first place. You hate whoever severed his arm, whoever had repaid his kindness with violence.

Desire strikes you, hot and sudden. You want to count them all, trail your fingers over the heat of his body, the uneven layers of skin, and feel his breaths underneath you. You look at him, as his gaze lifts, remeeting your eyes, pleading for your understanding. Ball and chain to his brother. Shouldering the sins of family. You don’t understand it. Why he’s looking to you for acceptance, as if it’d even make a difference.

He is the only good thing in this harsh world, and you’ve found him.

“Maybe,” you tell him, as he hangs onto your every word. “We deserve it.”

You see the split second sadness weighing in his eyes, at your words, right before you curl your fingers into his shirt and pull him to your lips.

His eyes go wide, and something that sounds like a mixture of an exhale and gasp leaves his lips. You separate, your lips a hairbreadth away from his, as he stares at you.

“Is this okay?” You ask. If it wasn’t, you’d go back to sleep, and forget it ever happened in the first place. You made your move. It wasn’t reciprocated.

But then he nods, so vigorously that his blonde hair flops into his eyes.

You smile, and Vash lights up.

You kiss him again, drawing his face closer with your hand on his cheek. He complies with his entire body, closing the distance immediately, like if he can’t help himself. His lips are clumsy against yours, too eager, too desperate, wet and messy, as he pants into your mouth. Heat pools in your stomach, and you want more. You run your tongue over the seam of his lips, and he lets out a sigh of something that sounds reverently like your name against your mouth.

Then your tongue is in his mouth, and his flesh hand jumps. There’s a breathless, throaty whimper, the entire weight of his body pressing tight against you. So you can feel every part of him. How he’s willing to give you everything in the name of desire, of love. And when you pull away, his lips follow yours, spit slicked and swollen.

You easily lay him flat on his back as you move to straddle him. You kiss him again briefly, tenderly. Then you sit up and pull up his shirt, just enough to expose his torso. His metal fingers fist into the sheets when your finger goes to a scar of pink skin right about his hips, lightly following it to right below his chest.

He chokes with a shudder that wracks his body. You can feel him, heavy and hard pressing against you. The slight jump of his hips, barely restraining himself from rutting into you.

“It’s not…” Vash struggles with the words with heaving breaths, face bright red, embarrassment splayed out. He looks to the side. “A pretty sight.”

You think of heated irons and blistering pain. Thousands of blades slicing you open, needles penetrating flesh, blind white heat enveloping your body, and the mindless oblivion that would follow.

You realize you’ve been silent a beat too long when Vash looks like he’s preparing for your inevitable rejection.

“I’ve got scars too,” you say, finally. Quietly. You take his mechanical hand in yours and slowly slide him up underneath your shirt. “You want to see?”

Tee imagine being vash’s first kiss :(

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。FIRST — VASH THE STAMPEDE.

「 SYNOPSIS 」 ⋮ vash has never fallen in love—not before you, that is (2.1k words)

☽ contents ⋮ mutual pining, slightly jealous vash (of nicholas), confessions, fluff

☽ notes ⋮ i don’t even think this has anything to do with the ask anymore LMAO i got carried away but here <3

“nico, get your grimy fingers off my share,” you huff, shoving nicholas’s fingers away from the last few bites of your lunch.

food is scarce these days—more so than usual, and you don’t even try to hide your hunger when you finally find a place to grab a bite. vash eyes you as your lips are curled into a soft frown, the crinkle of your brows making his throat dry—because you’re cute, even with a look of pure irritation on your face, you’re soft and angelic and you make his heart skip a beat.

“c’mon, give me a bite or two,” nicholas chuckles, sneaking his way back to reach for your share of food, “you try carrying that big ol’ cross around all day.”

this time, you slap his hand away, huffing as you shift closer to vash to put extra distance between you and nicholas. vash has to keep himself from leaning in when he feels the warmth of your body radiate against him at the proximity.

“oh, you’re such a jackass, y’know?” you grumble, rolling your eyes at the easy chuckle nicholas gives you. but vash can see it—the beginnings of a smile you try (and fail) to fight back as you shake your head. “you’re the one who insists on carrying such a flashy weapon.”

