Wanna Be Yours — Vi (league Of Legends) !
wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !
⟢ synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal vi’s injuries, you can’t mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.
⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.
⟢ word count. 15.2k+
⟢ authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)
You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.
It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.
You’ve made it work, though. You have to.
Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic you’ve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. There’s always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.
Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythm—when to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.
Maybe it was because you weren’t trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.
The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. You’ve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the walls—cheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesn’t do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.
The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. It’s your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, there’s room for gentleness.
Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own way—a drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. You’ve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, you’ve earned it.
The fighting arena roars with life, the crowd’s cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonight’s fights have been loud—louder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.
There’s been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.
Vi, they call her.
Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.
You haven’t met her yet, but the bookies’ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worst—too much pride, not enough sense.
The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.
It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you don’t look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Ryker’s jaw—a nasty wound from an earlier fight. Ryker’s been coming here for years, but never with complaints. He’s one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.
“Don’t fucking shove me,” a voice grumbles from the doorway. “Fuck off, Loris!”
Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a face like he’s eaten rocks for breakfast—could easily pass for one of the fighters. But it’s the girl he’s dragging by the arm that catches your eye.
She’s all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.
“I don’t need a medic,” the girl—Vi, you hear the man mutter—snaps, yanking her arm free. “I need a drink.”
“Protocol,” He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.
Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. “This it? Cozy,” she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Ryker’s jaw. “You can take a seat,” you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.
“No thanks,” Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.
“Too proud to sit down, blue belly?” Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. “Or has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?”
“Ryker,” you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.
But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. They’d brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.
That’s how it usually went with them.
However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.
Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. “I don’t know—d’you wanna find out?”
You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. “Don’t,” you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.
Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. “You wanna go another round?”
Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You wanna lose again?” she challenges, her voice low and sharp.
“That’s enough,” you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.
“Sit. Down,” Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.
You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. “You’re done,” you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. “Keep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of trouble—for your sake and your daughter’s.”
Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Vi’s way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. “Thanks,” when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. “You’re too good for this place.”
You offer him a faint smile. “Take care, Ryker.”
He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieter—tense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, who’s leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.
“Alright,” you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. “Your turn.”
Vi doesn’t move from the wall. “I’m fine,” she insists, “patch up the ones who actually need it.”
Your gaze flicks over her—the bloody nose that’s started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. “Sit,” you say, your voice firm.
She doesn’t budge.
You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesn’t waver. You won’t repeat yourself.
Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “Sit down, Vi.”
She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.
You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like you’re some kind of nuisance.
“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.
“Vi,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.
“Vi what?”
“Just Vi.”
You suppress a sigh. “What’s your full name?”
“I said, just Vi.”
There’s an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You don’t. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. “Fine. Age?”
“Old enough to fight.”
Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, you are,” you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. “Alright, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, gesturing at her face. “Your nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.”
Vi’s brow arches like you’ve just said something funny. “I said, I’m fine.”
“And I said, tilt your head back,” you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.
Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. “Happy?”
You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.
“Doesn’t feel broken,” you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. “Relax,” you say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.
Your hand falters, just briefly. There’s a weight to her words, a sharpness you weren’t expecting, but you push past it. “Well, I mean it,” you reply quietly.
Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.
“Jacket off,” you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.
Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. “Why?”
You give her a flat look. “Because I can’t stitch it through fabric.”
For a second, she doesn’t move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.
Her arms are a mess—old fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. “I’ll do it myself.”
You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesn’t flinch again. “You can relax, you know,” you say, trying to sound light. “I’m just trying to help.”
Vi lets out a bitter snort. “You’re not the first to say that.”
You pause, but you don’t press. She’s lashing out on you. That’s the most you can make of it.
The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.
“What?” you ask, unable to help yourself.
“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.
You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.
Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. “You know, you’re wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”
The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything she’s said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.
“Good thing I don’t do this for their gratitude,” you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. You’re trying not to let it get to you.
She’s new. Clearly, she’s fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.
Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. “Right.”
You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.
You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. There’s a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.
“You’re all set,” you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. “I’d suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.”
Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesn’t look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. “I’ll live.”
You wish Ryker had broken her nose.
You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.
Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.
You manage a smile back, but it’s shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.
For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.
What the fuck is her problem?
You know you shouldn’t be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antis’s brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. It’s barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakable—the muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.
Vi comes alone this time—or at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.
The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. She’s holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.
You have to bite back a smile at the sight.
She’s ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen more fights than she has—worn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.
You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chest—a mix of frustration and satisfaction. “You can’t fight back-to-back nights,” you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.
Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. “I can do what I want,” she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. She’s hurting.
Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.
You’ve seen this before—new fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like there’s no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they don’t know how to stop. There’s always a reason. You can’t help but wonder what—or who—Vi is fighting for.
With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. “Let me guess,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. “Antis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldn’t say no.”
Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.
She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. “It’s none of your business.”
“No,” you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. “But I’m the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.”
She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worse—angry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isn’t broken (unfortunately), but it’s close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like it’s been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesn’t pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.
“You’re going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. “You’ve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out there—”
“I don’t need your pity,” she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“Not pity,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Just words of advice.”
“I don’t need that either,” she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. “Just patch me up so I can go. I’m only here because Antis won’t clear me for my pay otherwise.”
“Yeah, it’s protocol,” you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.
“It’s stupid.”
“It was my idea.”
Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. There’s something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. “...Still stupid.”
You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. “Yeah, well, stupid or not, it’s keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.”
Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.
She doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like she’s itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You can’t tell if it’s pride or exhaustion keeping her there—or maybe both.
For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.
As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. It’s like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.
You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “You’re good to go,” you say, your voice softer now. “But you need rest.”
She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. “Can’t rest. I’m on a winning streak.”
You arch a brow. “You’ve only been here two days. I wouldn’t count that as a streak.”
“Don’t really care what you think.”
“You should. You’re sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.”
Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, “Sure, doc. Whatever you say.”
You want to argue, but she’s already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.
The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.
It’s not long after that you learn her name is Violet.
The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.
Violets. You’ve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though you’re not entirely sure. Flowers aren’t exactly a common sight in Zaun.
The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. There’s nothing soft or delicate about her—not the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.
She didn’t tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a ‘slip’ rather than straight-up telling you her name.
It happened a night at a bar near your work. You’d gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.
Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.
Loris wasn’t much of a talker, you realized. He’d spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.
Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. “Sleeping,” he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Her name’s Violet, by the way.”
Violet. You didn’t expect that, and it must’ve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.
It doesn’t take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antis’s. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. “Antis’s money-maker,” they call her, and it’s not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.
At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didn’t just win—she dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.
She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, meds—all of it consumed at an alarming rate. You’ve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isn’t just the state of her after a fight—it’s what she leaves behind.
Her opponents don’t come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness you’ve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You can’t help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?
She’s changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replaced—black jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. She’s losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.
You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.
One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antis’s office. You’re here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinic’s dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.
Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. “You’re early,” he grunts, though there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?”
Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. “Her… look?”
Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. “Yeah. Gotta sell the whole package, y’know? The crowd loves her, but they’ll eat up a good aesthetic, too. We’re thinking something that screams ‘unbeatable.’ Right, Vi?”
Vi’s jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like she’s waiting for something—your reaction, maybe, though you can’t figure out why it matters.
You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “She doesn’t need to change anything. She’s already pretty... unforgettable.”
Antis’s booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyes—a fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?—before she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a trick of the dim light.
A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's different—she’s not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. She’s just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if she’s unsure whether to knock or let herself in.
“Do you need something?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re restocking the shelves. “Are you hurt?”
She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “No, just… it’s quiet in here.”
Your brows knit together. Quiet?
She didn’t seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. “You came all the way here because it’s quiet?”
“Yeah,” she says simply, her tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. “Problem?”
“No... it’s just…” You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. “Never mind.”
These visits became more frequent whenever she didn’t fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesn’t—simply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. She’ll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chair’s edge, lost in thought, but there’s a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.
She never tells you what brings her in—if something is weighing on her mind or if it’s just a need to escape the chaos. And you don’t ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.
The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way she’ll let herself drift off into a light sleep. It’s almost like you’re giving her a moment of rest she didn’t know she needed.
Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediately—one of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.
Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your face—wide-eyed and mildly incredulous. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” she teases, her tone light and mocking.
You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. “This from your fight last night?”
Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. “Some of my best work,” she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.
You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. “I don’t know,” you counter dryly. “He broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesn’t sound like your best to me.”
Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises she’s sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.
Vi flinches. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice soft.
She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. “No, uh—no. It’s fine,” she says, a little too fast.
This time, when you move again, she doesn’t flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you can’t help wincing at the sight. “You’re kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Vi” you mutter. “Did you even ice this like I told you?”
Her eyes roll so hard you’re almost worried she’ll sprain something. She grabs your wrist—not roughly, but enough to lower your hand—and shrugs. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”
Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesn’t pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.
“I brought you food,” she says suddenly, her voice casual.
You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”
She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadn’t even noticed it when she walked in. “Yeah, you know. The stuff you eat when you’re hungry.”
“Okay, asshole,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.
She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Got it for Loris and I, but he’s, uh… busy. Doing... someone else.” Her tone is flat, like she couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something there—an edge of amusement, maybe. “So, more for us.”
You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, she’s an enigma. There’s something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you don’t let it show. “Thanks,” you say simply.
“Well, don’t get used to it,” she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though it’s written all over her expression.
She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people who’ve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, she’s perched there like it’s nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.
“Is this where I’m supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?”
She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.
You don’t bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.
The days begin to blur into one another as Vi’s visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated her—a pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually don’t hate her company.
And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence blooms—bold, intoxicating.
You’ve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.
At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her up—she didn’t just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.
But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots she’s traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.
You realize that fighting for Vi isn’t just about survival or enjoyment. It’s an outlet—a way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesn’t want to face.
One night, you do something you’ve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. You’ve seen enough carnage in the medic’s room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as ever—cheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antis’s bell marking the start and end of each match. You don’t join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.
And then Vi steps into the ring.
It’s the first time you’ve seen her fight, and it’s nothing like you imagined. You’d seen the aftermath—the blood, the bruises, the broken bones—but witnessing her in action is something else entirely. She’s skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.
The man she’s up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.
Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.
Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movement—it’s overwhelming.
Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.
You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds can’t distract you. Vi’s image lingers—sweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.
You never bring it up, and Vi doesn’t either.
But something changes.
That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. She’s quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.
Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You’re hyperaware of every small movement—how her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.
She doesn’t flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, she’d tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.
It’s almost unbearable.
Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.
Vi’s lips quirk, but it’s a faint ghost of her usual grin. “Just tired, I guess.”
It’s a lie, and you both know it.
You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.
“Almost done,” you murmur, though it feels like you’re saying it more to yourself than her.
Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. There’s a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.
“Take your time,” she says.
Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how they’ve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitches—just barely—but it’s enough for you to notice.
“There,” you say, pulling back slightly. “Done.”
But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. You’re not sure if it’s you or her that doesn’t pull away first.
Vi’s eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You don’t know if it’s the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something—but you can’t take it anymore.
“I should clean up,” you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.
For a moment, she doesn’t move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.
“Thanks,” she says.
You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesn’t look back.
Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.
You try to shake it off.
To ignore it until you can't.
And then you visit her one day.
It’s not in the medic room or the fighting ring. It’s at her door, and it’s jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.
You can’t tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.
You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low and guarded.
Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but what’s more disarming is the sight of her like this—stripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think they’re beautiful.
You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadn’t thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.
You’re not really friends.
“Uh,” you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you can’t help it.
She’s staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”
“I—your hair,” you blurt out. “It’s… different.”
She scoffs, brushing past you as if you’re not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitation—or maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.
Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. There’s a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.
But it’s the quiet that hits you the hardest. It’s so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.
“You dye it yourself?” you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.
She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. “Yeah.”
“Antis didn’t make you do it?”
Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. “No. He suggested green.”
You try to picture her with green hair and fail. “Why black?”
“Needed a change,” she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you it’s not her first drink tonight. “Why are you here?”
The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. “Oh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.”
Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. “Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say something—something meaningful.
“You... you okay, Vi?” you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She looks… tired. Beaten down, in a way you’ve never seen before.
“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. “I guess you just… you haven’t come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Don’t worry, I won’t charge.”
The words sound too casual, too light like you’re trying to make a joke—and you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, they’re a clear sign of how badly she’s been pushing herself—she’s been taking supplies from you without checking in, and you’ve noticed. You know she hasn’t gotten her pay yet. You haven’t had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. It’s a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she won’t acknowledge, but you know she’s not getting the care she needs.
For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, if she’s going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out what your angle is.
You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.
Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.
“I’m fine,” she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. “You done?”
You’re about to say something else—maybe ask again, maybe push for more—but then you realize it’s not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “Yeah.”
You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. “Good luck tonight, Vi.”
She doesn’t respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like there’s something more to say.
Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. It’s softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.
“Thanks.”
As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you can’t quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with her—and why it feels like it’s starting to settle on you too.
You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesn’t need to know, and honestly, you doubt she’d even care. If anything, she’d probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.
That’s what you tell yourself.
The next time you’re sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.
“Hey,” Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.
You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. “Vi?”
It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like it’s given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her face—thick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. She’s gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if it’s precious, her knuckles stained red.
Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. “Won’t believe it,” she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. “Hey.”
You frown, stepping closer. “Are you drunk?”
Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. “No.”
“No?”
“I just won,” she says, like that explains everything. “Again. Beat that big guy—metal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.”
She’s grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you don’t laugh. Fighters don’t go into the pit drunk, at least not that you’ve ever seen. They also don’t win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad don’t bring in any money—he’ll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.
You move closer cautiously, studying her.
She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strands—sharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yours—red seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.
She murmurs something, but it’s too soft to catch.
“What?”
“You weren’t here.”
Her words surprise you.
“Yeah,” you say, unsure how else to respond.
“Four days.”
“I know.”
“Why not?”
You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing she’ll see through it. “I’ve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?”
“Right,” she mutters, though there’s something bitter in the way she says it.
She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. You’re counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.
Finally, she speaks. “Loris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.”
“More of them?”
She scoffs, but there’s a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fuck off. I was gonna invite you.”
“You want me there?”
“Sure,” she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. “Since you and Loris are so close.”
You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. “Oh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.”
She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadn’t realized you missed. You didn’t know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.
When she stands to leave, there’s a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.
“But you’re coming, right?” she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.
You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. “Yeah. I’ll stop by after I finish up here.”
Her smile catches you off guard. It’s not the smirk or grin you’re used to—it’s warmer, something you’ve never seen before. “Good.”
And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.
You can’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.
Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythm—calm, focused, efficient. You don’t dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, there’s a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.
But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Vi’s smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.
It’s not just Vi’s smile—it’s the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You don’t let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than you’d like.
When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.
The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than you’re ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.
You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The water’s cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth it—like a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.
It’s not enough.
It’ll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but it’s already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.
Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.
Inside, the place is alive.
Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the night’s fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.
The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.
Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris first—his brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. He’s leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.
He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.
“You made it,” Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.
You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Hi.”
Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal it’s your turn to order.
You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesn’t seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you don’t mind. There’s a strange comfort in his presence.
You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.
The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.
“Happy you’re here.”
Loris’s voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but there’s a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.
“Maybe it’ll keep Vi from doing something stupid,” he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.
Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but it’s nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”
Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. “She gets into fights sometimes.”
Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”
“Only happened twice,” he says quickly like it’s supposed to make you feel better.
“Oh.” You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. “Why?”
Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. “Dunno. She won’t talk about it.”
You blink, caught off guard. “She doesn’t seem…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.
“Like a drunk?” he finishes for you. “She’s good at hiding it, most of the time. But she’s been drinking more. Gets worse when she’s stressed.”
You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. “Stressed about what? Fighting?”
He shakes his head, never answering. “She’s stubborn as shit, you know that. But something’s been eating at her, and I don’t think she knows how to deal with it.”
The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesn’t burn as much this time, but it doesn’t settle the knot in your stomach, either.
“I can keep an eye on her,” you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. “She’s not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.”
He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”
The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but he’s already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.
You look away.
And then you spot her.
Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someone’s outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeks—likely streaked from the rain—gives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.
Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.
Your heart jumps, and you realize you’ve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming you’re really here. Then, she grins—a slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.
The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.
She changes course, heading straight for you.
She doesn’t look drunk—not like before—but the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You don’t miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.
When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.
“Hey,” Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.
“Hey,” you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. “You seem surprised to see me.”
“Not surprised,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. “Just… glad.”
The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. “What’re you drinking?”
You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Finish it.”
You blink, “What?”
She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come on. You’re here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and I’ll show you what that looks like.”
Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, she’s already holding out her hand.
“Come with me,” she says, and it’s not really a question.
Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.
Vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, there’s a lightness in her expression, a spark of something you’ve missed seeing.
Her usual confidence is there, but it’s softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laugh—low and husky—eases some of your nerves.
The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. You’re acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if she’s drawn to your orbit.
You’re staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.
You think you’re a little obsessed with her.
The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. “Why did you stop coming by?”
Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but it’s enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.
“I like taking care of you, Vi.”
For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.
Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize what’s about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.
And then she kisses you.
It’s quick at first, almost testing the waters—a soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.
You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.
“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. “No, don’t apologize.”
Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but you’re not looking at her eyes anymore. You’re focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.
You tug her closer.
You kiss her back.
She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. It’s as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.
The world around you dissolves—the music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaun’s nightlife fading into a muted hum. It’s just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the moment.
Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you.
You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.
The sound she emits makes your head spin. Vi’s warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.
“I need to—” she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. “Let’s go somewhere. Outside.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until you’re stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.
The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.
Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. “You’re making me crazy,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.
“I could say the same,” you admit.
And then she’s kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.
It’s embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.
The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Vi’s touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away.
You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.
Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her.
The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like this—like she’s trying to consume you like she’s been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.
Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear.
“Vi,” you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.
Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she weren’t holding you so tightly.
Your head spins. You feel like you’re dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you can’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.
It’s overwhelming—her heat, her strength, her desperation. She’s chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and you’re caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until you’re sure you’ll burn to ashes.
Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.
Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this—untethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses she’s broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.
Vi’s hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.
You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. You’re struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you can’t quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keens—a quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.
Oh, you want her to do that again, you’re going to make her do that again.
Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. “Fuck,” she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, “Cait.”
You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. It’s unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.
Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.
Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. You’re hyper-aware of everything—of the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she can’t seem to hold back.
She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.
Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then you’re there, fingers brushing right against her clit—she’s so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.
“Vi,” you whisper again.
Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.
You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. It’s a place you know well, one you’ve touched countless times in the dim light of your medic’s room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, she’d jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.
She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.
“Good,” she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. “Fuck, feels so good.”
Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.
It aches, but you’re smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for something—your lips, your skin, something to kiss.
You don’t make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makes—a guttural, desperate moan—sends heat pooling low in your stomach.
She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. There’s a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.
And you will. You’ll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. You’d give her your heart, too, if only she’d take it.
Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reacts—hips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperately—you think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.
When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighter—
“Cait…” The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.
Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.
“Cait… Cait…” she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.
It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.
You freeze, suddenly sober.
Your hands falter, and Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.