“well it saved your pretty little head a few times didn’t it?” he shoots back. nicholas is easy to talk to like that, banter filling the air between you as you dance around each other with petty taunts and sly grins and stolen touches through pokes to the forehead.

vash thinks the only time he’s ever touched you is to pull you away from danger. in fact, he thinks it’d be easier to fight off an entire city after him than pluck the courage to reach out and flick your forehead the way nicholas does. it’s so smooth, so simple, so natural—and he can from tell the way your eyes soften for nicholas that it must be love.

he glances down at his food, feels his appetite dwindle and his chest tighten, and soon enough there’s an extra share of food pressed to your hand as he stands up.

“i’m not hungry,” he smiles softly, “you have it.”

you blink for a moment before opening your mouth to protest. “but vash—”

he’s off before you can finish talking, climbing into the van and closing the door while everyone stares after his figure and blinks. you frown, looking back at nicholas who only grins wider, holding a hand out for the half eaten dinner in your hold.

“well, don’t be greedy. share the goods,” he insists.

you roll your eyes, pulling away from his outstretched hand as you glare at him.

“something’s wrong,” you announce. meryl and roberto share a look, glancing quickly between you and nicholas again before continuing eating, making your brows furrow. “you guys know, don’t you?”

“everyone does, sweet cheeks,” nicholas chuckles, shaking his head, “you’re a bit more oblivious than i thought.”

“and what’s that supposed to mean?” you glare, but he only eyes you with amusement, turning back to finish the last few bites of his dinner before standing up and walking off, mumbling about needing a smoke under his breath.

you stare back at the van, unsure whether or not you’re supposed to go after vash—whether or not he even wants you there. it takes you a few moments of contemplation before you ultimately stand up, earning a look from meryl and a sigh from roberto.

“i’m gonna go after him,” you announce.

it doesn’t take long to walk up to the van and climb in, finding vash sitting slouched on his side of the back seat, looking out the window. he almost looks…defeated—it’s a type of vash you don’t think you’ve ever really seen.

“vash?” you ask softly, making him tense for a moment before he glances at you, offering a poor attempt of a reassuring smile.

you don’t think vash has ever successfully hidden an emotion ever in his life. for as long as you’ve known him—though it’s not been that long—he’s worn his heart on his sleeve and his emotions bared before you whether he means to or not. you sit down beside him, staring at your lap as he stares out the window again.

“hey,” he says quietly, “why aren’t you with everyone else?”

“why aren’t you?” you counter gently.

“ah, well,” he chuckles nervously, painfully aware of how close your knees are from brushing, “just wanted to sit. and think, i guess,” he says quietly.

“about what?”

“just stuff,” he mumbles.

he doesn’t want to tell you he thinks about how he must be in love with you, doesn’t want to admit as much when you’ve clearly got someone else in your heart. vash has never fallen in love—but he thinks if he’d have to give the feeling a label, it’d be you.

he thinks it has to be love when the first pair of eyes he searches for are yours, making sure you’re okay before he even thinks about checking on anyone else. what else could it be besides love when even if for a split second, the very thought of you being in danger makes his gun leave its holster and ready to aim. if not love, he’s not sure what else it could be when he’s so nervous around you, he feels words stick to his throat like he’s choking.

vash has never fallen in love before, but there’s no mistaking this feeling now that it hits him.

you’re kind—maybe a bit more than you should be to him since he does nothing but drag you into danger. the rational part of him wishes you’d stop coming with him wherever he goes, it hopes you’ll see you have so much to live for outside of cleaning up his messes. the more desperate part of him feels nauseous at the idea of you going your separate ways—he can protect you, can’t he? the desert is a dangerous place with or without him and if you’re in danger one way or another, you should stick by his side where he can keep an eye on you.

no, vash has never been in love—but he’s sure as hell seen it happen before his own two eyes in the many, many years he’s lived.

and he knows you’re in love with nicholas with one painful glance.

“c’mon vash,” you nudge his shoulder with your own, “we’re friends, i know you better than that. something’s wrong. are you upset about what those people in that last town said to you? because i’ll march right up to them and give them hell and back if—”

friends.

he’s tuned you out, too hyper focused on that awful burning sensation pooling in his chest, the one that hits him as soon as you use that cruel word. of course vash is just your friend, why wouldn’t he be? he can’t remember the last time someone actually wanted him around at all let alone as something more.

he doesn’t even notice your hand reaching for his until it lays over his fist, gently unclamping it from the fabric of his coat. he doesn’t even notice he’s been fisting it this whole time, doesn’t even notice his shoulders are tense until you lean your head on it.

“you don’t have to tell me,” you murmur gently, “i’ll wait here with you.”

“why?” he can’t help but ask, can’t help but wonder why you care to spend your time here when you could be there. with nicholas. without him.

“because i care about you.” you say it like it’s obvious, like he should already know that.

perhaps he does—you do care about him, he can see it with the way you help clean his wounds and scold him for being reckless…just maybe not in the way he wishes you would.

“are you ever going to tell nicholas how you feel?” he asks.

you sit up, shock on your face and a crease in your brows as you stare at him in bewilderment. he almost thinks he’s asked something out of line, something he should apologize for. but before he can offer you a stuttered apology, you beat him to it.

“what?” you chuckle. “do i look like i feel something for nicholas?”

“you don’t?” he sounds shocked, making you blink.

“no,” you shake your head, grimacing like the idea is an unpleasant one. “he’s a nuisance i tolerate at best.”

“oh,” is all he says, surprised. it’s silent for a moment before he hesitantly asks, “is…is there someone?”

he doesn’t want to know the answer either way. yes means the pain of knowing there’s someone else he has to let you go to. no means it’s not him even with no one else to compete with at all. but he figures whether your answer is yes or no, it’s enough to force him to let go.

“well…” you hesitate for a moment, inhaling before letting out a shaky breath and slumping back to his shoulder, “can i be honest?”

“of course,” he says instantly.

“i don’t know how you’ll take it,” you admit quietly, and he can hear the slight shakiness in your voice—like you’re nervous, like what you’re about to say will change everything.

but vash knows no matter what you’ll say, no matter what you’ll ever do, he’ll still keep loving you even if you don’t need him to.

“is it embarrassing?”

“no,” you shake your head, “well, maybe a little. depends on how you react. i might look stupid.”

“can’t be worse than running out of bullets,” he smiles softly, “i bet i looked pretty stupid then.”

“a little,” you admit, giggling. and then you both laugh softly, your cheek against his shoulder and your hand gently clasped over his. distantly, you can hear nicholas ask where you are—and you know it’s not long before you’ll lose this rare moment alone. so you take a deep breath, stare at your hand over his as you mumble, “i think i love you. a little. actually, that’s a lie—a lot. like, a whole lot.”

he blinks.

he feels his breath hitch and your shoulders tense and his heart race all at once. for a second he thinks he might’ve heard you wrong—but then you whisper how you understand if he doesn’t feel the same way, how it’s okay, really! you understand, it’s not his fault and you can still be friends because you’re fine with friends. just as long as he’s still in your life because he’s important to you and friends is better than nothing at all.

and then he cuts you off with a soft chuckle, making you pause and glance up at him with doubt on your face.

“can i be honest too?” he smiles gently, melting your heart even as it shatters just a little in your chest.

“of course,” you whisper.

“i love you too. not a little though. a lot. i thought you had a thing for nicholas, though—”

“nico is rude and smells like smoke. i wouldn’t kiss him if my life depended on it,” you interrupt with a crinkle of your nose, making him chuckle with bright eyes and love scribbled over the curves of his features.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes when your hand cups a cheek gently.

“good,” he murmurs, “but don’t worry, i’ll keep you safe. your life will never depend on kissing him.”

“good,” you hum, “because i only want to kiss you.”

and then you do, slow and sweet and so in love. it’s his first kiss—he doesn’t really know what to do, but he follows your lead and learns fast, soft lips molding with yours and mingling your warm breath with his. vash doesn’t even care he’s gone this long without feeling something as gentle as being in love. he’s in love now, with you—and he’s glad you love him too and not nicholas wolfwood, the man who keeps trying to steal dinner from under your nose.

“are you two done in there already?” nicholas is pounding on the door, making you pull away with a sour look on your face. “we got places to be. better not be baby making where i’m about to sleep.”

“can’t you make one exception and kill him?” you whine, making vash chuckle before he leans to kiss you again, more chaste this time. and again, and again.

vash has never fallen in love—and he’s sure it’s because he was meant to wait this long to fall in love with you.