“What—? Why’d you stop?” Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.
“Who’s Cait?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
“What?”
Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyes—raw and unguarded. It’s a look you’ve seen before, maybe once or twice.
“You keep calling me ‘Cait.’” You can’t meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.
You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. It’s a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.
“I don’t know…” Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.
“Shit. Shit.” Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—Cait’s just… someone I used to know, alright?”
The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.
“Um… I think I need to go,” you mumble.
“You just got here.” Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.
“I know.” You force the words out. “But it’s been a long day.” You take a step back, and then another.
“Please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t leave.”
You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But it’s not fine. Not anymore.
“Vi…” Her name feels raw on your tongue. “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”
“No.” She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. “No, don’t say that. I’m not drunk—”
“You are.”
Her words are rushed, and frantic, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.
“You’re clearly not in the right state of mind right now,” you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask you’re slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Just… rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.”
She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. “Fuck. Fuck!” The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.
The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you can’t bring yourself to turn back.
Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingers—smoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.
The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to.
You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken record—Vi’s voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.
Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Vi’s loss.
“She’s never been this off her game,” someone says as they pass. “Wonder what’s eating her.”
You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.
The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the room—the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. It’s the first time you’ve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.
You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that don’t need organizing, folding bandages that don’t need folding. You think about how Vi’s presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throne—it had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.
But today, the chair stays empty.
Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against her—out of spite or fear—seemed shocked. You’d caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponent’s hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.
Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.
You expected her to show up the way she always did—bleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.
Maybe she’d gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasn’t fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.
You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didn’t care—it wasn’t your job to chase after fighters who wouldn’t take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.
The thought of her turning back to old habits—of her brushing you aside like you never mattered—settled in your chest like a bruise you couldn’t rub out.
And then the door creaks open.
Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.
Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadn’t bothered to wash off.
She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like she’s bracing herself for rejection. You’re about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.
“Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy and low.
You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. “Took you long enough,” you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.
When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. There’s no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.
You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. “What happened?”
Her shrug is stiff, “Guess I wasn’t fast enough.”
There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. It’s self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you ask, your tone soft but firm.
Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and you’re not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. “I still like to take care of you,” you say quietly.
Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. “That’s your job.”
“Yeah, but,” you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. “I like doing it.”
The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she can’t bear to look at you.
You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, “You should’ve come earlier. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”
“Why not? Seems to be what I’m good at.”
Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesn’t see it.
“Vi…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say.
She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I don’t get it. I’m a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, I’ve been a dick to you since day one. Why don’t you just… let me fuck myself up?”
“I’ve thought about it,” you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. “But then I’d be a pretty shitty medic, wouldn’t I?”
Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesn’t quite stick. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. “For everything.”
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
“I didn’t mean to…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesn’t change the truth. “It’s okay,” you manage.
“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Shame? “I… You deserve better than that. Better than me.”
Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine, really.”
Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. “You’re not. You’re just too good to say it.”
Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but there’s something else, too—a longing that mirrors your own.
But it’s not enough.
You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. “You should rest. I gotta fix your nose.”
Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know you’ll never forget this image of her.
As you work in silence, you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different—if whoever Cait was didn’t haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.
But deep down, you know the answer.
She’ll never be yours.
But you’ll always be hers.
When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesn’t know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like she’s summoning what’s left of her strength, makes your heart ache.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”
As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if she’d just let you. You could make her believe that she’s worth more than the pain she’s carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. It’s soft, strained, and bittersweet.
She doesn’t meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if she’s pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.
And then, she’s gone.
The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesn’t reach you anymore.
You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, she’ll always carry pieces of someone else with her.
More Posts from Valentsoup and Others
Guys my age - Dilf König x reader
König, quien está con reposo medico en un país extranjero, solo quiere silencio en una ciudad ruidosa entonces decide frecuentar una biblioteca cerca de su residencia. Pronombres femeninos. No tw por el momento
✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ* 01 ✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ✭˚･ﾟ✧･ﾟ*
Sabias que estaba mal, era incorrecto, inmoral.
Sin embargo ahí estabas arreglando tu cabello frente al espejo dentro del baño de tu trabajo, sabes que está mal pero aún así decides retocar tu maquillaje y rociar un poco de perfume en tu cuello.
Era la tercera vez esa semana que aquel hombre entraba a la biblioteca y se quedaba cuatro horas haciendo nada, simplemente se sentaba en un sofá del fondo y cerraba sus ojos mientras recostaba su cabeza. Aquel hombre era hermoso, magnifico, majestuoso.
Su altura alcanzaba fácilmente los dos metros, no solo era alto; aquel hombre era agraciado por donde fuera visto, una espalda ancha y unos brazos musculoso, probablemente no le resultaría difícil alzarte para luego...
No.
Sabes que estás actuando de una manera acosadora, sabías que reconocer cada característica de su rostro sin alguna vez haber hablado con el era raro, pero, pero también sabias que no podías evitarlo; aquel hombre era magnifico, un rostro masculino bien definido, nariz recta, su labio inferior era mas grueso que el superior y su labio superior tenía cicatriz que cruzaba hasta su mejilla, cabello rubio al ras y unos hipnotizantes ojos azules.
Te hubieras inventado una conversación, probablemente hubieras chocado con él accidentalmente mientras regresabas libros a sus estantes y entonces habría surgido una conexión, preguntarle si tiene un genero favorito, gustos musicales; tantas maneras de iniciar una conversación si no fuera por ese anillo en su dedo anular.
Un maldito circulo dorado arruinó tus planes.
Era obvio que semejante hombre iba a estar casado, ¿Cómo será ella?¿o él?¿serían felices? mierda, era algo con lo que no contabas.
Sabes que está mal, sin embargo ya es muy tarde para arrepentirse cuando llegas hasta su lado, intentas tocar su hombro y antes de poder reaccionar ya estás contra el piso con el encima tuyo. Todo da vueltas y entonces sientes su pierna en tu espalda para evitar que te muevas, su respiración es acelerada y su agarre es fuerte.
Todo se siente tenso y pasan unos pequeños segundos hasta que finalmente aquel hombre habla, pero no está hablando tu idioma y tu no puedes tener mas confusión. Su voz es ronca y grave, esto causa estragos en tu estomago y si el escenario fuera diferente probablemente te estarías derritiendo ante aquel acento.
Cierto.
Aquel hombre seguía sobre ti y tu solo podías pensar en su voz, probablemente era la falta de aire que llegaba a tu cuerpo debido a la posición en la que te tenía o también podía ser esa atracción hacia él. Como fuera, debías actuar rápido antes de que aquel hombre te dejara inconsciente.
-¿podría por favor dejarme ir?- soltaste un suspiro de alivio cuando por fin te soltó, sin previo aviso te levantó y te dejó de pie, todo el esfuerzo puesto a tu cabello quedó arruinado, tu labial barato completamente esparcido en tu rostro. Aquel hombre había causado un desastre en ti y ni siquiera de una manera sexual. Sus ojos mostraban arrepentimiento, casi pudiste compararlo con un cachorro al que acaban de regañar; aquello era imposible pues no existía un cachorro tan grande como aquel hombre. Sacudiste tu ropa sacando el polvo inexistente mientras aparentabas tranquilidad, por supuesto, que un atractivo hombre te tacleara era completamente normal, algo de todas las semanas.
Pudiste notar nerviosismo en su postura, tras unos eternos segundos de silencio, aclaró su garganta y habló:
-Yo… de verdad lo lamento, fui tomado por sorpresa y aunque eso no tiene justificación de verdad me disculpo
Su voz era todo lo contrario a cuando hablaba la lengua que escuchaste anteriormente, esta vez era suave y arrastraba algunas silabas haciéndolas sonar cargadas, probablemente alemán. -No tengo excusa, yo-
-Está bien- Lo interrumpiste - También tengo culpa, no debí acercarme de esa manera a ti.
Ambos se miraron sin saber que decir a continuación, tenías el presentimiento de que podrían estar ahí parados disculpándose todo lo que quedaba de tarde. Antes de poder reaccionar volviste a hablar:
-Lo lamento
-Lo siento
Ahí, ambos al mismo tiempo ofreciendo disculpas te diste cuenta que te llevaba una gran diferencia de altura; estabas frente a el y no llegabas a su hombro.
-De verdad no hay necesidad de pedir disculpas, ya es algo del pasado- probablemente te iba a doler la espalda por el resto de la semana pero no podías desaprovechar la oportunidad de hablar con tu crush- De todos modos solo venía a decir que estamos por cerrar.
Era verdad, nadie había presenciado el incidente porque ya no había nadie en la biblioteca aparte de él y tu. Querías cerrar pronto, subir a tu casa y tomar un buen baño de burbujas.
Ambos se sonrieron, aquella sonrisa rara e incomoda, dejaste el paso libre y entonces el iba delante y tu detrás hasta la salida. De verdad era un hombre grande, un paso de el eran dos tuyos y rápidamente te dejó atrás, mientras se disculpaba en voz baja, a su paso dejaba una fragancia masculina; un olor agradable que impregnó tus fosas nasales. Frente a la puerta de la biblioteca quedaron frente a frente y repetiste por ultima vez.
-De verdad ya no debes disculparte…..
-König, mi nombre es König.
Dios, König estaba nervioso y extremadamente asustado, nunca pensó que ella se acercaría de esa manera hacia él, sabia que el entrenamiento no era una excusa; ella era una civil y la biblioteca no era el campo de batalla.
Estas en casa, todo es seguro.
Una frase que debía repetir todo el día, cada segundo en su mente pues esta a veces lo traicionaba. Estaba perturbado, tanto ruido en sus misiones hicieron que el ruido de ciudad fuera insoportable, tan detestable que debió buscar un lugar silencioso y nada mejor que una biblioteca. Nunca esperó que esta estuviera dirigida por alguien tan bella.
Era claro que eras mas joven que él, probablemente todavía en tus veinte y él ya se sentía un ser prehistórico cerca tuyo. Tenia miedo de inhalar muy fuerte y llevarse tu juventud, sabia que no iba a la biblioteca solo por el silencio, si había sido la razón inicial pero cuando te vio inevitablemente pasaba casi todos los días ahí, solo para sentir tu presencia.
Esa atracción hacia ti no le gustaba para nada, pues sabia que su esposa probablemente lo odiaría.
Hiii! I wanna make an angst to fluff/comfort request with Sevika x fem!reader.. where like they had an argument about something and where reader thought Sevika was gonna hit her so she flinched away with a bit of tears in her eyes? Like a “when you flinch during an argument scenario”.. I hope this was okay!
BREAKING POINT
Sevika x f!reader
Synopsis: You and Sevika had gotten into an arguement after Sevika was seen as weak due to public affection, but it escalated to the point where it brought unwanted trauma and made you flinch.
Request: Anon 🤍
The dim glow of the single overhead light flickered in the room, casting long, uneven shadows along the cracked concrete walls. The tension between you and Sevika was heavier than the smoke-filled air of The Last Drop. It hung there, thick and unyielding, an invisible wall that neither of you had the words to break down.
Her metal arm clicked softly as she flexed her fingers, her flesh hand pressed firmly against her hip. She was pacing, her eyes darting toward the ground as she wrestled with her thoughts. Every stomp of her boot echoed through the room, each step sharper than the last.
“Do you know how this looks?” Sevika’s voice was rough, strained with frustration she was barely keeping in check. “How it looks when you cling to me like that in front of him?”
Her words hit like a whip crack, and you flinched inwardly. But you kept your chin high, refusing to back down. “I’m not ‘clinging,’ Sevika. I’m just—”
“Just what, huh?” she snapped, spinning to face you, her eyes sharp as broken glass. “Acting like we’re untouchable? Like Silco won’t notice? Well, guess what? He did. He asked me if this—” she gestured harshly between the two of you, her movements sharp and forceful, “—is gonna be a problem. If you are gonna be a problem for me.”
Her words struck deeper than any blade ever could. Your breath hitched in your throat, and the burn of unshed tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.
“You’re acting like I’m some kind of liability,” you muttered, your voice quieter now but laced with pain. “I’m just showing you I love you, Sevika. Since when is that a problem?”
Sevika’s eyes shut tight, her jaw working as she inhaled deeply through her nose. “Since people like Silco see it as weakness.” Her voice was lower now but no less cutting. “You think I want him thinking I’ve gone soft?”
“That’s not fair,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not asking you to be soft. I’m just asking you to let me love you without feeling like I’m doing something wrong.”
Her eyes snapped open, and something wild burned behind them—anger, frustration, but maybe guilt too. Her hand shot up, metal fingers running down her face before she threw both hands up, exasperated.
Her voice rose with her movement. “Why do you always have to make everything so damn hard?!”
The motion was fast, sharp, and your heart betrayed you before your mind could catch up.
You flinched.
Not just a small, subtle recoil. It was sudden, visceral—like every muscle in your body lit up with the command to move, now, before it’s too late. You stumbled a step back, arms half-raised as if to shield yourself. Your breathing hitched, sharp and shallow, as the memories you’d buried clawed their way to the surface.
And just like that, the room went deathly silent.
You felt it before you saw it—Sevika’s entire demeanor shifting from volcanic rage to stunned stillness. Her arms slowly dropped to her sides, her metal hand twitching, fingers curling inward as if she’d suddenly realized they could hurt.
“Fuck,” she muttered, barely audible. Her eyes were locked on you, wide with something like shock. Horror.
Her gaze darted between your trembling hands and the tears slowly spilling down your cheeks. Her brow furrowed deeply, her lips parting like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. She took a small, hesitant step toward you, and you flinched again.
“Fuck.” Her voice was louder now, pained and raw. “I’m not, I wasn’t gonna—”
She shook her head hard, like she could physically will the idea out of existence. Her breathing had gone shallow too, her eyes darting around the room like she was looking for a way to undo what had just happened.
“Babe,” she rasped, her voice cracking in a way you’d never heard before. “I would never.”
You believed her. You knew she would never. But that didn’t stop the past from dragging you back into the fog of fear. The panic didn’t care who it was or what you knew. All it cared about was survival.
“I know,” you choked out, voice tight and unsteady as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “I know you wouldn’t. I know.”
But you were still shaking.
And Sevika saw it.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, dragging her metal hand through her hair and down the back of her neck, her whole body stiff with regret. She took a slow step toward you, but she moved like she was approaching a wounded animal—slow, cautious, careful. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her voice was quiet now, rough with emotion.
Her words cracked something open in you. Your knees went weak, and you sank down to sit on the edge of the old couch, burying your face in your hands. Your breath came in shallow bursts, like you couldn’t fill your lungs no matter how hard you tried.
“Hey, hey, no,” Sevika was in front of you before you realized it, crouching low on one knee, her flesh hand hovering just in front of your arm. She didn’t touch you—not yet—but she stayed there, close enough that you could feel her warmth.
“Can I,” Her voice was soft and unsure in a way you’d never heard before. “Can I touch you?”
You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded. Slowly, carefully, she reached out, her flesh hand resting on your knee, fingers curling gently around it. Her palm was warm, grounding, and that was all it took to break you.
You sucked in a ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as the tears fell harder. Sevika moved then, pulling you forward into her chest, her arms wrapping around you with all the strength she always tried to hide. She pulled you in like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.
Her hand cradled the back of your head, her lips pressed softly against your temple. Her chest rose and fell against you in slow, steady beats, and she held you like you were something fragile but precious.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her voice thick with guilt. “I never want you to feel like that again. Not with me. Not ever with me.”
You sobbed harder, hands clutching the fabric of her vest, pulling her closer like she was your only tether to the world.
“I know, I know,” you hiccuped, your voice broken but sure. “It’s not you. It’s just— it’s old stuff, Sevika.”
Her breath hitched at that. She knew what you meant. She knew that old pain never truly disappeared, that it could creep in when you least expected it. Her arms tightened around you, her cheek pressed to the top of your head, grounding you with her steady presence.
Her lips brushed against your temple, then your forehead, a soft, lingering press of warmth. “I’m here,” she murmured, her voice low and steady. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t feel real anymore. All that existed was the feel of her arms around you, the warmth of her body, the low rumble of her voice murmuring reassurances that you barely heard but deeply felt.
Eventually, the shaking subsided, your breaths becoming deeper, steadier. You stayed in her arms, letting her hold you as if you were both trying to prove something to each other.
After a long, quiet moment, she pulled back just enough to look at you, her flesh hand wiping the tears from your cheeks. Her thumb traced your cheekbone with the softest touch, like she thought you might break.
“You’re not a liability,” she said firmly, her eyes locked with yours, filled with an intensity that made your heart ache. “You hear me? Not to me. Not to Silco. Not to anyone.”
You nodded, your heart too full to speak.
Her forehead pressed against yours, her eyes closing as she sighed deeply. “Next time Silco says something, I’ll handle it,” she said softly. “I’ll handle it. Not take it out on your or us.”
“Okay,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the edge of her jaw.
Sevika tilted her head slightly, brushing her lips against yours. It was so soft, so tender, you almost felt like crying all over again.
“I love you,” she murmured against your lips.
“Love you too,” you whispered back, letting her hold you until the world, past and present, didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
A/N: I’m sorry this is so short, but I hope that it met the request anyway. I was just trying to get this one done, since I have a lot of other requests that I plan on sending out today.
× even the gods bleed
× info [ sagau + imposter au + focalors + neuvillette ] × warnings [ spoilers for neuvillette + vaguely mentioned blood & injury + very minor angst ] × word count [ 2.3k ]
What was justice?
Focalors had asked herself that question many times during the long nights she spends awake pouring over the prophecy of a dead God, words replaying in her mind like a broken record until the sun rose like a blooming flower.
She was the God of Justice, an Archon, yet she herself lacked the answer to such a simple and yet so very complex question.
How does one define what is just and what is not? How does she know that what she believes to be just is right? Is it justice if one being alone may sway the scales of justice on a whim? What justice is there to be found in the cold, watery grave that awaits her nation?
She does not know.
Perhaps she may never know.
What she does know, at least, is that this is not justice.
It is a mockery of it.
She stands before the bloodied, broken body like the judge, her sword held so tightly in her hand her fingers feel stiff, a dull ache adding to the weight of what she's seen. For a long, horrible moment she almost thinks they are dead – something she would have reveled in, only a day prior – before she sees the subtle rise and fall of their chest. Breathing, but barely.
The rain felt heavier upon her shoulders at the realization – she was not sure if it was in relief or horror.
Her nails dig into her palm, mind stuck somewhere between that abject horror and confusion so palpable she swore she could hear the gears in her head turning.
For a long, silent moment as she stares upon the body beneath the heavy rain..she wonders if this is how it all ends instead. If the world itself will simply crumple in on itself and cease – without its heart, it will wither, after all – long before the waters ever swallow her nation whole.
Because, try as she might to rationalize it, for every drop of rain that hits her like pins and needles, soaking her down to the bone..the body of the imposter is completely dry. Even the water pooling along the stones dares not to leave so much as a splotch against their ragged, torn clothes.
She remembers the meeting so very clearly, and she thinks she is a fool to not have noticed sooner – the Creator upon their gilded throne, finger pointed in accusation at the visage far too similar to their own. The imposter. She remembers the lilt of their voice as they called for their death as easily as one would speak of the weather – and to no one other then herself would she admit the spark of fear it had ignited within her. Because beneath the divine charade there was a sick enjoyment in the way they looked upon the imposter – like a bug beneath their shoe.
She understands, now.
She had thought that perhaps finally – finally – she could do right by her people, by her Creator, if she rid Teyvat of this..intrusion.
Now she sees herself as what it all really is – blind lambs following the herder.
Perhaps she would be considered a heretic under the eyes of the law – beneath the weight of justice, heavy as the heart that bears its sins. Perhaps this is a mistake, one she would come to regret.
But for now, she sheathes her blade with unsteady hands, the sound making her ears ring – for what she had almost done, what she had already done – as she stumbles like a newborn lamb towards the broken body of..
..What, exactly? Human? Divine? She is not so sure what to call them. Creator? No. The name is bitter upon her tongue, now, burning like liquid flame down her throat.
Where once she had spoken it in reverence and admiration, it felt hollow and empty, now.
Her vision wavers as she kneels down against the rain soaked stones, the rain upon her back growing heavier as she reaches a shaky hand forth – and for a moment, however brief, she feels the weight of expectation, of a title she fears she may never live up to, wash away with the waters that fall from the heavens.
The bruises and blood smeared across their skin are like strokes of a paintbrush, their body the canvas from which such horrid art is created. It makes her ill.
Doubt wavers her composure briefly – her position is already unsteady. She has never been seen as an equal to many of the other Archons. Her own people do not see her as their Archon, but an actor in a grand play that they shall simply toss aside and replace like a broken doll the moment she bores them.
What does she have left to lose?
She reaches out again, her hand settling onto their shoulder and turning them onto their back. She..isn't sure what to do, actually. She's never been particularly physically capable – she tended to avoid fights, even if she oft provoked them – and she was certainly no healer.
Yet what choice does she have but to march on anyway? She is in the heart of the city, it is far more dangerous here then anywhere else..she had little time to make her move.
Fontaine was, after all, a nation founded on the principle of justice. To know an injustice has been made against the most Divine..the entire nation was in a frenzy.
Her eyes dart around nervously, hands clasped tight on their shoulders and her lips drawn into a taut line – someone would notice her absence. One of the Archons would point out her absence in the coordination of the search.
Her options were just as limited as her time – she couldn't just take them out of the city. Security was tight, and as much as she fancied herself an escape artist – Neuvillette could hardly keep her in one place for too long – she doubted she could do the same with the limp body of the imposter in tow.
..The Palais Mermonia it was, then.
Her room had a secret entrance that few knew about, and even fewer would dare to traverse. She just..had to hide them there for a bit and hope Neuvillette wouldn't notice anything different.
Probably.
Still, there was the problem of actually..transporting the body. As grim as it sounded. Her only solace was the fact she didn't have to worry about them catching a cold, at least, and their breaths were still audible, if only barely. So she had to resort to some..unexpected methods.
Seeing the limp form of, well, the imposter – she'd really have to ask for something else to call them when they woke up – stuck in a bubble of hydro wasn't exactly on her bucket list.
Then again, neither was treason.
Well, first time for everything, right?
It wasn't breaking the law if no one else knew about it.
..Neuvillette didn't have to know about it, really. It was fine.
She could, of course, technically try to talk some sense into Neuvillette – he'd listen to her, right? She thought she was pretty close with him..but he was also the one person more obsessed with justice then she was. Such a stickler for the law..so maybe she's breaking a few, it's fine.
But he was also pretty devout, as much as he tried to keep his worship private – with Focalors around, nothing was really secret. Maybe she could get him to settle down long enough to prove it.
..How was she going to prove it?
An exaggerated groan escaped her lips as she led the bubbled imposter – she really wished she didn't have to resort to that, it would be a lot a more awkward to explain then dragging the body around – through the winding streets of Fontaine. She's just glad she's already memorized the entire city like the back of her hand..and a little dramatics went a long way. People listened when the Hydro Archon spoke, and she was suddenly very, very glad for that fact, even if they treated her more like a mascot then a God.
And partially because she, maybe, just a little..stole a few documents detailing the layout and a little personal exploration of her own – but what Neuvillette didn't know couldn't hurt him!
After what felt like hours, though was really no more then half an hour at best, she'd managed to drag herself – soaked to the bone with rain – and the conveniently bubbled imposter up through the secret entrance and into her room.
The perceived safety, as flimsy as it was, was..comforting. Until she heard the rustle of fabric, the clearing of a throat and the pop of a bubble as she, in her surprise, popped it – and then the thud of the imposter hitting the floor.
She felt a bit of regret about that part, at least, wincing.
"Lady Furina." His voice was as sharp and cool as she remembered it always being – like fresh spring water, she'd heard it described. Soothing. It did not feeling very soothing right about now.
She turned sharply on her heel, a forced smile tugging at her lips on reflex, every muscle in her body tensed – she probably looked like a wet cat right about now, soaked with rain, but that was the last thing on her mind.
"Do you mind explaining what, exactly, you did?" Not what you're doing, she notes – what she did. He was mad. Oh, she was really in for a scolding now. She twiddled her thumbs, laughing weakly, though it quickly dies out at the awkward, tense silence.
"Well, you see – it's rather complicated! I can– I can explain." Her attempts to diffuse are met with a raised brow and the sharp tap of his cane. Every single thought is plagued with the urge to run, but the unsteady breathes of the 'imposter' keep her rooted in place. "Well?"
She was sweating bullets, her nails digging into her palm as she scrambled for any excuse that could warrant her not getting hauled off and scolded thoroughly at best – she was coming up empty. How was she supposed to prove that the 'imposter' was very much not what the 'Creator' said they were? Their unconscious body was doing no one any favors, certainly.
"The Creator is lying," She blurts out, immediately regretting her impulsiveness when she feels the sudden weight of his stare – the piercing hues of his eyes that remind her just who is the strongest between them. It is not her, she knows. It never has been. "You can see for yourself! Don't you trust me, Neuvillette–?"
Her voice is cut off by the sharp click of his cane as he strides across the room in only a few steps, his height making her feel like a child about to scolded. She hated it, but she grit her teeth through the exchange. She reminded herself that this was for the sake of the 'imposter' and any affront to her ego was..tolerable.
To her credit, too, she didn't immediately lash out when she saw him poke at their body with his cane, turning them onto their back – she wanted too, though. She considered it, but the thought was quickly shot down when his stare turned back upon her, and she felt frozen in place again, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth.
Yet she couldn't shake the sudden tenseness to his shoulders, his brows furrowed and a distant look to his eyes. It was..haunting, in a way.
She knows it well, she realizes. The realization and acceptance, the crumbling of every solid foundation you've ever known – leaving you to flounder in the waves, alone and afraid.
The gentleness in which he picks up the limp body surprises her though, his cane set aside. The rain howls like a horrid storm outside, but she cannot focus on anything but the furrow of their brows, the soft noise that escapes their lips.
"I trust that you know that this must stay between us," His voice is soft, like the gentle lap of waves against the shore, as he sets their body down against the bed, his hand lingering against their cheek with something almost like reverence – and if her eyes do not deceive her, affection. "Lady Furina."
She does not hesitate to agree.
"Well– well of course!" She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at the feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, a heavy weight that feels like it's dragging her down. "Just what do you take me for?"
He doesn't deign to respond.
It only makes her fume more.
Not that he seems to notice, unbuttoning his heavy outerwear and tossing it on the bed, rolling up his sleeves and focusing on the injured– er..yeah, she really needed a new name for them. Calling them imposter felt wrong.
"So long as you understand, then we will have no problems." She huffs again, pouting and puffing up her cheeks, sitting down on the other end of the bed with only an occasional glance towards him as he worked at peeling away the ragged clothes and examining the injuries marring their skin.
She suddenly felt out of place.
..What was she supposed to be doing?
As if noticing her sudden quietness, Neuvillette sighed, his back turned to her though his attention very much falling upon her. She really hated the feeling like she was being dissected whenever he looked at her. It was unnerving. She doesn't know how anyone else handles it..
"If you are so eager to do something, Lady Furina, then please have something brought up for when our..guest awakens. They will need to recover their strength."
Finally! Something she can do. She perks up, her heels clicking on the floorboards as she darts out like a bullet, unable to stay still for so much as a moment.
Neuvillette, for his part..
Feels an odd sense of serenity as he stares upon the troubled features of the..guest. A peace that lessens the burdens upon his shoulders, the weight of a nation upon his back.
He cannot hear the rain, anymore.
..It must have stopped.
15. waka's girl
★ pairings: plug!wakasa imaushi x f!reader
★ synopsis: the one where you have the hots for your dealer, and Wakasa is always eager to please a customer. (don't let your bf stop you from finding ur hubby)
★ content warning: smut, angst, lotta porn w a lotta plot, car sex, dealer wakasa, cheating, oral sex, sneaky link, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, sex while high, consensual drug use, mentions of abuse, unprotected sex, smut in this chap... going out w a bang...
★ a/n: I never thought id be writing this... omg... but after almost a year, we are finally at the end of party monster!!!! I feel so emotional writing this up. I don't wanna spend too much time yapping, so I'll finish this a/n at the end teehee... but I spent sm time on this chapter so I hope u all like it!! enjoy the final installment of my fave ff ive ever written!
★ w.c.; 7.4k
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THE FEELING OF WETNESS on your skin roused you from your slumber. Groggily, you glanced up at the ceiling. It was higher than you remembered, a little grander. In fact, the bed you woke up in didn’t seem to have been yours at all. It was a hell of a lot bigger, and it had wine red sheets laid over it.
There was a black cat on top of your chest. He was a lightweight thing, small paws pressing into your skin while he peered down at you curiously. His eyes were yellow, almost unreal. The cat hopped off of you.
You glanced down at your arm, the one that was crossed over your stomach. There was a wet patch on the skin there, like the feline fellow had licked you.
He had a cat?
There was a body next to you, a warmth – and you felt yourself breathe a sigh of relief. So it wasn’t a dream.
Slowly, you rolled over. Wakasa was sleeping peacefully next to you, golden brown lashes fanning over his rose-dusted cheeks, lips parted ever-so-slightly. His hair was down and slightly wavy, golden rays cascading over the red satin pillowcase like a halo around his face.
You felt your heart jump at the sight.
You reached out for him, pulling the stray hairs away from his nose and his mouth. He stirred, but only slightly, easing back into a deep sleep while you traced your finger over the slopes and valleys of his pretty face.
The black cat crawled into the gap between the two of you. He sniffed at Waka’s hair – who scrunched his nose up in his sleep. Finally, he turned around, letting his silky black tail glide over Waka’s nose as he settled down into the bed between you.
Waka woke up a moment later, tired eyes blinking slowly while he appeared to be remembering yesterday’s events – just as you had. A hundred million memories were trapped within the confines of his lavender hues, blinking at you like you had just been spat out from the heavens.
“G’mornin’,” He grumbled, the faintest grin flitting over his lips despite his apparent distaste for early mornings.
“Mornin’, Waka,” His name rolled off your tongue like butter. It felt natural.
He folded the sheets down away from his face, stretching.
“So…” You began, trailing off. There was an elephant in the room. “Last night…”
Wakasa chuckled. “Not g’nna tell me you regret it again, are ‘ya?”
“No, just that I meant it,” You sighed. It felt nice to admit that to him after all this time. “The part about lovin’ you. I meant it.”
He sighed, laying his head back on the pillow and smiling at the ceiling – you think. “Good,” he replied. “I meant it, too.”
And you felt the worries melt away. Felt your eyes crease as you leaned in closer to him, brushing your lips against his in a tender kiss. Then another. He was intoxicating. It made your head spin with bliss.
You pulled away when you felt him deepen the kiss. “Nooo,” You whined. “I have morning breath.”
Waka gripped your chin, deepening the kiss anyway – a borderline nasty mix of your morning breath and his, but you didn’t even care. Your hands found their way to his shoulders instinctively.
When he broke away, that grin was still on his face.
“We still on f’tonight?” He asked.
You glanced down at your surprisingly un-naked body. You were wearing one of his tee shirts.
“Yeah,” You said after a brief pause. “I should probably go home and get into some fresh clothes.”
Waka pouted. “You’re leavin’ me?”
“You’re literally gonna see me in, like, six hours,” You retorted, sliding out of bed with a great deal of effort. Your back was completely shot.
You really ought to remember you were going on 30.
When you turned around, he was still pouting. It was a little funny, actually. Here he was, a grown ass man, pouting while you threatened to leave the warm confines of his bed. Oddly domestic, but not entirely undesirable.
You realized you could probably get used to this.
“I’ll be countin’ the seconds,'' he hummed, finally dropping his faux-angry facade in favor of snuggling into the wine-colored sheets. His cat hopped up over his legs, crawling over to him and curling up against his bare chest.
With a faint smile, Waka petted his hands over the cat’s fur. He looked up at you, offering, “Matter of fact, can I take you home?”
You thought for a moment, briefly remembering that you really didn’t have another way home. Waka had been your form of transportation last night.
You shrugged, “Alright.”
Wakasa grinned like a child on christmas morning, hopping out of bed. He jogged over to you – still remarkably shirtless, though he had the decency to have put a new pair of boxers on.
You poked a playful finger into his chest, warning him, “No funny business, you hear? You’re gonna drop me off out front. You’re not coming inside.”
“I can do that,” he chuckled rather boyishly, pressing a kiss to your lips.
“Waka,” You reiterated sternly. “I mean it. You’re not coming inside. Say it, say ‘I’m not coming insi–’”
“I’m not coming inside,” he sped out. Reaching into a drawer in the bedside table, he pulled out a shirt. “Now let’s go.”
There was some odd feeling you couldn’t shake as you gazed at your reflection in your pocket mirror. You looked… good. Better than you had in ages, actually.
Your eyebags had been covered up – thanks to some trusty concealer and a vision. Your lips were painted a deep shade of red, the same color Takeomi had always told you he hated. The same could be said about your lashes, which were done up with black mascara and curled to perfection. The slightest hint of red dusted your cheeks.
You looked good.
Snapping the handheld mirror shut, you sighed. You glanced up at the wooden door in front of you. There was a wooden plaque to your left, one that was faintly illuminated by a warm light. It read; ARAGAWA.
You smoothed your hands over your black evening dress.
You were here. You were actually here.
When you opened the oak door, you were greeted by a man with a warm smile. Immediately, you caught a whiff of something distinctly expensive – perfume, steak, wine. He was wearing a well-sculpted black suit. “Good evening, Miss, Welcome to Aragawa. Do you have a reservation?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, I think…” You bit the inside of your lip. “I’m not sure what name he put it under, though. Imaushi Wakasa?”
“Miss [L/N], my apologies,” The man’s expression changed, as if the grand reveal of your reservation had caused him to warm up instantaneously. He stepped out from behind the table, gesturing to the small, carpeted set of stairs which led into the dining room. “Right this way, please. Emi will escort you to your table.”
You nodded politely, mustering an awkward smile. You stepped back, making your way down the aforementioned steps.
There was a woman waiting for you off to the side. She had a short, brown bob and a cute button nose. The neckline of the black dress she wore plunged below her breasts. Against your better judgment, you felt your eyes wander.
She bowed in greeting when she saw you, “Good evening. Please follow me.”
You fiddled with the hem of your skirt, smiling warmly as she led you further into the dining room. The place looked expensive. There was red carpet all over the floors, amber and gold art all over the walls, and lantern lights over every table. There was a bar at the side of the room. She led you past it.
The hostess stopped in front of a wooden stairway – one that led up. She turned to you and gestured to the stairs. “Right up these stairs, miss.”
“Thank you,” You bowed ever-so-slightly.
Somehow, you felt out of place at a restaurant like this.
As you made your way up the stairs, you felt your heart begin to race.
The corridor you came into was dimly lit. There were two private dining rooms, one on your right and one on your left. You turned your head both ways, searching for a sign of your date. When you looked to your left for the second time, you saw him.
He was sitting at a circular table, a menu propped up in his hands. He looked so handsome that you felt your fucking heart do a somersault.
The room was small, but it looked bougie. There was a golden Chandelier above the table. Behind the table, a large wooden shelf displayed bottles of red wine with expensive names – Sauvignon, Merlot, and so many more. A tasteful painting hung next to a set of double doors, behind which you could only assume lie the kitchen.
The wine-colored napkins were folded neatly on the table, along with a set of silverware, a fancy-looking wine glass, and an empty water glass.
You sauntered into the private dining room with your head down and your hands clasped around your clutch purse. Wakasa noticed you the moment you arrived, pretty eyes twinkling beneath the warm candle light as they flitted up to you. Immediately, his resting bitch face melted into a familiar grin.
“Long time no see, princess,” He greeted you. Before you could sit down, he stood up – and, shit, if your heart wasn’t racing before, it was now.
He was dressed to the nines tonight, something uncharacteristically nice. It should have been illegal for a white suit jacket to fit someone’s body like that, tailored curves hugging the slopes of his waist and shoulders. He wore a black dress shirt beneath – first few buttons undone, just the way you knew he normally liked to wear his shirts. The matching slack hugged his hips and fell loosely over his legs. He had a gold chain around his neck, one that glimmered beneath the romantic lighting.
And his hair – fuck – his hair was done back into a bun. A single intentional strip of hair was left out to frame his handsome face. His eyes, his lips, his cheekbones, his chiseled jaw… he was perfect.
“That dress is perfect on you,” Waka took your hand with a gentle firmness, raising it to his lips and pressing a chaste kiss to the top of it. “You look stunnin’ tonight, baby.”
He stepped around you, pulling your chair out from beneath the table.
“Thanks. Not too shabby, yourself,” You felt your face flush. With a timid smile, you replied sarcastically, “You’re all dressed up tonight. What’s the occasion?”
“Nothin’. Just a date with the most beautiful woman in the world,” he answered. “Sit down. I just ordered us an appetizer.”
What a schmoozer, You rolled your eyes. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little flustered by his comment. He always knew what to say to get you going.
You took a seat, smoothing your hands over your dress, setting your clutch on the table.
Wakasa walked around the table to sit in front of you. You noticed his glass of water was half full. He must have been waiting for me.
“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” You hummed quietly, tucking your hair behind your ear and reaching for the menu. “My makeup took a lot longer than I thought it would.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Love,” He dismissed your concerns with a wave of his hand. His eyes drank you in almost hungrily. “You look good.”
Love. You felt your cheeks warm at the nickname. It took every ounce of restraint you had to not hop the table and kiss him right then and there.
You returned your gaze to the menu in your hands. The pages were lined with fancy sounding steaks and obnoxiously high prices. You winced, though your gaze trailed over the options with a sense of yearning. Everything here looks so good.
“D’you like red wine?” He asked you suddenly. He was watching you with an earnest expression on his face, chin perched on his palm.
With a quiet hum, you nodded. “It’s a rare treat for me. Why?”
“I ordered the house wine. I heard it’s good,” He mused quietly. His eyes lingered on your neck, where you knew a dainty gold necklace was fastened.
And he smiled at you.
“Takeomi never took me out to dinner,” You blurted out nervously.
Great. Let’s talk about my ex on the first date.