© hanmas do not plagiarize, repost, translate to other sites, or recommend on platforms outside tumblr such as tik tok

Proud and Terrified

Tighnari x gn!Reader

Synopsis; Tighnari tends to neglect parts of his life due to how they differ from humans that don't have animal blood in their veins. But it eventually bites him back.

Themes; fluff, cute researchers, idk man, it's pre-relationship

Approximately 86% of the time, Tighnari was content and proud to be a fennec fox hybrid. 

It was something he'd lived with his entire life, so he found it more fruitful to accept his nature rather than be off set by the fascination of others. Mortals were curious creatures; it made sense that they'd be intrigued by him. Even if he disliked the ogling gazes and lingering eyes.

But there was that 14% where he felt a begrudging distaste towards his own instincts and desires. Where the fennec fox piece of him overtook what typical humans and mortals would do.

Such as at the current moment, he couldn't even stand being in the same room as them.

The sight of their smile, each word that danced off their tongue, and even the simple whiff of their soap he'd catch drove him mad. Not in the way that most assumed - it wasn't some uncontrollable hunger or whatever those romance readers always asked of him. It wasn't a sudden possessiveness or animalistic instinct- ...well, at least not to the same degree they assumed it to be.

No, because he didn't have a partner. Emotions such as that were directed towards an established partner that'd he chosen for life, and he had yet to meet someone of such caliber. Tighnari had yet to pursue someone that way. Unfortunately, the source of his ears and tail had been trying to make the decision for him.

It was infuriating. A disruption to his work and a hassle that he didn't feel like dealing with. It was annoying how his tail involuntarily flicked when they turned and called his name. It was causing issues how he was so easily distracted as soon as they wandered into a room, and his train of thought was thoroughly derailed for the next hour or so that they existed in that space. They could be doing something as simple as reading and his hazel eyes would be continuously flicking from his paper and up toward them. He was never actually reading. None of the words on his paper were comprehended anymore and his own pulse became apparent in his ears.

It was annoying. And frankly, he didn't think he could even handle being around them when he had work to be done. But he also felt he'd fall into despair if he said anything to them about it. Because if they denied him, he wasn't sure what he'd do.

But now, it seemed even when they weren't in the room, he was plagued with twitching ears and a tapping foot. He spun his pen in his hand, starting at the words with a furrowed brow but none of them were computing or making sense. All the notes taken weren't making any sense to him. There was a lingering his chest and it made him groan, letting his forehead fall against the table. Maybe he should take a few days off of work to recuperate...

"Tighnari?"

His head shot up. Of course, of all people - it felt like he was in some sick play. To make matters worse, he had to suppress a wince at how they said his name, despite the concerned look they held from the other side of the table.

Until recently, they seldom called Tighnari by his full name. They claimed that nicknames felt more intimate and they loved finding fun ones for people. Of course, they were respectful about it. They referred to him as Master Tighnari until their relationship became less professional and more lenient, causing them to consider each other friends rather then colleagues. And then, he became simple and plain 'Tigh'. It was always, "Hey Tigh, look at this," or "I read an interesting book recently, Tigh. I can lend it to you." They only used his full name if searching for them in the forest or if they were upset at his teasing.

But over the last week, he'd not heard his familiar nickname. Maybe it was just cause he'd been avoiding them, anyways. But he felt it was actually just cause they had caught on to his hesitation and conflicted mood.

Even now, they kept careful distance within the library, books piled in their arms. Each one labeled different subspecies of animals or specifics of a single kind. He specialized in botany and they focused on zoology. That was the reason they'd been introduced in the first place; a shared desire to preserve the forest.

Their brow furrowed at his silence and gently asked again, "Tighnari, is everything alright?"

He swallowed, "Yes, I'm fine. Just... exhausted."

They seemed... cautious. As if overthinking their next words and walking on eggshells. Tighnari hated it. He hated that he was inadvertently the one who caused such a demeanor. Eventually, they locked eyes with him again (he flexed his foot as an outlet of wanting to squirm) and said, "If you need someone to take some of your work burdens, I'm more than happy. It's been quiet in the sanctuary as of late."

It was insane how two sentences could instantly make his tail swish. No matter how hard he tried to subdue its effect, he still felt it in his chest and stomach. The feeling of insects, as people often describe it in fiction. He wasn't one for fiction reading, but they were and it'd caused him to delve into it a tad. 

The first sentence was pure worry and care for his well-being. They must think his newfound attitude was a side effect of his work. Sometimes, it could be. But usually, he was still happy to be doing research despite the strenuous task it could prove to be. Tourists caused him stress as well, due to their naivety and desire to seemingly poison themselves at every corner, but he was careful to who he directed his frustrations. This is the first time they've experienced the blunt end of it. He felt a tightness in his chest knowing it was his fault. 

The second sentence was words of their own passion. If you let them, they'd babble for days about the animal sanctuary and the state of its inhabitants. They cared for it day in and day out and he's had more than a few times where he'd wander past in the late hours, only to find them still there and taking their nightly medicine routines into their own hands. He'd never met someone more in tune with other beings. He himself preferred living beings that lacked as much consciousness, but they reveled in figuring out their needs and helping them back into the wild. The fact that they were willing to put aside their duties in their prized home spoke a thousand words. 

"There's no need," He excused, voice involuntarily softer than expected, "Thank you, though. That's very kind."

They hummed, gently setting their tower of books on the table. It seemed they didn't intend to let this go gently. Though he knew they would never be pushy - just open and sometimes almost pleading to understand others. They always said humans were much more difficult to understand than animals. Humans have more difficult needs. Animals are wordless but have a simple list of what they require. 

They lingered, pretending to flicker over the spines on a nearby bookcase. Tighnari could do nothing but watch them, far too distracted by their presence to continue his own work. 

"I read a new book the other day," They brought up, gaze flickering back towards him, still standing. 

Okay, this was fine. Normal conversations, like they usually had. He would never admit that he missed it. He linked his hands, setting his chin on them and elbows on the table, "Oh, really? Pray tell."

Without missing a beat they said, "It was about foxes."

He paused. They continued, "Different subspecies. Some are native to Sumeru, and some are from other regions. Apparently, their fur color often corresponds with where they are native to," They finally pulled out a chair and sat, continuing a gentle tone, "Some of it mentioned fennec foxes. Curious stuff, really."

Tighnari had frozen. His once slightly smug demeanor had taken a turn and he instead watched them with wide eyes. They paused their sentence, but the only thing he could mutter in reply was a small, "...Interesting."

"It really was," They mused, picking the top book from their pile and seamlessly flipping to a certain page. Even from his spot across the table, he could see diagrams of four-legged animals with big ears. His own twitched atop his head and he struggled not to let them show too much of his emotion. 

Their finger dragged across the page as they explained nonchalantly, "The smallest of the foxes, and they eat a lot of meat or similar. Sometimes berries. Though, I assume based on their typical habitat in the desert, fruit, and berries are more so like a treat."

...Was this some newfound form of torture? Or was some game they were playing to mess with him? He was unsure, but the only solution he had was to listen. Even if their words grew more familiar with each sentence - like they were slowly drifting away from explaining the average fennec fox and heading towards explaining something else.

"They help control rodents, primarily. And yet we hunt them and they struggle in some parts of the world. But they're doing better, lately," They explained calmly, the same way they did any other information. They looked up from the book and back towards the man, "They have an extraordinary hearing as well. And their ears serve as protection from the sun. But would you like to know the most curious thing to me?"

Instead, he asked, "Why were you researching Fennec Foxes?"

He hoped maybe he'd get an admittance of some sort, but he should've known better. As they just smiled and said, "We just rescued some at the sanctuary. I got curious, I suppose. Anyways," And they returned to his torture, "We rescued two of them, and I got to looking at their mating habits. It's interesting to me, frankly."

Archons, save Tighnari now. Their gentle smile was anything but innocent, words laced with false naivety as they said, "It's a bit poetic, honestly. They mate for life, just with one another. Sounds like a big commitment."

They hummed, letting their head fall tilted into one of their hands, "If we humans had obligations like that - for our first partner to be our last - we'd have many different traditions. I think it'd end up being terrifying, for some surely. What a heavyweight, knowing the chance of picking the wrong person or them not reciprocating."