Wakasa didn’t seem to mind it, though you took note of the way his lip twitched when you said his name.
“His loss,” Was all he said, licking his lips. He looked like he was going to say something else, like there was another sassy remark on the tip of his tongue, but he was interrupted by the sound of double doors opening. He glanced behind you.
When you turned around, you saw another pretty, young waitress holding a bottle of wine and a vase of… flowers. There were two more men behind her, holding two more — albeit much larger — floral arrangements.
You knitted your brows with a quiet interest. The vase she set down was a burst of color amidst the intimate ambiance. It looked like a spring arrangement — colorful lilies, dahlias, and all sorts of other flowers you didn’t know the name of.
“How pretty,” you mused quietly, raking your eyes over the vase the restaurant had so generously provided. The two larger vases were placed on either side of the table — making it so that you and Waka were framed by the pretty petals like something out of a movie.
How romantic.
The waitress popped the cork off of the wine bottle. She grabbed your empty wine glass by the stem — then, with practiced ease, she poured your wine.
“Thank you,” You nodded at the girl. You took the glass up in your hand, swishing the crimson liquid around until it sloshed around the bottom. “For everything— the flowers are nice, too.”
“I knew you would like them,” Wakasa remarked. Sitting back in his seat, he allowed the woman to pour him a glass.
She set the bottle on the table. Then, with a curt bow, she quietly excused herself.
You raised a brow at him. “You picked these?”
Wakasa mirrored your action from earlier, giving the deep-colored liquid a few swishes. “‘Course, princess,” He answered. “They’re yours.”
With wide eyes, you glanced over at one of the bigger vases. “All of this is… for me?” You asked.
“All for you, baby,” He replied.
You looked back at him with even wider eyes. You feared that if he made one more outlandish statement, they would pop right out of their sockets. “They look so expensive, Waka, I— …I don’t even know how we’re gonna get these out of here!”
“I’ll have one of my guys bring them to your house,” Waka rolled the stem of his glass between his thumb and his index finger. His lavender hues flicked up to your painted red lips. “I was gonna have ‘em sent there in the first place but, y’know… would’a ruined the surprise.”
You spared one more glance at one of the large bouquets. It was huge — weeping stems and bright flowers spilling out over the edge and towering at least two feet tall.
“Waka, this is too much…” You licked your lips, looking back at him. You almost wished you hadn’t. Fuck, it should be illegal for blondes to look that good. “I can’t accept this— I can’t repay you for-“
“You’re not repaying me for anything, Mama,” He hummed. That devilish grin of his was gonna be the death of you. “I told you I could treat you better than that bum you were fuckin’ with before. I plan on makin’ good on that promise.”
“But—“
“Let me spoil you, princess,” He added, instantaneously shutting down any argument that had formed in the back of your mind. “Can’t treat you good unless you let me, yeah?”
You sat back with a pout, though it melted into a shy grin. You felt the blush creeping in at his words — again, it took a great deal of restraint to keep from kissing him right then and there. “M’kay… thank you, Waka.”
“Anythin’ for you, Mama,” He smiled back. He reached over the table with his spare hand, taking your fingers into his grasp reassuringly.
“Now I don’t want you to worry your pretty little head about money again, okay?” He warned you rather sternly, though you could tell there was a grain of humor behind it. “You know that’s not an issue for me, and even if it was… that’s for me to worry ‘bout. All you gotta do is sit there and look pretty with whatever I buy you.”
A horde of angry butterflies paraded through your stomach, your chest, leaving a trail of red blush over your face. You had to avert your gaze, pressing your thighs together beneath the table.
“Okay…” You murmured timidly, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Thank you, Waka.”
Woah… so crazy how you were dripping wet, all of a sudden.
He released your hand just as the waitress returned. The two of you fell back into a comfortable silence — you basked in the warmth in your cheeks, your neck, your whole body.
“Are you two ready to order?” She asked.
You had completely forgotten about the menu. Quickly, you flipped it open, scanning the page for something that looked interesting.
“I think we’re ready,” Wakasa said. He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. With a warm smile, he asked you, “Whad’ya gonna have, my love?”
You felt the tips of your ears burn at the nickname.
Fuck. You were going to combust.
“I’ll take the Sanda Beefsteak meal,” You told her. “Could I have that cooked medium well?” You asked.
The waitress nodded. Then, she turned to Wakasa with the same polite smile she had greeted you with. “And you, sir?”
“I’ll have the same,” He rattled off. Gently, he pulled the menu from your grasp, stacking it over his and handing it off to the girl. “Thank you,” he said.
You were melting into your seat. There was something about a man who was nice to food service workers that was just….
“We’re on a date right now,” You blurted out rather awkwardly, as if you were still attempting to process it – nevermind the flowers and the dinner and… well, everything else.
He turned to face you with an expression which could only be described as lovestruck, half lidded eyes settling over your painted lips before he answered, “We are.”
He reached for his glass again, this time holding it towards you. “Wanna make a toast?”
You reached for your own, rolling it between your pinched fingers with a pensive hum. You thought for a moment, then you giggled, “I can’t think of anything.”
Waka pouted playfully, “I’m right here.”
“Okay, okay,” You laughed. You held your glass up to the sky, translucent rim glimmering beneath the candlelight. “To the beginning of something beautiful… and… and the end of something terrible.”
He smiled, then he laughed – the melody made your heart skip a beat. “Movin’ a bit fast, ain’t we?” He asked. “Weren’t we friends, like, two days ago?”
You shrugged nonchalantly. What do I have to lose? “Says the one who likes to say “I love you” during sex.”
“Who said it back?” he mused, holding his own serving of wine towards you. He leaned over the table, eyes darkening, “You loved all of me last night, ain’t you, pretty thing?”
“I can drink to that,” You giggled.
The glasses clinked against one another and it was as if you had finally stepped into a new chapter – with him by your side. As long as you had that, you felt everything else would fall into place.
As long as you had him.
Dinner was a joyful blur. As the night unfolded, the two of you reveled in one other's company, savoring every moment. Laughter intertwined with the aroma of exquisite dishes. Time seemed to slip away as you enjoyed the many various culinary delights. It was perfect, him, the food… all of it.
Dessert had been brought out thirty minutes ago, on a cart adorned with an array of rich, sweet treats. At Waka’s request, the two of you had sampled just about everything. You indulged in the rare chance to taste such decadent flavors rather shamelessly.
You had eaten a few tarts, a piece of some chocolate cake… some other desserts, too, but you had far since lost track.
You leaned back in your chair, shamelessly holding your stomach, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. “I’ve never felt so full in my life,” You confessed. Though you knew you looked tired, you were genuine in your next words, “Thank you, Waka. I mean it.”
Wakasa, with his shin perched on his hand, gazed at her lovingly. His pretty face was flushed with the faintest hue of red, as much of a testament to your wine tasting experience as the rosy stain on his lips was. After three or four glasses (maybe more), his eyes were droopy, half lidded, and shamelessly gazing into yours. He looked like he, too, had put in a great amount of effort to keep his hands off of you all night.
This very well may have been the longest the two of you had ever gone alone together in a room without kissing one another.
“‘Course, baby,” He said. His voice seemed to have dropped a pitch during the evening, suddenly rather heavy with desire. “I’m glad you enjoyed.”
Ignoring the warmth of your own reckless drinking habit, you pointed out the nearly untouched brown cake on his plate. “You barely touched your dessert.”
“‘M stuffed, baby,” Waka sighed, leaning back. “Plus, I gotta cut down on the sweets. I’m putin’ on weight.”
You knitted your brows, pouting at his admission of insecurity. You didn’t doubt that there was a lot of maintenance involved in achieving a body like his. Still, you didn’t like the thought of him feeling bad about himself.
“Why? You look perfect!” You tried to reassure him. The moment he opened his mouth to retort, you held up a finger, effectively silencing him. Him, the most dangerous man in Tokyo, if not all of Japan. “And don’t start callin’ me a liar,” You added, waving your finger around. “I think I got a good view last night. Though I could always take another look, just to make sure.”
I just said that out loud. You froze immediately, face flushed at your own admission. The moment you saw his expression shift, you regretted your choice of words.
He peered up at you through his pretty blonde lashes. “Don’t start,” he cautioned, a playful smirk on his devilishly handsome face.
Again, his effect on you was instantaneous. You felt yourself grow hot beneath the layers of pretty clothes and makeup you were wearing – hot to your core.
So, being the little shit that you were, you played into it.
“Start what?” You pouted, feigning innocence.
“Somethin’ you won’t finish,” He retorted. His eyes were dark with desire, gaze sharp.
I want him to fuck me right here, you thought. Not long after that, a brilliant idea crossed your mind.
Slowly, you kicked off your heel. You searched for the toe of his shoe, sliding your foot up his calf.
“Who says I won’t finish it?” You teased, folding your hands together in front of your lips. Your foot brushed over his knee, his thigh.
He hummed in response. “Don’t– don’t play with me,” He stuttered – actually stuttered – when you put your foot over his crotch. Immediately, you felt him twitch beneath your fleeting touch. His eyes were on you, weighted with lust. “I’ll bend you over this table in front’a everybody.”
“That just won’t do,” You feigned surprise, widening your eyes. Your tone was condescending, exaggerating every syllable that left your lips. “Stop misbehaving. This is a classy establishment.”
He leaned over the table ever-so-slightly. “You gonna make me?”
The young waitress returned at the perfect time, holding a checkbook in hand. She set the sleek black book upon the table, bowing slightly as she did so.
“Your card, sir,” She spoke politely. Then, she turned to you, doing the same respectful bow. “Thank you for dining with us tonight. I hope you have a wonderful rest of your evening.”
Without so much as another word, she was gone.
You hadn’t stopped your ministrations once in her presence, hoping the tablecloth had done a good enough job at concealing the way you were rubbing him through his slacks. He was hot and hard underneath your sole.
It’s so easy to get him riled up, you noted with the faintest smirk upon your lips.
“Say,” He remarked, flipping the checkbook open and clicking the pen against the table. Without looking at you, he scribbled down a few numbers – the tip, you assumed, because it looked steep. When he was done, he took his black card and closed the book, returning his gaze to you. “How do you feel about dessert?”
Speaking in code now, are we?
“I think…” You put a little more weight onto your foot, dropping your voice to a murmur. “I think you should bring the car ‘round front,” You leaned in. You were all but whispering into his ear by that point. “And get us the hell out of here.”
He stifled a groan. “Should I?” He grinned.
“You should,” You nodded, licking your lips. When you felt you had gotten your point across, you let your foot touch the ground, slipping effortlessly back into your shoe. “I think I wanna take my dessert to-go.”
Wakasa, caught up in the spontaneity of the moment, stood up so quickly that his chair scraped unceremoniously against the floor. His enthusiasm was palpable. “We can beat the traffic if we leave now,” he suggested with a smile – one that you knew was a disguise for his lust-ridden expression. “Like, right now.”
He dusted his hands off on his coat, walking around the round table.
“Waka, what traffic? It’s 10 PM–” You began, but your witty retort was cut short as he pulled you up by your arm.
He had all but dragged you out of the restaurant.
Wakasa had to have been doing at least 30 over the speed limit the whole way home. As he maneuvered through the streets with an unusual speed for the hour, the cityscape blurred into streaks of light. The rumbling of the engine was loud, even more so from where you were seated between his legs. He had his slacks unzipped just enough for you to get your mouth around him. With one hand on the wheel, he gripped a fistful of your hair in the other.
You went at it like you were made for it. Up and down, up and down, fitting him all the way in until the head of his cock bumped the back of your throat.
You were sucking and slurping on him so lewdly that it caught you by surprise.
"Mmm, baby," he whined, glancing down with a playful smirk. "Couldn't wait 'til we got home, hm?" Gently, he pulled your hair out of your face, tucking it neatly behind your ears. Then, immediately undoing his own work, he twisted your hair around his fist and fucked your mouth.
You made a noise in response, though it was broken up by the nasty, dirty sound you made every time you gagged on his dick. You peered up at him through half-lidded eyes, through long, wispy lashes, leaving a trail of saliva running down his thighs, strings of spit trailing down his cock.
He gripped your hair a little tighter. “Mmh,” he groaned, “Shi-it.”
And you just sat back and let him use you. You knew it was wrong, you knew it was fucking filthy and deplorable. You didn’t care. You loved it.
With a shudder and a moan, he pushed your head down a little further. You gagged on it again, swallowing him down, tightening your throat around him like you were made to suck his dick.
The car swerved to the right. You felt your stomach drop. One wrong move and we could crash.
His focus shifted rapidly between the road and the dangerous display of affection unfolding beneath the dim glow of the dashboard.
He pulled you up by the roots of your hair, and you took the cue to slurp on his leaky tip. You wrapped your hands around what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, stroking, swirling, slurping – you felt like his personal whore.
The car shifted rather suddenly. You lurched to the side. Before you could remind him to keep his eyes on the road, he shoved your head down, forcing you to take him to the hilt – until your nose was pressed up against his navel, until you gagged so hard on him that your throat made a vile ‘gluck’ sound.
Only a moment later, the car began to slow down. You assumed the two of you were approaching a red light. What you hadn’t expected, however, was for the car to glide over the indentations that marked the beginning of the shoulder.
Then the car stopped.
You pulled off of him, furrowing your brows, licking your swollen lips. You struggled to catch your breath, gasping out, “Waka… Where… What happened?”
He said nothing but, instead, put the car in park. He put his chair back. Then, without so much as a kind warning, he grabbed you by the hair, pulling you up into his lap.
Immediately, he searched for your lips – pressing his against yours in a passionate, intense dance of teeth and tongue. You felt exposed like this; out in the open with nothing but some tinted windows and a few dim street lights to conceal what the two of you were doing – but not entirely opposed to it. The thought of being caught like this thrilled you.
It was rushed, it was messy, it was hot – so hot. You felt yourself burning up beneath his touch.
He smacked your ass, grunting, “Backseat, baby.”
You didn’t have to be told twice. Quickly, you climbed over him, messily stumbling over the center console and sliding into the backseat. He zipped himself up, but only for a moment, quickly throwing the door open and sliding into the backseat with you.
"You look so good t’nite," His eyes dropped to your mouth, hungry and feral. "Can’t wait any longer."
Then he pressed his lips to yours, and all of the air left your lungs. He slid his tongue against your lip, and you began to get lost in the kiss rather quickly, hands sliding up his shoulders, his neck, his chest. You straddled his waist, not even caring that the fabric of your skirt had ridden up to your waist, revealing your stark lack of underwear beneath your choice of attire.
Not that you were planning on getting lucky, of course. You know… it just… happened to work out that way.
His hand had wrapped itself around your neck when the two of you disconnected – he was being uncharacteristically rough tonight, but you didn’t have any opposition to it. Waka pressed his forehead against yours, lips hovering inches away, breath fanning over your lips.
“You’re drippin’ on me, baby,” He panted. When you looked down, you noticed that you were, in fact, dripping – having left a wet spot on his white slacks. He laughed against your lips, slightly winded, “G’nna make me fuck you on the highway. You want that?”
Yes. You wanted him. Right now, right here in the back of his expensive car.
You nodded.
“You got so wet from suckin’ me off,” He let out an airy chuckle, tired eyes peering right into the depths of your soul. Slowly, teasingly, he reached for your cunt. “No panties either, hmm? Think I’d slip right into ‘ya. Wanna try it?”
"Ngh…" You mewled. His hand around your throat was making you dizzy with desire. Still, licking your lips, you found the strength to nod.
"Dirty girl," he seethed. His thumb pressed deeper into your neck, mouth ghosting over yours. Unable to resist anymore, you rolled your hips down again… and again. He smirked against your lips, “You gonna take all of it?”
You were too shy to reply. Instead, you buried your nose in his neck, pressing hot kisses to his warm skin. The taste of his cologne lingered on your tongue. He released your neck, going for the back of your head next – taking a fistful of your hair again and pulling it taut.
You gasped, letting him pull your head back.
“I asked you a question, Mama,” He repeated himself. His tone was low, dangerous… threatening. “You gonna take it all f’me?”
“Mhm,” You whimpered, feeling him replace his large hand around your neck.
He pressed forward for another kiss, although this time there was something more passionate about it. His tongue swiftly entered your mouth, and with it came the lingering taste of chocolate cake. You welcomed it, bringing your hands up to the back of his head. His grip on your neck tightened as he tilted your head to get a better angle into your mouth. The restriction of your airway filled your mind with a blissful haze.
You wrapped your arms around him, bringing him closer, closer. His kisses were making you weak, dizzy with pleasure. Well, that and the fact that his grip on your trachea was unrelenting. When his fingers stopped digging into your skin, the air came rushing back to you.
You gasped again, and then one more time as he lifted you off of his lap.
“That’s right,” He growled. He fiddled with the zipper of his pants, sliding them back down, past his hips. Thanks to you, he didn’t have any boxers to push aside – or any need for lubricant, for that matter.
You tried your best to feel shame at the prospect of being on the side of the literal highway where anyone could see you. (Tinted windows. Something you had forgotten about.) But there was little room for doubt when he positioned his tip at your entrance and then promptly slid into you.
“Fuck!” You cried out, fingernails digging into his pale shoulders.
"You got it, baby," He growled against your lips. This was wrong. Very wrong. But the moment his tip bumped your cervix, you threw your morals out the window.
You whined, moving your hips against his. He was right there, right where he needed to be, and the blissful slide of his dick against your wet walls made your vision go white at the edges.
"No panties under that dress – achin’ to be fucked right where everyone can see you. So filthy, hm?” He immediately picked up the pace, gripping your hips to lift and slam you down on his cock. The quiet groan of 'shit' that left his lips when your hips began to meet him halfway was anything but holy. "My dirty girl."
"I'm not--" Your sentence broke off into a long, drawn out moan as he slid back inside of you. "Fu-uck. Harder!”
"Harder, baby?" He teased before swiftly pulling out of you. He brought your skirt up higher around your waist. You felt exposed and -- quite frankly -- a little nervous. Just past the rearview window, you could see the cars flying by. Then you looked back at him, and you melted a bit.
He eyed you up almost animalistically. If you didn't know any better, you would say he looked like he wanted to fucking eat you up.
He thrust his hips up sharply, snapping against your ass – pulling you down harshly in the same motion. He sheathed himself entirely in your warmth in a way that had you screaming out for him.
You cried out, feeling the table jolt with the force of his sudden thrust.
"Waka, baby!" You gasped out. Your nerves burned with the sudden sensation of him bottoming out. You struggled to accommodate his girth under such short notice, but, fuck, it felt good.
He spared no time with picking up a fast pace, hips snapping forcefully against your ass. You had no time to adjust to him, no. Instead, apparently, Wakasa had made it his mission to fuck you senseless.
"I love you," he moaned. It was like music to your fucking ears. "Fuck, I love you."
With the slick of your arousal already dripping down your thighs, there was little need for any excess lubricant. His hand tangled itself in your hair. The other was looped firmly around your waist.
"Be my girl," He purred, following your line of sight to the body-length mirror in the living room. You could just barely make out the devious expression sitting firmly on his usually emotionless features. He dropped down to grip your neck, pulling the upper half of your body up while keeping your lower half anchored to the table. "Please– be my girl, baby."