He swallowed, spinning a pen between his fingers just to move in any way and keep his ears from drooping at their words. Trying to keep any reaction from reaching him and making them aware of what they were doing. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. They just watched him, carefully calculated. The same way they read the body languages of creatures in the sanctuary. He didn't like being on the receiving end of that gaze, particularly. 

They waited patiently for an answer so he ended up just spitting out the first thing he could think of, "It is terrifying."

Uh oh. He recognized that small smile of achievement and it made his brow furrow in annoyance. They leaned forward, chin on both hands now with a sly, "Are you implying it applies to you as well, Tighnari?"

So this is what they wanted. A twisted confession of sorts that he was affected by the more animal-ish parts of himself than he often cared to admit. It wasn't really any bodies business, but they were just too good at reading all creatures and prying it from him. And his expression just seemed to seal the deal for them, based on the pleased hum they gave. 

"I knew it," They whispered, leaning even farther forward across the table and making him press against the back of his chair as they interrogated, "So who is it? Give me a name so I can give them a stamp of approval or run them away."

"It's nobody," He quickly growled in defense. 

They frowned, "Well, I assume it's why I don't see you much anymore, so it's gotta be something."

"And what brought you to the conclusion that it was something to do with my love life?" He scoffed, not sure whether he was trying to fool himself or them. A small part of him also admittedly wanted to actually know how they were brought to this conclusion. 

And to his delight, they leaned back and began to recount, "Well, you've been more agitated as of late. But you also seem happier in a weird way. Your tail has been wagging - which I've never witnessed from you before - and I even caught you purring once-"

"I don't purr!" He quickly deflected, placing his hands roughly on the surface of the table with heat rising to his face. They raised their hands in defense, giving a small laugh and waving for him to sit back again. He did, and tacked on, "That all could have to do with anything. Not necessarily some school crushes you think I may have."

They opened their mouth, but paused and gave a hum instead. Tighnari thought that perhaps he'd somehow convinced them, but they were too smart for that. They never would go into such an accusation without a plausible clause, so there was bound to be something else. 

As expected, there was. Their mood seemed to simmer down into what it had been when they first arrived, hands fidgeting and gaze flickering. They said, "...Well, I spoke with Collei, and then Cyno. Collei gave her insight but was rather reserved. Cyno was blunt with his answer, however."

Tighnari couldn't help but ask, "Why do you care about this so much?"

Another pause, and then a tiny admittance, "It really seemed to be bothering you and I wanted to help. And I thought I might've done something wrong, admittedly."

...Right. That's why they'd been calling his name so formally. Why they seemed almost timid. But despite the way his shoulders sank just an inch, they gave a small carefree laugh to brush it aside and continued anyways, "Anyways, their responses led me to two hypotheses. One seemed more likely, so I began to pursue that one first."

"I assume it was the idea that I had romantic feelings for someone," He deduced and they nodded with a smile. Tighnari folded his arms over his chest and asked, "Then what was your second hypothesis?"

Their energy shrank again. This time, just that unassuming question seemed to flip the table and some color grew along their face. Tighnari's ear twitched against his will at the sight, tail threatening to shift. He suppressed the urge to let it move further. 

They smiled nervously, "It doesn't really matter, it's unlikely."

There was no way he was just letting them get away with that, "I trust any ideas you may have, so please."

"It's self-centered and idiotic," They said this time, and he took note of a dislike at hearing them speak like that, but they tacked on, "Hence why it was a second hypothesis, but it really shouldn't have been counted."

"What's it based on?" Tighnari asked instead, trying to weave his way into its true nature. 

They seemed awkward now. He admittedly enjoyed it. They explained, "Just based on the data given by Collei and Cyno."

"And that is?" He pushed further. 

No answer came immediately. Instead, they picked at the pages of their open book, eyes flickering over the fox figure on its pages. They weren't currently wearing the usual uniform they did, and he hated how he took pleasure in seeing them outside of a work environment. A simple button-down and wide-legged pants. Always an odd mixture of styles from Mondstat - where they spent many years studying - and Sumeru, their current point of residence. But always comfortable. No matter what.

They didn't answer his question, but said instead, "I read another book. It was specifically about the fox-human race. I learned a lot, actually, that I wasn't aware of before."

He didn't interrupt, and instead opted to listen carefully as they continued, "Like why your fur is green, or the fact that your race typically lives in the desert - which I find ironic, based on how well you fair in hot weather. But it also showed that you share some practices with your animal counterparts."

"Which is why you looked into them," He finished, and they nodded. 

"Yes, but..." They paused, putting their hands together again in a wringing and picking that he seldom saw in them. It took them a second to gather their words, but they eventually scoffed in fake amusement and said, "Well, a common factor seemed to be... me. Collei didn't say it, but I could tell, and Cyno was blunt. So I figured it could be one of two things. Either I did something you didn't like - but I know you're good about letting people know if they've done something of the sort, so I trust you - or..."

Oh. Oh, Archons. Tighnari was terrible at hiding things, wasn't he? 

"...Maybe it was me," They finally finished, then gave another scoff like it was some joke, "But that's just me trying to shift things, no matter how well it all lined up."

Tighnari's throat felt like it was closing up. So close, yet so far. He couldn't help but say, "How does it all line up?"

They blinked, seeming almost confused about his further inquiry and lack of berating or being called a 'Lummox' like he often did. He was acting weird - and that made them grow a bit more nervous as well. 

They acted poorly at being casual, leaning back and saying, "Well, they didn't really mention noticing a mood change around them, unless I was brought up or I came into a room. Collei didn't really say much about it, she tries not to spread your business, but she did say you snapped at her once when she offered to ask me for help. Cyno was blunter - he's the one who put the hypothesis in my mind."

Of course, he was, Tighnari bitterly thought, already planning the long-winded speech of annoyance he was going to give his friend. All he could think to do was give a small hum, but he regretted it immediately when a short silence ensued. 

Eventually, they felt the need to fill it and said, "Yeah, that's why I said it was self-centered."

He wanted to laugh. 'Self-centered'- they just looked at the facts and data provided and gave the best solution. And they were dead on, as well. But he wouldn't say that to them - he couldn't say it to them. Because they were right about everything they said. About his newfound attitude only being around them, and also about how terrifying it was knowing the partners he chose were intended to be for life. Humans don't typically live like that. 

Many are able to spend their years, shifting from partner to partner to learn about romance and explore the world, but he was just wired differently. And sure, he knew a small bit about their past romance life and the single, short-lived relationship they had. And the fact that they took such matters rather seriously and weren't one to dance around. Frankly, that conversation, laced with just a few drinks of wine, had been one of the first tipping points in his mind. The way they had laid their head on the table, and how quiet the night had been. It was so loud just an hour before, but now they were having a heartfelt conversation about expectations regarding relationships. He'd shared practically no details, but they never once pushed and instead opened up to him. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve them. 

"You're right," He blurted out. 

It took him a moment to realize the words had left his lips. Tighnari could hear his blood flow in his ears and felt impossibly stiff in his chair. 

They blinked, "...Okay, I know I was saying it was self-centered, but it does hurt when you confirm it."

He tripped over his words, "What? No- That's not - I didn't mean that. I'm talking about-"

Oh, absolutely not. Tighnari would say a lot of things, typically in observation of others' wrongdoings, but he still was struggling to admit that they had figured him out. They'd read him and his actions like an open book, and while that alone was embarrassing, it was what they read that he couldn't bare to admit. 

Their brow furrowed, watching him in confusion and wracking their brain, gears turning. Then, they blinked and cautiously asked, "...My second hypothesis?"

Tighnari didn't respond. 

They mumbled, "...Oh."

Would it be wrong of Tighnari to grab his books and excuse himself? He supposes it would. But there was absolutely nothing else he wanted to do besides that. They would find him, he knew that, but he also knew that if he left right now, it'd just make it worse. It'd give him a momentary time of pure panic until they eventually confronted him. It's best to get whatever was going to happen over with now. Even if he was sure the speed of his heart was too fast to be healthy and his claws had dug deep into the seat of his chair. His hazel gaze had dropped down to his book, trying to seem almost nonchalant but it was impossible with how stiff his shoulders were. 

There was at least a minute where they were both quiet, but it definitely felt like hours. Like an endless amount of time was passing and he truly began to consider picking up his books and leaving. He wouldn't get any work done, but maybe that was better than sitting here painfully. 