Then, if it were even possible, his thrusts became more forceful. The car jumped in tandem.
He bottomed out inside of you once more. At this angle, he found your sweet spot with every single thrust. His brutal speed was unrelenting. Eyes unfocused, your nails scratched at his shoulders, at his leather interior, searching desperately for something to grab onto while he piledrove you into oblivion.
“Say yes," he whimpered weakly. He attacked the side of your neck, teeth and lips tugging harshly on the sensitive skin. You clenched around him. Your reaction caused him to moan loudly against your neck. “Please, fuck, be my girl.”
"Yes!" you managed to get out. “I’m your girl –”
You honestly felt bad for whoever was driving by with their windows down at this point, because your moans had become a lot more similar to screams in lieu of recent events (recent events, of course, being Wakasa’s goal of ruining your chances of walking tomorrow).
He let out a pleased groan at your willingness to let him abuse the everloving shit out of your pussy. "My girl," he hummed. "My girl, only mine– fuck– I love you."
You were his girl. You had always been his girl, right from the start.
His hips stuttered. "Say it back," he growled.
You couldn't take it anymore. The pleasure was far too much to bear. It was making your mind go blank.
You bit back a moan, feeling your legs begin to tremble again with the weight of your impending release. You were close, too close to resist him. You raked your eyes up his shirtless form in the mirror, watching as his mouth parted to release a few shaky breaths. His legs shook against the back of your own. The muscles in his abdomen tensed up.
Guess I'm not the only one getting close to losing it.
"Yes! Yes!" You gasped out as he landed another smack on your thigh. "I’m your girl, fuck– yes!" His eyes met yours in a lustful daze. “Love you, Waka–”
His.
You had always been that, hadn't you? You'd simply been too blind to see it.
"Mine," He growled back in response. "No one else's."
You were getting closer now. The coil in your stomach was pulled as tight as it could go. "Mmh- yours! P-Please!"
You hadn’t cum this fast in… well, actually, maybe not. He seemed to have that effect on you.
"Cummin’" Waka shuddered. “Cummin’, baby, shit–”
The coil snapped, and your hips jolted rhythmically against him. You felt your walls clench around his dick, a sensation that made him lurch forward and reach his own orgasm.
"Fuck, baby, ‘m--" You cried out. This one hit you even harder than before, wave after wave of powerful pleasure shooting through you at the speed of light – back arching as he spilled into you.
He went for your lips again immediately after, kissing you softly while the two of you came down from your high. He kissed you breathlessly, passionately, like he would die if he stopped.
“You wanna come back to mine?” He asked. His forehead pressed against your own, his eyes glimmering with a slight hint of mischief. Above all else, though, they held promises of safety.“I can make us some dinner. I don’t want you walking home high at night, not in this neighborhood.”
“What a gentleman,” you mused. Sarcastically, of course, but not really.
“I can be whatever you want me to be tonight, dollface.” Wakasa grinned ear to ear, pressing another kiss to your sore lips. “Just say the word.”
You pulled away from him with a breathless laugh. “We did it in your backseat the first time we hooked up, too, didn’t we?”
“Mhm,” He hummed, melting back into the seat.
His cum was still warm inside of you, spilling down his dick, your thighs, his lap. You kissed him again. “And now you’re my boyfriend.”
He laughed quietly, “Bad timing?”
“A bit,” You smiled. You pulled back, drinking in the sight of him like this – blond hair wild and messy, lips swollen and parted, face dusted with a rosy hue. His lilac irises were locked onto yours like you had just fallen out of the sky. Like he worshiped you.
Then you squealed, grinning ear to ear, “We’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Boyfriend makes it sound like we’re highschool sweethearts, or somethin’,” He chuckled. He wiped the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand. Pressing a chaste kiss to the apple of your neck, he added, “You can tell all your friends that the White Leopard’s y’er man.”
“You’re my man,” You repeated. The grin on your face was bright enough to power an entire city.
He replied, “You’re my girl, yeah? Everyone’s g’nna know you’re Waka’s girl.”
You kissed his forehead. “Waka’s girl,” You hummed, snuggling into his chest. “That’s got a nice ring to it.”
a/n: aaaand we have a (surprisingly) happy ending!!! omg. it has been too long. party monster has been in the works for a little under a year now. I hope u dont mind the hiatus, I was putting off workin on this chapter because I didnt want this story to end lol.... it's been such a long road. im so grateful for every single one of u. but id like to give a special shout out to @xiedoll ... they were my first ever fan! ill never forget when u commented on my ao3, ur comments are what really inspired me to adapt this one shot into a fullfic! there are so many of you id also love to thank. @sin-and-punishment, you have been such an avid supporter! omg! so many names, I can't possibly tag them all. I actually do have a sequel plotted out for party monster, one which I may or may not publish. let me know!!! I'm gonna upload an epilogue after this, then I'm done with (book one of) party monster. thank you all for staying tuned in for my rare updates, and for being so active in the comment section. my heart goes out to each n every one of you. as always, leave your comments and thoughts below!!! let me know what you thought about the ending (for this book ;)) with love, Leo!!!
comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!
I obviously do not own tr or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.
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wanna join the taglist?| party monster! chapter index
Don’t Take It Personal
Summary: you’re a little worried about how much time Vi is spending with her new friend
Warnings: vi’s kind of a dumbass, ngl. Angst probably. R plays a sport for the plot (just vibe guys) loser!vi au
WC: 1.6k
Vi made a new friend.
That was a rare feat for her, seeing how out of the few people she considers a friend included you, her girlfriend, and Jinx, her sister.
She came home beaming after her usual workout at the gym. There was a new face she didn’t recognize and to Vi’s surprise, the friendly chat turned into a new friendship.
Her name was Caitlyn Kiramman. You knew her name, seeing the title “Kiramman” around a few buildings. Caitlyn was studying abroad for a few months, hence why Vi didn’t meet her until now. And yet, the new friendship was blossoming quickly. You didn’t mind, just happy that she managed to make more friends without you being present.
That was until Vi started hanging out with her more than you.
Srry, babe cant make it. At the gym wth Cait 💪🏻
11:23am
You frowned a bit at the recent text Vi sent you. You were at the library waiting for her for your weekly study date but when she was almost half an hour late you finally texted her. Only for your girlfriend to take a raincheck. Again.
Seeing how Vi wasn’t showing up, you still decided to stay for at least another hour; work still needed to be done with or without her. When you did decide to leave, you had to pass by the gym in order to go home. You figured Vi was still inside so you didn’t bother to linger until you heard a familiar voice.
”I’ll see you around, cupcake!”
Cupcake?
You turned to see Vi and Caitlyn leaving the large building. Vi immediately saw you and rushed over to you. Caitlyn gave you a polite wave before going her own way.
She was calling her ‘cupcake.’ You felt a little irritated at the—at your— nickname Vi called Caitlyn. Granted, ‘cupcake’ wasn’t one that was used very often, only when Vi was teasing or being purposely irritating to you. But still. It was your name.
Pushing the negative feelings aside you greeted Vi with a kiss. She smiled into it then pulled you into a tight hug, her arms almost crushing you.
”You stick, Vi,” you muttered into her neck.
A soft laugh escaped her. “You enjoy it. What are you doing here?”
”Going home. Then I saw you and…cupcake.”
”Don’t be like that,” Vi groaned, trying to play it off. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Never said you did.” You tried to change the subject, not wanting to make it a big deal. “Are you going to my game Friday or are you going to be too busy with Caitlyn. It’s the last one of the season, Vi.”
“Hey, have I ever missed a game before?” She asked rhetorically. ”But if it makes you feel better, I promise that I’ll be there.”
”Good.”
Vi then wrapped her arm around you, putting you in an almost headlock, and started walking in the direction of the same apartment. “Let’s go. I’m exhausted.”
While what Vi said did ease some of you worrying, it didn’t stay for long. For the rest of the week, Vi was still with Caitlyn. Even though you attended most of the same classes, and stayed in the same home, you only saw her in passing or for only an hour at night. And every word that came out of her mouth was about the other girl.
“I really think you’ll like Cait, she reminds me of you.”
“Caitlyn squatted 210 today! She’s catching up to me.”
”I’m sorry, baby. Cait and I made plans to see that movie. You can still come!” You hate to admit it but that comment made you pissed off more than anything.
Caitlyn, Caitlyn, Caitlyn. You haven’t even properly met the girl yet it seemed like you knew everything about her.
When Friday finally came, you just hoped Vi would pay more attention to you rather than her friend. Unfortunately, you were proven wrong.
Hey, pretty, the game is starting soon. Are you still coming?
6:37pm
Yoooo Viiii??
7:01pm
Violet, dude, where are you??
7:15pm
Your leg tapped nervously against the ground, scanning the crowd for the familiar pink haired girl, but you came up dry. In the crowd you could see Jayce, Viktor and Mel who all gave you encouraging smiles. Even Jinx showed up, sitting next to Ekko. She gave you a small shrug at your questioning glance before turning back to your phone, possibly texting her sister.
The coach got your attention, urging you to join your teammates on the court. And with a heavy, disappointed sigh, you got up from the bench. You couldn’t focus on Vi anymore, but you still hoped that she would show up sometime during the game. She did promise after all.
But throughout the game, that familiar full head of pink hair was nowhere to be seen. There was an empty spot next to Jinx that was never filled. Trying to ignore the wide open space was almost impossible, but the game was won without Vi cheering for you. Sure, the ball did slip from your hands more times than you’d like to admit, but your team won.
Your friends that did decide to show up wanted to take you out for the rest of the night, a congratulatory dinner, but you weren’t feeling it. And while Jinx doesn’t like saying the word no, she surprisingly let you go home after you refused. You really just wanted to see if or when Vi would be home.
It was nearing nine at night and Vi still hadn’t called you and your recent text went unanswered. The TV was playing a show, mostly used as background noise as your thoughts took over you.
Almost thirty minutes later, you could hear some noise coming from the hallway.
The door to the apartment opened and you could hear Vi humming a song to herself when she locked up for the night. From your spot on the couch, you saw nothing wrong with her so you were glad to know she was safe. But now she had to dig herself out of the hole she dug.
Vi actually seemed surprised to see you but the smile she gave you was instant. “Oh, hey, babe. Why are you still up?”
”Waiting for you,” you shot back, moving to get closer to her. “It’s been hours Vi, we all have been calling and texting you—“
Vi showed you her phone, a black screen staring back at you. “It died a while ago. What’s with the third degree?”
”Do you remember what day it is?”
”Um…the tenth?”
”Um, maybe it’s the day of my game that you’d promise to come to,” you mocked. Yeah, you were being petty but you thought she deserved it.
Vi muttered a small curse to herself and she looked genuinely apologetic. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I swear, I was going to come but then my phone died, and-and I was with Caitlyn and—“
A heavy sigh escaped you at the name. “Caitlyn, right yeah. That makes sense.”
A look came on Vi’s face, one you knew too well when she was about to become argumentative. “What are you talking about?”
”You’ve been spending a lot of time with her, Vi,” you pointed out. “I’ve noticed it— we all have. You’re always with her.”
”We’re friends!”
”You’re friends with Jayce but when’s the last time you’ve hung out with him since meeting Caitlyn? Is she too rich for chargers so you couldn’t check your phone for five minutes?”
Vi scoffed at you. “What, you want me to stop hanging out with Caitlyn just because you’re jealous?”
”I have nothing to be jealous of, Violet!” You yelled. “Cait’s a friend, I get that. But you have been blowing me off time and time again for her. And the one time I actually needed you, you were with her instead. How the hell do you expect me to feel?”
A short pause came from Violet. And what she said next, set your skin aflame.
”I just think you’re overreacting. It’s a fucking game, I’ll just watch the next one.”
“Okay, you know what,” you paused, running your hands over your face; it didn’t do much to calm your heated nerves. “I’m not doing this with you, right now, Vi.”
Vi’s tense posture immediately changed at the tone of your voice; it was shaky, as if you were holding back tears. You almost never cried, at least in front of her, so the new sight was worrisome. She heard you breath in harshly before continuing.
“I’m way too upset at you right now to even finish this conversation,” you said quietly to her. “I’m tired…and honestly just want some space from you.”
Vi swore her heart stopped at those words. Space? “You…Y/N, you can’t be serious.” Space was the main thing Vi hated. It meant you leaving her.
”I am, actually.” Your back was turned from her at that point so you couldn’t see her face fall in disbelief at the sight of you getting ready to leave the apartment.
She knew you made up your mind and were done hearing her but Vi still had to try. “Babe, don’t go. You’re right, is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry, alright?”
”Glad you came to your senses,” you muttered, albeit bitterly.
Vi was desperate at this point. “You don’t have to leave! I can sleep out here!”
”When I said ‘space’, Vi, I meant completely,” you said. Your voice was starting to get tense, a tell that you were getting annoyed. “My parents live a few minutes away, remember? I'll be fine.”
”Y/N please, just—“
“Vi! I’ll…talk to you eventually,” was the last thing you said before the door closed behind you.
"jealous, jealous, jealous boyy.." ft. diluc
bro was discombobulated
Hello! Apologies. I was unsure how to contact you! But for your transgender reader headcanons, what does the reader identify as? Male? Female?
male pls, sorry 4 no specify andd, can you do it angst to fluff? srry, it's my first time doing this 😫😫
Howl’s Moving Castle - Fan art by Julia Tveritina
it girl | sanzu h.
synopsis. you find sanzu after a fight at a party and end up introducing yourself and helping him patch up. turns out sanzu isn't as extroverted when it comes to speaking to girls, rindou finds out.
contains. smut, first time (sanzu's a virgin), nervous sanzu, bold reader, mentions of violence, busted lips, bruised knuckles, kantou!manji era, nude/explicit photos, oral (m), sanzu gets head for the first time, koko rindou and sanzu are best friends idc.
author's note. sanzu's so pretty but i just know that boy has never felt the touch of a woman, hence why i wrote this lmfao. call it a power move or whatever 🙄 (i wanna see more submissive sanzu honestly). fanart credits: caravaggist
“My head is fucking killing me,” Sanzu said with a pained groan. He began coughing until he started laughing, running purely on adrenaline. “I beat that fucker’s ass, didja see that?!”
“Shut up, stop being so loud.” Sanzu winced when Rindou smacked him upside the head. He looked down at his busted, bruised knuckles and cursed. “We’re so fucking dead.”
“Told you not to drink that much,” Koko sniped, gesturing with his chin over at Sanzu. “Got us into a goddamn fight.”
“Not my fault you guys are such wimps.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Koko doubled over to catch his breath, slumping against a car.
“Are you guys okay?” you called out, steadily approaching the three boys.
Your heart nearly stopped when they all turned to meet your eyes, but there was one you couldn’t take your eyes off of the most. He had green eyes and crazy pink hair tied up into a ponytail. You’d been eyeing him for the majority of the party, just small glances over at whichever end he was loudly talking at. The entire time you had been taking extra shots for courage to approach him but pussied out each time. When you were upstairs, there was loud shouting, chanting, and the sound of things breaking as a group of boys managed to get into a fight. You didn’t see the full thing, only coming down the stairs the exact moment you saw the three of them run outside, tearing down the street and around the block in record time. A quick scan of the party, you saw the pink haired guy was no longer there, so your feet went running before you could even think of what you were doing.
He was much prettier up close, an ethereal kind of beauty you rarely ever see. Not many people can rock long pink hair but he manages to make it work well.
You ran out, taking off after them. It was a miracle you found them, having guessed which direction they must’ve took off in.
“Who are you?” Kokonoi asked, looking strangely at you.
“I was at the party,” you gestured down the street, “and saw everything. Are you guys okay?” you repeated, walking a little closer to the group.
Kokonoi’s hostility dropped down a few notches and he nodded. Rindou shrugged and rolled his neck, trying to ease away the stiffness residing in his bones. Sanzu, on the other hand, just stared at you dumbfoundedly. He didn’t say a word, just stared at you with half wide eyes that only widened when you met his gaze. You held eye contact for a few seconds before looking down at his knuckles. Out of the three, Sanzu was probably the most roughed up, having done the most the entire fight and caught the most strays. His lip was busted and his knuckles were bruised.
“Oh that looks really bad. One second,” you said, pulling out a tissue from your pocket “Can I?” you asked, looking into his eyes. He doesn’t say yes or no, and Rindou isn’t even sure he’s breathing anymore. He doesn’t stop you as you hold his bruised hand and lift it up to your face for examination.
You placed the tissue onto his knuckles. “I’m sorry that happened by the way. I don’t know how it started but I’m sure you guys didn’t deserve it.”
Kokonoi snorted and Rindou elbows him roughly. “Eh it’s whatever. Bottom line is we won, so.”
“You guys shouldn’t be fighting like that though. Especially in public. The police got called and are probably on their way here.”
“Wait seriously?!” Kokonoi whipped his head up at you and you nodded. He cursed under his breath. “We better get going again. Don’t wanna have to get bailed out again.”
Again?
“True that,” Rindou agreed, dusting off his pants. His head was pounding and he might probably have a concussion, but all that didn’t matter to him. He just needed to get out of here. “Call Ran, he’ll come pick us up.”
“He’s gonna fucking kill us,” Kokonoi replied.
“Better him than Mikey.”
“But—”
You tuned out the rest of their conversation and continued dabbing Sanzu’s knuckles, who still hadn’t said a single word since you approached. You blinked up at him and removed the bag from his hand.
“Your lip is bleeding,” you announced, and he almost flinched away when your thumb rose to his lip. “Does it hurt?” He shook his head. “Can I put this on your lip?” You shook the tissue in your hand.
He nodded slowly and your smile nearly sent him straight to heaven. You pulled a water bottle from your purse and wet the tissue, pressing it on his lip and held onto his chin, tipping his head upright so you could see what you were doing better. Granted the tissue probably weren’t helping at all, but you had to work with what you had.
“This looks really painful,” you murmured, fixated on the damages done to his face. He has these two pairs of twin scars on both sides of his mouth that you think are so cute. Without thinking, you let your thumb trace the diamond outline gently. You pull the tissue away from his lip and pocket it. “Does your lip hurt?”
Sanzu shook his head and you smiled. “That’s good.”
Rindou looked over at Sanzu weirdly, wondering why the loudest person in the group was suddenly so quiet. He didn’t have time to explore that train of thought deeper because Kokonoi spoke up.
“Rin, Sanzu. Ran’s on his way now. Let’s go.” He pocketed his phone and turned to you. “Thanks for the warning about the cops by the way. Really appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem.”
A black car pulled up to the curb and the window rolled down. “You three are so fucking dead,” Ran said exasperatedly.
“As long as Mikey doesn’t find out we’re goo—” Kokonoi’s relief came crumbling down as his biggest fear came to light. The passenger seat window rolled down and Mikey’s face came into view. He didn’t look mad, honestly he didn’t look like anything. Just emotionless, but that was enough to scare the absolute shit out of Koko. “Boss, we can explain—”
“Get in the car.”
Kokonoi swallowed but obliged, his feet dragging behind him as he walked around the car to get in.
You looked back over at Sanzu who’s eyes hadn't left yours. “Guess this is goodbye. I’m (Name) by the way. What’s yours?”
Whatever reaction anyone was expecting, it wasn’t for Sanzu to completely stammer over his words, forgetting who he was, or how to form a literate sentence. “Me name? Who is—I—what, huh?”
Rindou looked at him like he grew two heads, even Mikey raised a confused brow. You pressed your lips together in a thin line to stop yourself from laughing and Sanzu’s ears burnt with humiliation. Frankly he was mortified with those being the first words he’s said to you ever. Rindou thankfully saved him from more embarrassment by grabbing the back of his collar hard.
“His name is Sanzu by the way,” he told you before dragging him towards the car, kicking him into the backseat. The door slammed shut and you watched as Rindou entered the front next to his brother and then the car pulled off, recklessly rounding the corner.
You stayed there for a minute, blinking, then smiled giddily down at the floor before making your way back to your friends inside.
~*~
“Yeah they’ve definitely got a concussion,” the nurse said, snapping her gloves off. She stepped away from the three boys at the table and handed them each plastic cups of water. “Make sure you drink plenty of water and get plenty of rest.”
“Thanks doc.” Mikey wrote her a check and she nodded, thanking him before exiting the room. He looked at the three in them in disappointment. They each had an annoying habit of crashing random parties going on in the street and getting shit faced, then turning up to work and events hungover or too exhausted. Now they have hit the final nail in the coffin by getting in a physical altercation with strangers and the police are probably looking for their asses right now.
“I have nothing to say to you three. You heard the woman, get plenty of rest,” he scolded before leaving the room.
“Who wants to bet the medical bills are coming out of our paycheck?” Rindou asked, sliding off the table. He rubbed his head exhaustedly and yawned.
“I might just have a heart attack if I see that,” Kokonoi responded, shuddering.
“That girl…” Sanzu muttered under his breath, scratching his chin.
“What?”
“That girl,” he repeated louder as if he just came to a sudden realisation, “was a fucking angel!”
“Oh. Welcome back to earth Mr. Who me is name I what?” Rindou mocked, amusement written all over his face as Sanzu rolled his eyes.
Kokonoi laughed loudly. “Oh yeah! What the fuck was that all about?”
“Shut up,” Sanzu grumbled and closed his eyes, blocking their mockery out. He tried to picture your face again behind his closed lids but the concussion was slowly getting worse and your face was starting to fade from his memory. “I need to find this girl and redeem myself. What’s her name?” he said snipply, snapping his fingers at the two boys for them to hurry up.
“Stop being a weirdo. You probably blew your chances anyway,” Rindou stated.
“Nah uh! It wasn’t that bad!”
“Who me is name I what?” Kokonoi repeated and Sanzu groaned loudly.
“Keep making fun of me whatever! But when I find her and make her my future wife I don’t want to hear shit from any of you.”
“Wow,” Kokonoi fake gasped. “You can tell your future kids the story of how you met!”
“Future wife huh?” Rindou chuckled. “So we’re just skipping past girlfriend?”
“Gotta aim big.”
Kokonoi shook his head. “That girl wants nothing to do with you.”
“Yeah? Well why did she patch me up and not you two fucking idiots then? HUH?” Sanzu gestured to his busted lip. The two boys had nothing else to say and just rolled their eyes, muttering whatever under their breath. “Exactly, shut the fuck up.”
Sanzu traced his scars with his finger. He could still feel the gentle trail of your finger on his skin and closed his eyes once more, picturing you in front of him, staring up at him with such care in your eyes as you genuinely found yourself worried at his injuries. He looked down at his knuckles, still bruised, and pictured your hand in his. He regretted not saying more to you earlier, regretted not actually having a conversation with you and telling him his injuries looked worse than they actually felt.
Sanzu stood up and Rindou called out to him. “Oi. Where the hell are you going? We’re heading back to mines.”
“I’m going back to that party to redeem myself.”
“It’s been like an hour and it’s almost three am. She’s long gone. Let it go.”
Sanzu shook his head, condescendingly clicking his tongue in a way that ground Rindou’s gears. “Don’t be jealous Rin.”
“Jealous of?”
“I got a girl that wants me for me, not my dick.”
“That’s something only a virgin would say,” Kokonoi inputs, laughing when Sanzu instantly closes his mouth. “No way, are you actually a virgin?”
“No I’m not!”
“Yes you are!”
“I’m not!”
“Who’d you lose it to?”
Sanzu scoffs. “Like anyone remembers that,”
“Okay playboy.” Rindou laughs. “I remember mine.”
“So do I,” Kokonoi high fives Rindou. The two of them look at Sanzu. “Well? What’s her name?”
“I was high. Don’t remember,” Sanzu shrugs. Rindou looks over at Koko who both equally look unimpressed. “ANYWAY! It doesn’t matter because I’m going to find that girl and redeem myself tonight.”
Kakucho enters the room. “Find what girl?”
“Redeem yourself for what?” Kokonoi asks.
Rindou laughs even louder. “Redeem himself for “Oh friend who I am what?””
Sanzu’s ears burn when Koko joins in the laughter. “Alright so just forget my question. Cool,” Kakucho rolls his eyes.
“Sanzu got us into a fight tonight and some girl helped him with his busted lip and now he thinks he’s in love.”
“I don’t think—”
“We know,” Kokonoi interrupts.
Sanzu shoots him a glare. “If you’d let me finish,” he says snarkily. “I don’t think I'm in love. I know I am.”
“In love with a girl you don’t even know the name of?” Kakucho asks hesitantly. He should be used to this by now honestly, it's not the first time Sanzu got hyper fixated over something, except in this case it's someone. In actuality, he should be worried for this girl, knowing how obsessive Sanzu gets at times. Picturing the boy in a relationship was something Kakucho just could not do no matter how hard he tries.
“I’ll find her name. You forget who I am and what I do in this goddamn organisation?”
“Aside from dragging us to useless parties and getting us involved in unnecessary fights?” Rindou asked.
“You had fun tonight, stop acting like you hated it that bad,” Sanzu complained.
“What did this girl look like?” Kakucho asks.
Sanzu describes your appearance from your height all the way down to your eye colour, recounting to his friends every single detail he managed to observe about you the entire time he spent staring at you. They all looked at him with concern. Sanzu noticed their glare and shrugged. “What?”
“Surprised you didn’t count every single lash of hers honestly,” Kokonoi rubbed his forehead exhaustedly when his head pounded again. “This headache is killing me. Gonna head home.”
They all said goodbye and waited for him to leave the room.
“I think I know the girl,” Kakucho said, recounting the horrifying moment of Sanzu describing you in as much detail as possible.
“WHAT?!” Sanzu exclaimed far too loudly for his head and Rindou’s to handle, a sharp pain shooting their heads. “Ah fuck,” he groaned, rubbing his head.
“Are you serious?” Rindou asked, looking at Kakucho who nodded.
“Yeah. Someone like that lives on my floor. I see her leaving every morning.”
“To Kakucho’s we go!” Sanzu grinned, grabbing the younger boy's hand and dragging him outside. Rindou reluctantly follows behind them, wanting to see where this situation was heading.
Kakucho ended up being right, and when they entered the lobby of his apartment, they saw you collecting your mail. Sanzu’s feet felt frozen to the floor as he just stared at your side profile. He almost had a stroke when you turned to face in his direction, and he swore you were looking directly at him when you broke out into a smile, waving your hand.
“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while,” you said and Sanzu was confused. It’s only been a few hours, hasn’t it?
You were walking and he stood up a little straight when it looked like you were heading towards his direction, only for his heart to do a complete 360 when you hugged Kakucho instead. It wasn’t an affectionate hug, both your hands barely lingered on each other’s body, just an awkward side hug that lasted barely 2 seconds.
“Yeah, you know. I’ve been busy with work and stuff.”
“Ah cool cool. I’ve been collecting your mail though.” You handed him his mail. He thanked you and held them under his arm.
You looked at two boys next to them and then gasped. “Oh its you!” You pointed between Sanzu and Rindou, who only nodded, asking how you’ve been. Sanzu was frozen again as you and Rindou gave each other basic small talk, only breaking out of his stupor when Rindou elbowed him hard in the stomach.
You bit down a laugh when you saw Sanzu clutch onto his stomach in pain. “Oh my god, are you alright?” Sanzu could hear the laugh in your voice, but didn’t feel offended the slightest.
“I’m good, yeah. Just distracted.”
“Oh. Am I boring you?”
He was too scared of the fact you thought that about him to notice the playful hint in your voice. “No! Not at all. I just have a concussion that's all.”
“No way. Does it hurt? Are you okay?” You hesitantly lift your hand up and press it on his forehead which is burning up. “You need to get some sleep right now.”
“It’s too late to drive right now.” Kakucho says. “You two can just sleep at mine.”
“Only if I get your bed,” Sanzu adds.
“Fuck that. Sleep on the couch.”
“But I’m concussed.”
“And who’s goddamn fault is that?”
Sanzu rolled his eyes. Kakucho sighed. “Fine. You can get the bed.”
“Let’s fucking go,” Sanzu grinned and started heading towards the elevator. The other two boys followed them and Kakucho looked behind at you.
“You coming?”
Sanzu pressed the button and turned to look at you and Kakucho as you shook your head. “No, I'm heading back out.”
“Right now?” Kakucho says and looks at his watch, “It’s almost 4 am?”
“I know,” you sigh exhaustedly. “My friend, well kinda friend, I guess wants me to come to his house. Just got his text a few minutes ago.”
“At this hour?” Kaku says sceptically.
“So a booty call?” Rindou says and gets elbowed by Kakucho, telling him to mind his business.
You laugh. “I guess if that's what you want to call it. I don’t sleep with him, he just uses me to impress his friends it feels like.” Your eyes slide over to Sanzu who has a scowl on his face and looks away almost immediately after you make eye contact. “I don’t wanna do it but he scares me so I feel like I have to.”
“What’s his name?” Kakucho asks.
“Why? You gonna hurt him?” you ask back. Though you and Kakucho are only neighbours at best, you’re well aware of what he does and his reputation around town. The Brawler is his nickname, or was, back when he was in Tenjiku. But you didn’t know what his role or job entailed, all you knew he was in some shady shit and you wanted no part of it.
“Depends if I know the guy or not.”
You roll your eyes. “His name is Osanai.”
“Wait a minute,” Rindou says, “Is he tall? Smokes all the time, blonde hair? Kinda tan?”
“Yeah…” you say slowly, sceptically, “how’d you know?”
“We’ve actually been kinda looking for that guy. Mikey wanted to see him, didn't he?” Rindou asks Kakucho who shrugs and points over to Sanzu who’s been awfully quiet the entire time. “Didn’t he?” Rindou asks Sanzu again.
“Oh. Yes he has.” He looks up and meets your gaze one more time before looking away.
“Where’s he at?” Rindou asks, approaching you.
“I dunno probably his house?”
“Okay but where genius.”
You give him Osanai’s address and he starts heading outside. “Wait! Don’t kill him or something.”
“Why do you care what we do? Doesn’t he scare you?”
“I mean yes but that doesnt mean I want him dead…”
Kakucho sighs. “Sanzu wait here with (y/n), me and Rindou will sort this out.”
Sanzu instantly looks at Kakucho. “Wait—”
“Just do it,” Rindou snickers before the two of them leave. Sanzu watches them go with a betrayed look on his face, already thinking of 101 different ways to kill Rindou once he got back home. You look up at Sanzu and smile at him.
“So…you can go home if you want. I don't need a babysitter.”
“No it's fine I'll uh wait here.”
“We can go back to mine?” you ask a little hopeful.
Sanzu opens his mouth to speak but the words can't seem to come out. He resorts to nodding and you smile, taking his hand in yours and walking up to your apartment.
~*~
Three hours in and you’ve been binging shitty movies together, laughing at the bad plot and horribly written characters. When you first saw Sanzu at the party, he was outgoing and the life of the room honestly. Maybe your opinion is a bit biased because you were focused on nothing but him, but he had this energy that attracted you to him. Now, in front of you, he’s nothing like he was a few hours ago, he seems shy and reserved, keeping to himself but he’s still funny and cracks a few jokes that make you cackle every now and then.
“Wait you got a little, i’ll get it for you,” you say, cupping his chin and turning his face to you. He watches you with wide eyes as your thumb comes up to his lip and wipes some tomato sauce off. you make continuous eye contact with him as you bring your thumb to your mouth and lick the sauce off the tip. Then, you almost give the guy a heart attack when you go back in with your wet thumb and wipe the remnants of the sauce on the corner of his mouth.
His pizza flops in his hand and something else rises in his pants as you pull back, sitting reasonably closer than you did before, resting your head on his shoulder, continuing to watch the movie. It’s hard for him to even focus on the TV with you sitting this close to him right now. He can smell your shampoo, your perfume, can feel your body heat warming him up and he’s actually going to pass out if you continue clinging to his arm like that. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat a little, hoping his boner goes down and praying you don’t see it.
Just to be on the safe side, he nonchalantly grabs a couch cushion and places it on his lap, claiming he's cold. You don’t buy it one bit but only smirk at the hidden implications. You let out a fake yawn and shift even closer to him, bringing your feet onto the couch, shifting into a lying position.
You look up at Sanzu and smile slightly. “Is this okay with you?” you ask, batting your eyes at him.
“Y-yea. It's fine. cool.” He swallows thickly and turns to look back at the TV.
The cushion gets in the way and you click your tongue, sitting upright and almost bashing him in the jaw with your head. You toss the cushion away and Sanzu's about to protest before you lay back down, your head only inches away from his crotch. His erection was going down slowly but now it might as well sprung back up.
“Oh wait a second,” you said, sitting upright and Sanzu almost panicked when you pointed down at his crotch. “You okay?”
“I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it's fine,” you laugh. “These things are uncontrollable, I know.” Sanzu sighs in relief. “Do you need any help?” you ask and he blinks at you.
“What?”
“Nevermind,” you clear your throat. “That was a dumb question.”
“No wait!” he says abruptly, making you jump. “I mean, yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“Really?” you perk up a little.
“Yeah I guess.”
You move to sit next to him, your head only inches away from his. “This is gonna sound a bit creepy but,” your eyes drop to his lips, “I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” you say absentmindedly, distracted as you ran your finger over his scars. “Thought you were so pretty.”
“Pretty…?”
“Yeah, you’re really pretty Sanzu.”
He bites his lip, fighting the urge to look away from your intense eyes in the dark. You’re leaning in closer and his eyes close and then he feels your lips pressing against his. It starts off with short pecks that linger a little too long before you're actively moving your lips against his. Your hand cups his face and you pull him closer, sucking on his lips and entering your tongue into his mouth. He moans softly when your fingers find their way to his hair, scratching gently at his scalp.
You pull away and plaster kisses to his neck, gently pushing him down onto the couch, your body basically straddling him as you kiss down his throat.
His body feels hot and he can't focus anywhere but your lips going down his body. Your fingers grab the seam of his shirt and your lips tickle against his skin as you mutter, “Take this off.”
He obediently does as he’s told and lifts his arms up as you help him remove the shirt. You toss it on the other couch and sit upright to examine his chest. His abs were faint but visibly and you bit your lip, running your finger along his chest.
He stares up at you as you look distracted at the sight of his bare chest. You make eye contact and smirk a little before lifting your shirt up and over your head. His eyes go wide at the sight of you in your bra. You go back down and kiss down his stomach, fingers moving to unzip his jeans and pull them down.
“Wait wait wait!” You freeze and look up at the boy in front of you, tilting your head in confusion. He swallows thickly. “I haven't…done this before.”
Your eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”
“Shocking, I know.”
“Oh. It really is. I thought girls would be all over a guy like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said before, you’re really pretty Sanzu.” He instantly looks away and you laugh. “You’re shyer than I expected Sanzu. At the party you were really loud and stuff, I didn't expect this. It’s cute.”
“I’m not shy.”
“You said less than 100 words to me tonight and we’ve been hanging out for almost four hours.”
“...”
You laugh and sit upright, leaning back in to kiss him. “Do you still want me to…” Your fingers trail down his body, rubbing the outline of his cock in his briefs.
“If you want to.”
“I obviously do, that's why I'm asking you.”
“Sure then.”
You give him one last kiss before settling back between his lips. His cock has never felt more sensitive than in this moment when your fingers wrap around his cock, pulling it free from his boxers. It stands tall against your face and you lick the tip, not ceasing eye contact. He feels obligated to watch you suck his cock and desperately wants to look away because he knows he will bust in less than ten seconds if you keep staring at him like that.
You take him in your mouth and he moans so loudly, the sound soft and heavenly. You smile around him and begin to suction your cheeks as you take him lower. Your tongue swirled around his shaft every time you bobbed. He was throbbing inside you, your heavy eye contact and warm mouth making him grow harder.
He finally broke the eye contact to throw his head back, a long groan of “fuccccckkkkkkk,” leaving his mouth as he placed his hand on your head, bobbing you up and down. You moaned when his hips bucked up into you.
You pull off his cock and jerk him off, his words dying in his throat when he feels your tongue lick his balls, sucking gently on them.
He sits up and holds the back of your head, his fingers digging into your scalp as he pants heavily. Your eyes squeeze shut as you focus on pleasuring him, putting your mouth back onto his cock and taking him deeper than you did before, your fingers gently massaging his balls.
“I’m gonna—fuck, i’m coming,” he groans and without warning holds the back of your head, pressing you down and came inside your throat.
Honestly you were shocked he lasted this long. Your body felt so warm and hot hearing his pretty moans, and the sight of him with his mouth open, head thrown back was something you’d never forget. His grip on your head ceased and you pulled off his cock, eyes teary and watery and mouth full of cum.
“Oh shit,” he mutters, watching you take a minute before swallowing. His dick twitches again. Without thinking, his thumb comes up to the corner of your lip and wipes a stray drop of cum. Before he can remove his thumb, your head turns and you suck the tip of it. “You’re actually trying to kill me, aren’t you,” he groans and you giggle around his thumb.
“Are you a virgin too if you’d never gotten head before?”
He nods shamefully and you can’t help but kiss him again. “Want me to take it?” you ask, forehead resting against his.
He blinks at you before not-so-subtly dropping his eyes down to your cleavage. “yeah.”
You grin and push him back down onto his back, slipping off the couch. He watches you strip down naked, your bra and panties are tossed to the opposite couch. Thanks to the help of the tv, your body is still a shadow but the outline of your body makes him instantly hard again. You climb back on top of him.
His hands migrate to your hips, and with absolutely zero confidence with what he’s doing, his hand slides towards your clit and you gasp when his thumb snakes its way to your folds. “You’re really wet.”
You squirm, slightly embarrassed but bite your lip, amusement in your voice as you say, “Yeah…that’s supposed to happen.”
“I know that,” he grumbles, still rubbing your clit in circles, wetting his fingers with your arousal. “I’m not an idiot.”
He pulls his hand away and you grab his wrist, guiding his finger into his mouth, watching him suck your juices off his fingers. “God that’s hot,” you pull his fingers out and lean back down to kiss him.