And then, their chair squeaked. He flinched at the sharp sound and at first thought they must be leaving. Maybe that would be their rejection - and as much as he liked to think he was prepared for one, he knew how heart-wrenching it would be if he got one. That's why he preferred the awkward in-between of having a crush and not confessing. It would be better than if they rejected him. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw them pick up their chair by the back of it, and then their padding footsteps came around the table. The chair landed beside him, and they came soon after. He felt impossibly warm like he was in the desert itself. He wouldn't even be surprised if they could feel it from their spot next to him. 

They folded their arms on the table and laid their head on them, eyes looking straight up toward Tighnari. This was horrible. Even worse than how they tortured him before. 

Their voice was delicately soft as they asked, "Are you scared 'cause of the implications of lifelong partners?"

He scoffed, tilting his head away to try and give his flushed face some privacy from their prying eyes, "That's the lightest way to put it."

"I'll spend my life with you."

Tighnari sat still. His heart still raced. But he managed to glance back at them, a serious expression on them still with their head down. He asked, "You'll what?"

They smiled, "I basically said I feel the same. And I'd be pretty content stuck with you for the rest of my life," They gave a thoughtful glance upwards in thought, "Y'know, I thought I made it pretty obvious how I felt. Did I not?"

This time, Tighnari's rise in heat in his face was due to annoyance and he barked, "No, you did not make anything obvious!"

They laughed pushing themselves to sit up but still gazing at him. For a few moments, he just took deep breaths and tried to come to terms with his impossible solution coming to fruition. He'd thought millions of times about what he'd do should they reject him, but hardly given any thought to the opposite happening. He didn't really know what to do now. 

Thankfully, they had an answer, "Y'know, now would be a really cute and kinda romantic time to kiss."

In a very 'them' fashion, they added, "It'd be like a scene from those romance books I like to read. All tense and then cute and soft-"

He shut up their annoying ramble by just grabbing their face gently and complying with their request. They hummed in delight and replied quickly. 

Tighnari was content and proud to be a fox hybrid. But it becomes easier with each person that takes time to know him and understand him.

genshin men + first kiss ★ pt. 2

ft. kazuha, xiao, scaramouche

✽ kazuha’s gaze lingers over your lips long enough for anybody else to get the hint—anybody but you, of course. but how could you? when you’re unable to stay still, even under the warm beach sun, as soon as he smiles at you. seasickness has never haunted you as much as lovesickness has. yes, you want to hold him and yes, you can’t return his gaze for longer than two seconds. love is hard for travelers without destinations. and love is hard for you, who can’t see beyond his words, at the gaping meaning: i like you. in more ways than one. you were never a poet to begin with. so you cast aside these feelings overboard and into the sea, leaving kazuha sighing more often than beidou has patience for. and that means, she’s decided to leave the two of you stranded on an island off the coast of liyue (‘an easy little comission’, she dubs) till you can figure your feelings out, or get eaten by mitachurls. tough love makes the crux go around.

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—𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐚𝐥-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

summary: he hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when al-haitham dreamed for the first time after the akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.

WARNINGS: archon quest akasha pulses, the kalpa flame rises spoilers! soulmate au if you squint, swearing, mentions of violence, death, injury, minor self-loathing, plot AND lore heavy, angst, fluff, not poly, happy ending!  pairing: al-haitham x fem!reader, minor kaveh x fem!reader word count: 18.1k grind

a/n: written for the lovely @zhongrin​ and her elemental supercharge collab! it was super fun to work on and really inspired me to love writing again because it was just a breath of fresh air. my entry: dendro + dendro + cryo = permafrost 

here are some important notes for this fic to help with understanding it:

tsaritsa is the former goddess of love. the goddess of flowers was a seelie. king deshret reborn was al-haitham. possibly ooc al-haitham (he’s also deaf!) i made shit up about teleport waypoints and about pretty much all the lore surrounding the three god-kings besides what i glimpsed through some books/theories/etc. i was just like fuck it we ball. 

inspo songs: who is she? - i monster, about you - the 1975, awake from a nightmare - hoyo-mix (i recommend you listen to this one especially during kaveh - chat: craftsmanship)

now on ao3 x

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