“I'm going to get condoms,” you say against his lips before pulling away. He nods and watches you head down the hallway when his phone buzzes.
rindou: we found osanai so we’re heading back right now
sanzu: hell no just go home
rindou: ???? walk home then tf
sanzu: don't think that's an issue honestly think i might be sleeping over if you know what i mean ;)
rindou: what? you’re getting laid? YEAH RIGHT
sanzu: IM NOT LYING
rindou: i never once ever in my entire life found you funny but you’re telling some good jokes right now
sanzu: 1) im always funny, 2) im serious. i would send you proof but then you’d see my dick and thats gross
rindou: would rather bleach my eyeballs honestly. you could barely look this girl in the eye and you really expect me to believe you’re fucking her?
“I’m back!” you call out making sanzu jump. “What’re you doing on your phone?” you ask, snatching it from his hands and reading the messages.
It’s a miracle it’s dark right now because Sanzu doesn’t know what he’ll do if you saw him blushing from embarrassment right now.
“He’s fucking rude. Why doesn’t he believe you?” you huff, handing him his phone back before your face lights up. “Wanna show him?”
“Show him what…” He hopes you’re not heading in the direction you’re so obviously going.
“You know what I mean, c’mere.” You sit back against the couch and pull up the camera app on his phone. You hold the phone out in front of you, “Stick your tongue out.”
He does so and you stick yours out also, just barely grazing his as you snap a bunch of pictures. You take a couple more in different poses, putting your lips in a kissy face and kissing his cheek, his lips and resting your forehead against his as you smile at the camera.
You sit upright and scroll through the photos, smiling at each of them. “Send these to me after yeah.” You toss the phone behind you and rip open the condom. You reach behind you and slip it easily down his shaft before aligning it with your pussy. “Ready?”
“Yeah…” The tip nudges your clit before slipping inside, warm heat instantly engulfing the tip of his cock and his mouth falls open, panting breathily as you continue sinking downwards, watching the pleasured look on your face as your pussy squelches trying to accommodate his entire length.
“Oh fuck,” you whimper, fixing your hands onto his chest for support. You bounce experimentally, ripping another moan from your throat it sinks you a little lower.
“Shit, shit—wait,” He digs his nails into the fat of your ass cushioned against his thighs.
“Sanzu,” you moan, collapsing down onto his chest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He can hear your breathy pants beside his ear, sending shivers down his spine.
“You feel so fucking good,” He huffs against your ear and you sit upright, pushing your arms behind you to his knees and start swiveling your hips in circles that turn to full on bouncing on his cock.
His eyes are focused on your tits that swing in motion with your movements and he can’t help but lift you up and down on his cock. “Fuck,” He gropes and squeezes your cheeks as you whimper, clenching around his cock with every bounce.
“Touch me please,” you whimper, looking down at him, grabbing one of his hands and bringing them up to your tits. He squeezes it and runs his thumb along your nipple, sending ripples of pleasure through your body, giving you more motivation to continue bouncing.
“Wait, slow down— oh fuck.” His body was tense, and you were sure he was leaving fingernail shaped dent marks on your hip with how tight his grip was. His cock felt so good, having a slight tilt to it that hit that spot no other guy had been able to reach. You couldn’t stop bouncing, his words falling on deaf ears.
“Wait wait wait stop,” he gasped, his grip getting tighter, bringing you to a stop. Wasting no time, you lean back down and begin kissing along his jaw as he catches his breath, impatiently wiggling your hips just to feel something. “I just came,” he admitted.
You froze and shot up, looking down at him. “For real?” he nodded, wiping a shameful hand over his face. “That's so cute,” you giggle and kiss him.
You lifted yourself up and off his cock and laid down on top of him. “Did you like it?” you ask, tracing your finger along his chest.
“Yeah, it felt so good.”
“Yay,” you smiled bashfully.
“You didn’t finish though.”
“Eh it's not a big deal. I wanted to make you feel good.”
“Still though…” he mutters, pouting at the fact he didn’t make you feel as good as he felt.
His phone buzzed and he sat upright to grab it.
rindou: having fun loverboy??? u busy humping her pillow to text me back? asshole
Sanzu scoffs and you lean your head against his shoulder and read the messages. “Send him the photos.”
He turns to look at you, your lips almost brushing against his in the process. “You sure? You’re kinda naked in them.”
“I don't really care. It’s just a boob. You can crop it out if you’re that worried.”
“Okay…” He crops your chest out of the photo and stares down at the photos once more. He's never deleting these. He sends three different photos to Rindou, not even bothering to caption them and turns his phone off, waiting for his response.
“Oh wait! Gimme your phone!” You hold your hand out as he hands it to you.
“What’re you doing?”
“Adding my number,” you hum and add your number to his contacts, adding a heart after his name. You’re never usually this forward, but you knew you wanted Sanzu from the moment you saw him, and you weren’t going to let him slip away. “Call me when you get home. okay?” Your forehead brushes against his and your eyes dart down to his lips, fighting the urge to kiss them.
“Okay.”
You give into temptation and kiss him slowly. Your thumbs traced along his jawline as you hum, almost lazily enticing your tongue with his. His hands ran teasingly along your body, cupping your ass and pulling you back on top of him.
The doorbell rang and you sat upright, cursing under your breath. “I’ll get it.” You press one more kiss to his lips and slip off the couch to re-dress. Your shirt was backwards and your pants were inside out, but you didn’t care as you answered the door with a cheery, “yes?”
Kakucho rubbed his forehead with a world heavy sigh and you instantly felt all colour drain from your face. He was with Rindou and probably saw the photos. “How can I help you Kaku?”
“Just…just tell Sanzu to come on, let’s go.”
Sanzu appears behind you,redressed, and gives you a hug goodbye, his arms lingering around your form for much longer than Kakucho considered friendly. You pull away and whisper in his ear for him to call you when he gets home. He nods and you plant another kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Sanzu is about to deepen the kiss before Kakucho grabs him by the back of his shirt and tugs him out of your apartment.
their s/o is the dendro archon! (vol. 2)
pairings (separately!) - kaeya alberich, scaramouche, dainsleif x gender neutral reader
word count - 15,671
genre - fluff, angst with comfort, suggestive
format - hcs + blurbs
warnings - crying, yelling, slight gore and harm (wounds, blood mention), skinship, [insults, semi nudity (scara in his boxers and nothing sexual implied about it), reader is addressed as "lilium" (a codename) for half of scaramouche's, and wearing jewelry in scaramouche's], spoilers for kaeya and dain's backstories, suggestive lines and actions in kaeya's
summary - you just happen to be the dendro archon, no big deal to him, right?
a/n - woohoo!! volume two is here with my beloved <3, my beloved: the sequel <3, and my beloved: the ultimate triquel <3, (aka kaeya, scara, and dain LOL). hope you enjoy! (scara's is loooooong bc plot go brrr, just a fair warning!)
disclaimer - i literally know nothing about the dendro archon or how the dendro element works asides from the fact that it's susceptible to pyro PFBFBT- so this is my interpretation of what both the personality of the dendro archon, their powers and the dendro element itself could be like! (this was also made and written BEFORE the actual canon release of the dendro archon!)
VOLUME ONE | ALBEDO, XIAO, AND KAZUHA
kaeya assumed you were just like any other gardener he'd ever met with the exception that you sold some of the most beautiful flowers in all of teyvat
diplomats from nearby fontaine, liyue, and once even an emissary from inazuma have all stopped by the city of freedom to purchase your lush blooms
what initially got his attention was your kind nature and sweet gestures
no child would ever walk past you and not receive a special flower to don in their breastpocket or hair complete with a radiant smile from you
kaeya would often saunter up to your little trolley of flowers, eyeing the vibrant verdant vision that swung from your hips, and purchase a single blue rose
he'd then place it behind your ear, complete with his signature charming grin and a "you look good in blue, doll" before leaving with a skip in his step
naturally, he charms his way into your life and soon you find yourself donning the title of "the cavalry captain's lover", and it's a title you adore ever so much
kaeya is naturally observant, and while seeing you work with your vision he can't help but pick up on some of the oddities that occur when you're requested to appraise lands or help farmers with their crops
he's aware that the capabilities of a vision bearer are unique to each individual, but there's something odd about your ability to bring forth an entire field of flowers, or nourish a perished tree back to life with a single kiss to its trunk (he once even caught sight of you bringing an entire nursery of dead flowers back to life with a single wave of your hand)
his trust in you begins to waver, and you'll have to take the reigns back into your hands to let him know that you aren't trying to deceive him
of course, you may have your apprehensions given that he's told you of his origins, but it's worth taking the risk instead of being dishonest with him and losing him forever
(scenario + more utc!)
"kaeya, my darling," you gently cooed to the figure standing in the doorway of your bedroom, "come here, let me see your face."
for once, kaeya offered no rebuttal and obediently sat by your side at the edge of the bed. that easy smile on your lips never faltered despite the obvious conflicting emotions that swirled in his eyes.
"are you okay?" you slipped your hands into his and thumbed the back of his knuckles, voice barely above a whisper.
his laugh was laced with ice and lacked its usual charming mirth. "you tell me, dollface?" though a smile weaved itself onto his lips, his eye was devoid of any joy. your easy smile began to falter.
defeated, you sighed and pressed your lips against his cheek as a peace offering. "i'm no mind reader, but i understand what's bothering you. so please, let me explain."
a simple nod of his head gave you all the permission you needed. "i am...not who you think i am," you paused, tongue searching for the right words. you rose your hand and unfurled your fingers, revealing a tiny, delicate green item that looked similar to a chess piece. it thrummed with life and pulsed gently, glowing a gentle, fern green. tiny, white flowers climbed up the sides of the object and wrapped around its base.
his eye wasn't meeting you, blown open in shock he could only stare at the rotating gnosis that floated in your hand.
"i'm the dendro archon."
somehow those four words managed to explain it all: the seemingly omnipotent power and ridiculous strength you carried all while maintaining an air of eloquence. it made so much more sense. the air around you dropped in temperature, icy particles bit at your skin and for once that periwinkle eye bathed in light that you loved so much and the tingles of his signature laugh felt void of life.
"when were you going to tell me? or, perhaps you were just going to keep it a secret had i not been onto you?" a wry grin didn't suit that beautiful face of his, you thought.
"kaeya-"
you were cut off by maniacal laughter, devoid of humor or even the slightest bit of emotion. you almost didn't recognize the man in front of you, whose laugh felt empty and hollow. his visible eye lacked its usual charming glow, and instead an icy cavern took its place.
"to think- that i had finally come across a miracle, only for you to be an archon? fate truly despises me, when will celestia be done taunting me?" with an almost defeated smile, kaeya looked up towards the ceiling with a shaky sigh. you felt your heart break.
he stood up from the bed and held his head in his hands, threading his fingers through his once neatly combed locks. his chest heaved with strangled breaths as he recalled the one thing that his father had engraved into his minds: the gods are not to be trusted.
you refused to let him slip away like this, not with how his hands shook or how his breath began to labor with each intake of air despite the fragile smile of disbelief on his face. before he could turn to leave, you rushed from the bed and flung your arms around his torso, squeezing with all the strength you had.
no matter how hard he pried and tried to get you off of him, you held on for dear life.
"i tried...so hard to protect them, kaeya. khaenri'ah is- was a beautiful nation." between sputters of sobs, you clutched the fabric of his shirt and prayed that he'd hear you out. tears rolled down the valleys of your face, but you made no move to swipe them away. "but the other gods...they wouldn't listen to me. dendro isn't a powerful element, i heal not destroy. and i was consequently looked down upon," you paused to move your hands from his waist to cup his face, stained with crystal clear tears, "i promise you, i tried with everything i had to protect them. but it wasn't enough, and i let them all perish because i was too weak-"
you tried to explain further only to be cut off by the bubble of sobs that escaped your throat, remembering the bloodied faces of the scared khaenri'ahan children you'd failed to protect and the looks of horror upon the faces of each and every citizen of khaenri'ah, watching as the gods descended upon them with murderous intent and slayed their children and elderly.
his heart pinched in his chest as you fell apart in his hands. kaeya moved his arms to hold you up against him once you began to sway and allowed you to press your tear covered face into the crook of his neck.
"h-hey now easy there, calm down." he whispered, though his own hands were shaking with fervor. you clung to him with all that you had and hiccupped into his skin as he rubbed his hand up and down your back to soothe your cries.
much to his surprise, little yellow flowers on a thin, green vine began to bloom from your body: taking root in your hair, encircling your neck and wrists, wrapping themselves like thin, wiry snakes around your entire body. the vine had come up to where his hand lay on your back and gently wrapped itself around his index finger.
"are you doing this?" he pried your face away from his neck and held up his index finger with a weak smile.
you felt your face heat up with embarrassment quickly wavingyour fingers so the flowers that surrounded your body faded into nothing but shimmering particles. "s-sorry...when my emotions get out of control that just happens sometimes."
the little yellow flower on his finger remained intact however, and his observant eye scanned it over in great detail. "the common rue flower..." he recalled staring into albedo's "great big book of flowers" as klee has called it, and reading the description of the symbolism behind the little yellow flower. his heart clenched and pounded in his stomach as you stared up at him with wide, watery eyes, still fearful of rejection.
the give of his heart was strong and elastic and it was more malleable than ever as he drew you into his arms and squeezed your body against his, gripping onto the little yellow rue in his fist.
"i'm sorry, darling. i shouldn't have gotten mad at you like that. not when you tried to help." he finalized his words with a kiss to your wet cheek, only for you to vigorously shake your head.
"no, no, i'm sorry for not being honest with you from the beginning." kaeya chuckled faintly and pulled you away from his body, holding your chin between his index and thumb fingers.
"i suppose now i can check "seducing an archon" off the bucket list, huh?" the playful lilt of his voice had returned, and so had the gentleness in his eye. you missed him, but you said so with a kiss to his lips rather than with the words caught in your throat.
after your talk and reconciliation, kaeya feels like a weight's been lifted off his chest
you couldn't help but agree: he doesn't have to keep his lingering resentment for the gods under wraps now, and you don't have to hide the fact that you're an archon anymore
though you can't help but wish you had gotten to kaeya first before the tsaritsa did
he laments that his vision was of ice: cold, immovable, stagnant, and akin to death
whereas your vision bloomed with life and held the capacity to heal and birth new possibilities
it makes you wish you had given him a vision before the tsaritsa had, but alas
once you learned of how he received it, part of you was relieved to know that he had the power of cryo to protect him because archons knows that a dendro vision would hardly suffice against pyro
he often drunkenly mused over the irony of your relationship: a khaenri'ahan descendant mixing with an archon of all people
his ancestors must have been rolling in their graves at the news
kaeya often thinks about his homeland, and you let him in on the secret that not a second goes by where you aren't haunted by the looks of horror of the khaenri'ahan citizens, to which he responded with a tight hug and a promise to stay by your side for as long as he could
kaeya additionally becomes more interested in your powers and how your emotions affect them
you have a tendency to produce flowers that hold the meaning of your emotions when intense
and boy does he get a kick out of it when a loving remark or sultry gaze ends up with you covered in wine red roses and carnations imbued with what looked like starlight
of course, he'll make up for his teasing with tons of cuddles and kisses!
"darling? have you seen my scarf?" kaeya popped his head into the doorway of your shared bedroom, only to find you sitting at his work desk, fluffy scarf in hand. you caught his eye once he announced his presence and gave him your best smile.
"right here," you cheekily lifted up the scarf, "just adding some details to it, i hope that's okay."
"oho? details like?" he sauntered over and kissed the top of your head, leaning one arm on the rim of the chair as he tried to get a peek at your handiwork. unluckily for him, with a wave of your hand a leafy vine gently wrapped itself around his visible eye, blocking his view.
"aw c'mon, sweetheart, i thought we agreed on not using your vision on me!" he teased, raising a hand to peel away the thick leaf from his eye, but you caught his wrist before he could proceed any further.
"nuh uh, no peeping yet, mister." kaeya could only cede with a short laugh and kissed the knuckle that held his wrist.
with a few swishes of a sewing needle, you finally declared his scarf, "finished!"
with a snap of your fingers, the leafy vine dissolved into particles and his eye finally came to rest upon his signature fur scarf snug in your hands.
miniature, royal blue roses had been imbued into the fabric of the fur and sprinkled all the way down to the end. the fur itself had been combed and washed and felt like new in his hands. "darling, you did all this for me?" he couldn't stop the grin from forming on his face as he leaned down to capture your lips in his as thanks.
"nope, clearly i was about to wrap it up all nice and pretty and take it as a gift to master diluc." you stuck your tongue out and looped the scarf around his neck, pulling him down closer to sneak a breathless kiss against his lips that had him gripping the arm of the chair for stability.
"ha ha, very funny, sweetheart." the bass of his voice purred against the shell of your ear once he pulled away, followed by a complimentary kaeya-esque grin full of wolfish charm.
"oh! and look!" gleefully, you shrugged off your coat, revealing a shirt tinted pale blue that hugged your body. the shoulders were lined with the same miniature blue roses and gleamed in the early morning light as if it were weaved from stars.
"i made a shirt for myself, so we can match! what do you think?" you beamed as you stood up, making sure to show off the little blue roses that decorated the fabric.
kaeya took your hand, whistled behind a sugary smile, and spun you around once to get a good look before drawing you flush against his chest and bringing his lips down to hover over your ear to whisper, "lovely, and it'd look even lovelier if it were on the floor," you felt your cheeks grow warm and plunged your face into the crook of his neck. kaeya huffed, an amused glint in his eye, gripped your chin to pull you away from his shoulder, and punctuated his words with a heated kiss against your lips that had your knees buckling. the sultry lilt of his voice and hot fan of his breath was enough to have you weak in his arms, ravaged by his kisses.
preoccupied with the taste of your lips on his, he hadn't noticed the slight poke of a rose thorn against his forearms, mistaking it for your nails. it wasn't until it sunk into his flesh hard enough to draw blood that he pulled away from your mouth and gawked at the sight before him.
glazed over with pure adoration, your eyes bore into his soul and reached within the depths of his heart to draw forth the pulsating affection from deep within. your breaths were heavy and heated, making up for the lack of air he had taken away from you. but, more importantly, tangles of deep, wine red roses and ruby carnations had burst forth from your body and nestled themselves into your locks. thick, green vines that held the roses and carnations wrapped around your torso and arms, and had snaked up to kaeya's body. the thorny talons of the rose had dug into his arm and produced a thin, stream of blood that ran down his skin towards his wrist.
"well," he started with a chuckle and plucked one of the roses from your hair, "this is most interesting. roses and carnations, hm? i wasn't aware you were so charmed with me, dove." he maintained eye contact all while that silver tongue of his got to work licking a single stripe up the side of his forearm where the thin stream of blood had appeared.
you tried to find the right words to speak, but to no avail. still too flustered, you opted to hastily brush the flowers out of your hair and from around your body dissolving into nothing but particles, only for new ones to immediately take their place, blooming out of thin air. upon seeing your frustrated pout and eyes that burned with adoration and hints of embarrassment, kaeya took it upon himself to draw you in by your waist and brush the rose he had plucked from your hair against the line of your jaw.
"you, my darling, are absolutely irresistible. adorable." between the two adjectives, he punctuated a kiss on either side of your cheek before settling on your nose. his heart melted when your nose scrunched up cutely upon impact.
you groaned out of embarrassment into the skin of his neck, opting to hide your flushed face. the flowers in your hair and around your body thrummed with life and burst forth in greater numbers when kaeya decided to run his baked palms up your sides and press one more loving kiss to your lips.
"i still wanna see that shirt come off though, we got time."
"kaeya!"
the fact that you're the dendro archon changes very little about your relationship with kaeya
he might have been hostile upon first finding out, but he knows that you were never truly at fault for what happened to his people
and, consequently, what happened to him
you're (y/n) to him, just (y/n) who happens to be a dendro vision holder
and you're the (y/n) that he loves with all his heart and would do anything for
despite the fact that he's already won your heart over, he'll still stop by your flower cart, purchase a blue rose, and stick it behind your ear followed by a flurry of kisses to your cheek and one big, tight, kaeya-esque hug
if you ask him why he keeps doing it, "to show that you're mine," will be his answer
and the way that he treasures the embroidered fur scarf you gave him is enough to show that he wants other people to know who he belongs to as well
when news that the dendro archon had gone into hiding reached the ears of the tsaritsa, least to say she was mildly irate
if you can count mild as sending chunks of ice hurling through the large windows of zapolyarny palace, that is
but fear not! for her most resourceful (and possibly strongest) harbinger was at her service the moment she summoned for him
scaramouche, upon being given the task of retrieving the dendro archon's gnosis, wasn't thrilled to say the least
dendro was arguably among the weaker of the elements, he'd have no fun taking such a valuable item from a being who controlled such a fickle substance
yet, he wasn't one to disobey her majesty's orders, and set off for sumeru to investigate
thankfully, he had your aid to assist him
you were a wandering informant scaramouche had met once in a brothel near the borders of mondstat and fontaine when you had managed to stop a scuffle between some fatui agents under his control and the brothel manager with your words and calm attitude
scaramouche came to respect your courage and you, his strength
you introduced yourself under the codename lilium with a warm smile
there isn't much he knows about you, other than you sell information and travel the lands. that, and you wielded a dendro vision.
in exchange for information, you only asked that a single stem of a flower be given in return (though scaramouche doesn't particularly care for this rule of yours and scoffed upon first hearing it)
scaramouche is reluctant to head to you for information given that he'd rather adorn the position of a lone wolf, but he'd get nowhere by being stubborn
you didn't flinch in the slightest when scaramouche, draped in a black hooded cloak and void of his signature hat, threw a battered weed, roots and all, onto your corner table and slammed his palm down onto the wood. the rest of the patrons in the sumeren tavern minded their business, much to his pleasure.
"tell me all you know about the whereabouts of the dendro archon." he muttered in a low voice.
you hummed, took a delicate sip from your glass of wolfhook juice, and scooped the piece of grass (which looked like he'd uprooted it whole with his fist) to inspect it.
"my, my, i thought you had better manners than this, scaramouche?"
"i thought you sold information, lilium, not prissy little guides to table manners." he spat.
"...fair point. though, you'll have to do better than this," you pause to limply hold up the half dead weed in your hand with a wry smile, "what you ask of me is grave information, therefore i require similar payment."
toying with scaramouche was always fun to you, but there was something quite odd about his behavior.
"how is it possible that you're coming off as more irate than usual?" the question itself was innocent in nature if not for the coy, upward tilt of your lips and the curious glint in your eyes.
"oh please," he scoffed and snatched the weed from the table, leaving behind crumbs of dried dirt, "give me twenty minutes."
twenty minutes came and went with you swinging your legs back and forth and taking casual sips from your glass. suddenly, the wooden door to the tavern burst open and in stomped scaramouche, arms full of bright red roses and baby pink carnations (with the roots still intact somehow). dirt scattered all over when he tossed the flowers onto your table with an agitated sneer to compliment the gesture.
"will these weeds suffice?"
"ah, scaramouche, you really must treat these flowers with more respect." you tutted, fingertips glowing in dendro gently grazing over the flowers. their petals became lush with vibrant colors and the roots withered away into dust until in your hands you cradled the most luscious and vivacious flowers scaramouche had ever laid eyes upon.
"well, you've paid your price," your leg moved to push out the wooden chair on the opposite end of your circular table, head gesturing for scaramouche to take a seat, "it's only fair that i hold up my end of the deal as well."
scaramouche huffed and muttered a "it's about time" under his breath before sitting down on the hard wooden chair. his hands traveled upwards to pull back the charcoal cloth that covered his stormy colored locks, electric violet eyes trained dangerously on your calm and easy smile.
"what specifically do you wish to ask, o high and mighty balladeer?" you cooed much like a parent to their child, drawing indecipherable shapes into the dents and grooves of the wooden table with your pointer finger.
"are you deaf? fine, i'll repeat it since you can't seem to let information process in that smooth brain of yours." scaramouche sneered, arms crossed firmly over his broad chest, "i need to know all you know of the dendro archon's whereabouts."
you clasped your hands in delight, lips perched into a gentle smile, "ah yes! well, you're quite lucky as i'm proficient in all things sumeru and everything related to the dendro archon!"
twisting in your seat, you rummaged through a tattered, beige, cloth satchel that hung from the back of your chair and from within emerged a map. once you spread it thin on the table, scaramouche recognized the geography as that of sumeru.
"being the god of wisdom," you start, fingers carefully running over the printed valleys and bowls of sand that littered the sumeran landscape, "they are one to first analyze and evaluate a situation before making a decisive decision. it's not likely that they've abandoned their people by going into hiding, rather they are in a safe environment that allows them to monitor the situation from afar knowing that their region is next in the gnosis hunt."
"wow, thanks, i could've told you that myself." scaramouche rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to make another crude remark only for the soft of your palm to connect with his lips, effectively shushing him for the time being.
"please let me finish, balladeer," if you weren't his best source of information, he would have had your head on a stick from the moment you placed your skin on his.
"the dendro archon is the most reclusive of the archons, and yet they are the most gentle among them," your pursed your lips and took a tentative sip from your violet glass of wolfhook juice, "they have many secret temples that are most likely to be in similar locations: far enough from the wandering eyes of people yet close enough so that they are able to efficiently watch over and protect their people."
"if anything, this god of theirs sounds like a coward." scaramouche snorted.
"hm, you might be right—about the dendro archon being a coward," a faint, almost nostalgic smile crossed your lips as your fingers traced the sweltering edges of your crystal glass, "but they are known to care deeply for their people. i wouldn't imagine they would ever let waste be laid to them."
"whatever, mark the temples on the map so i can get this over with." from his hands, scaramouche tossed a thin pencil onto the map and watched with pointed eyes as you hid a smile behind your hand. "mind telling me what's got you laughing like a hyena?" he sneered, leaning forwards with an intimidating glare on his face.
"it's not that easy to access their temples, after all they were built with the intention of staying hidden in plain sight," your fingers tapped the side of your glass in a steady rhythm, your eyes never straying from his gaze, "however, i know of a way to narrow down which temple they're hiding in, and how to access them. ah ah ah," you interrupted to hold up a finger in front of scaramouche's lips, parted as if he were about to come back with another demand, "there are certain requirements to being able to locate the temples."
scaramouche pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, choosing to exhale loudly through his nose in a bull-like manner rather than blurt out a line of expletives at how cryptic you were being. "what, are you implying that i'm weaker than you? you do know who i am, don't you? what are these so called requirements anyway?!"
"first of all," your hand brushed aside the silk-like fabric of your cloak to reveal your gleaming dendro vision, "you must be able to wield dendro, second of all, you must already have prior knowledge of the layout of sumeru and the habits of the dendro archon themself."
"what are you trying to get at, lilium?" scaramouche leaned forward, forearms dug into the wood of the table and violet, thundering irises narrowed into both curious and apprehensive slits. wisps of his stormy locks fell to the front of his face and you resisted with all your might the urge to tuck them back safely behind his ears.
"my, i thought you were more perceptive than that, scaramouche," you giggled and extended your hand, palm up in an offering of sorts, "i would like to make an offer with you, if you'd be so inclined as to humor me that is."
"i've humored you thus far, get on with it."
"in exchange for guidance to the temples, i would like to travel with you on your mission."
scaramouche felt the familiar tug of a frown on his lips. lone wolfing things has always been his go-to, and you were no more than a pit stop on this languid roadtrip of his to steal the dendro gnosis like candy from a baby. but, with your skills, intellect, and knowledge of the area, at the very least you wouldn't be dead weight.
the back of his knuckles knocked aside your outstretched hand as he rose from the table, chair screeching backwards with his movement. he turned his head to side eye you one more time just before the hood fell back over his midnight locks.
"we leave at first light." was all he left you with, before briskly walking to the tavern doors and leaving without another word.
he's not exactly pleased that you'll be joining him for this trip
it's not like he wanted to be here in the first place
scaramouche seeks to battle to the best of his abilities and yearns to see others at his feet where he stands in victory
and the god of wisdom hardly seems like a formidable foe compared to the god of war or the god of contracts
but the job must be done, even if it's up to him
and getting the job done means sacrificing some of his comfort, enter: you
from the moment you first embark off to brave sumeru's stormy sands and pudgy grounds, he finds himself regretting taking you up on your offer
sure, you might know what you're doing and the dendro vision certainly helps in the dendro archon's land, but gods do you get sidetracked easily
he could be haggling a scholar for information, only to be dragged away by his arm with your eager voice recounting details of a nearby festival or an interesting food cart or shop that had caught your eye
of course, he's frustrated and grumpy about the whole ordeal but finds that when you are all business, you're most effective
so just this one time, he'll let your side tracked mind indulge in whatever catches your fancy (and perhaps begrudgingly dip into the funds of the fatui should you spot anything that catches your eye)
his fingers aggressively tapped against the edge of the wooden desk, brows furrowed and mouth twisted into a poisonous sneer that sat comfortably on his face.
"i'll ask you again, old geezer, what do you know of the dendro archon's temples?!"
the old book keeper behind the counter merely countered his crude behavior with a gentle smile, eyes blissfully shut and mouth stretched into a calm expression.
his patience was wearing as thin as the fine granules of sand that littered the landscape outside, face an angry scarlet and knuckles a ghastly white. this was the third time he'd inquired about information, to no avail.
"that's enough, scaramouche."
a soft hand enveloped his ghost white knuckles, skimmed and stretched thin from maintaining his anger. your gentle voice interrupted his frustration as he observed the manner in which your arm snuck around his bicep, hand still warming his own.
"good sir, we'd like to purchase information regarding the beloved god of wisdom's hidden temples. if you'd be so kind as to show us the best materials regarding that topic, we'd be much obliged." unlike scaramouche's unagreeable and demanding behavior, your voice felt of the faint trickle of a gentle stream or clouded mist that rose from the dewy ground in the early mornings of spring.
the book keeper finally responded to your request, excusing himself before disappearing into the back.
"get off of me-!" scaramouche sneered and shoved your arms away from his body just as the book keeper disappeared from sight.
you merely giggled and fixed his misaligned hat. "balladeer, you must have kindness and formality when conversing with the residents of sumeru. they value proper behavior just as they do intelligence."
"then you do all the talking, i don't have time for such mediocrities nor do i care what the sumerans value." he huffed and folded his arms across his chest defensively like an iron shield or a thick wall, blocking off the core of his heart and innards from your prying gaze.
the book keeper returned with some scrolls and politely discussed the price with you. with numbers in the millions, you needed to say nothing when scaramouche placed a large satchel of mora on the desk and scooped up the scrolls into his satchel.
as you exited the book shop, your ears caught wind of faint music and the distant sounds of cheering and laughing that overcame the chatter and clutter of noise from the sumeran street market. the sweet, sugary sounds of joy and celebration lay just over the horizon of the many houses and buildings that lined the sand covered street.
"scaramouche, come this way! i think there's a festival happening!" you grinned as your hand found his and pulled him towards the noise.
scaramouche halted at your words and sneered, "and what? we have a job to do, have you forgotten?"
"surely you can spare a minute, can't you? i promise it'll be quick, just a glance!" scaramouche couldn't help but be entranced by the way your eyes silently pleaded with him, going as far as to offer up the core of their sparkling bits that had him reluctantly nodding, even against his will.
scaramouche was not one to partake in silly little festivals, and yet here he was, watching as you ran around eagerly from stall to stall. the festival had been set up in a village square of sorts: colorful banners draped from all corners and settled at the middle, stalls line the circular edges of the square, and in the middle danced people of all ages, from the tiniest of children to the eldest of couples. music hummed happily from a nearby groups of musicians who eagerly eyed anyone that dropped a tip in their cup.
"isn't this wonderful?" you beamed and looked around in awe, eyeing each stall with hungry eyes.
"very, now can we leave?" he wanted to groan as you ran off towards a jewelry stall.
"lilium." he hissed, urgency laced in his voice as you held up a shining necklace with a verdant pendant similar in color to the dendro vision on your hip. the chain glimmered in the high noon sunlight, the silver bounding off of the metal and reflecting painted constellations over the span of your face.
"yes, yes, just a second. can't i take a look at jewelry in peace?" you giggled and ran your thumb over the neat, diamond shaped cut of the green gem, "this is absolutely stunning, how much?"
"five million mora." the burly man behind the stall answered, puffing airy smoke from the pipe nestled snugly at the corner of his lips.
before you could open your mouth to gawk at the price, scaramouche decided to answer for you, "whatever, we'll take it." he scowled and tossed a hefty bag of mora at the stall keep, who eagerly looked inside with hungry eyes before nodding at the pair of you.
"thank you for the gift, scaramouche!" your hands fiddled with the necklace in an eager attempt to put it on as you faded further away from the stall. your fingers struggled to clip the clasp in place, either going too far or clasping too soon.
"tch, come here." you felt yourself be yanked by the back of your collar and the necklace, ripped from your hands, as scaramouche's deft fingers worked to secure the clasp in place. his cold fingers sent shivers down the line of your spine as the pendant jostled around your chest, then finally sat still against your hammering heart as his body moved away from yours.
"happy? let's go now."
his shoulder brushed past yours and his hand moved to tip his hat down so you wouldn't bear witness to the glowing blush that adorned his cheeks.
your travels together are unprecedented in his mind but as time goes on, he begins to feel less and less hostile to the idea
you're a radiant light to his thunderous storm: the eye of his hurricane perhaps
you fill in the gaps where he is not complete: from your gentle nature to your vast and expansive intelligence, he's been struck in awe
scaramouche now realizes that he could have never navigated sumeru without your help (but it's not like he'd ever admit it)
hours are spent mulling over the locations of the dendro archon's temples only for him to come up short
which is where you'd come in and use that big brain of yours to fill in the gaps with all you knew of the dendro archon
he's not sure when the binds around his heart began to come undone, perhaps it was when he bought that beautiful necklace for you
ever since then, he's found himself at a loss
the simplest of your smiles or the lightest of your touches would make his ears burn a fierce ruby red
he's known you for so long as simply "lilium", who appears to know all and always has the right information for him
but now he begrudgingly begins to wonder what lies under your codename; just who are you?
and why are you making him feel this way?
flames quietly crackled above the drying air; dancing embers flung from the base and gently pranced across the sandy, dirt ground before fading into nothing. the makeshift camp he'd set up right outside the city would suffice for now until daylight broke over the horizon.
scaramouche leaned his back against the base of the large tree trunk, hat cast aside and arms folded while his electric irises traced the lands for any sign of danger. though, if he counted the way your eyes skimmed over the faded, scholarly journals you'd purchased in a small town earlier that day, the faint flicker of rouge and persimmon flames in the core of your eyes, and the soft shadows that danced over your face, he'd consider himself in danger.
"lilium," he called to you, voice uncharacteristically calm and devoid of it's usual haughty nature and bitter tone, "what is that?"
your ruddy eyes rose from the words of the book and a gentle smile crossed your face, "would you like to see?"
the unfamiliar sensation of butterflies instead of the usual crawls of insects and worms in his stomach had him wanting to throw up today's lunch as you rose from your seat on the ground and scooted beside him, leaning your back against the harsh bark of the tree.
"it's an old sumeran fables book. i know it's not exactly contributive to our mission but..." your thumb rubbed the faded cover affectionately as a small smile graced your lips.
"it's fine, buy whatever you want."
scaramouche's hands still folded themselves over his chest, head turned to the side.
"speaking of buying things," you reached into your nearby satchel and rummaged around the contents before emerging with a pair of crystal-like earrings in hand, "i bought this for you!"
the pair of earrings you held were golden and shaped like a sharp, thin diamond. a striking, dark violet crystal, similar in color to that of a stormy sky or muted lightning, was encased with gold and dangled from a thin clasp.
instead of handing both pairs to him, your hands unclasped one and punctured it through your ear. "one side is for me, and the other is for you!" the earring shook with your movements, glimmering in the fleeting and flickering embers of the fireplace.
scaramouche stared at the earring in his hand. it felt hefty and of good quality, and shone with ludicrous beauty. and yet despite this, "ridiculous, i would never wear this." he sneered and tossed the matching jewel back at you.
if he had a heart, he was sure it had long since turned to ice. but upon the slight crestfallen look that melted the glimmering smile on your face, he felt the icy caverns in his heart begin to stir and jostle with movement and life. "i see, but it'll be here if you change your mind."
"sorry" was not a word in his vocabulary, so instead he said nothing nor inched further away from your body when you succumbed to the warm embrace of sleep and rested your head against the closest thing to you: his shoulder. whereas most would have lost their heads should they ever lay a finger on the balladeer, you were an odd exception.
by the time you wake up the next morning, you're lying on the floor, a blanket over your shoulders, with no recollection of how you fell asleep. scaramouche is hoisting his travel bag over his shoulders, and the bits of sun that peeped out from over the horizon gently illuminated the shining gem that hung from his ear.
"let's move."
after weeks of trying to root out the dendro archon's hiding place, you finally manage to narrow it down to a temple surrounded by thick, lush, exotic plants and a glimmering waterfall
"it's surrounded by dense rainforest yet from its most highest point can easily observe sumeru's main city." had been your reasoning
scaramouche recalls his thoughts of the trip going smoothly and easily: like stealing candy from an archon, or a gnosis from a baby...?
but he's become very aware that without your help, he'd be stuck going in circles
you realize that scaramouche has grown over the course of this trip: he's kinder to strangers (in his own...unique way) and seems to be less quick to lose him temper
you've observed with careful eyes, the manner in which he interacts with the world around him and have concluded that there lies a kind and sweet individual underneath his layer of scum and dirt
and the dangle of the matching earring on his ear was enough to make your heart swell with happiness
scaramouche's heart was swelling for another reason
never before has he been in the presence of someone so pure of heart and willing to trust him: to see beyond his physical boundaries and peep into the soul he so defensively guards
and it's because of your actions and words and kindness that he finds himself at a loss for labelling this odd emotion that leaves him awake at night, taking diligent watch over camp to protect your peaceful sleep, or the frequent brushes of his fingers against the cool touch of the gem from his ear
it didn't help his battering heart that you looked absolutely ethereal while using your powers
dendro was an element he considered the weakest until you formed thick vines and towering trees that crushes enemies faster than he could draw out his catalyst and begin attacking
your hands skimmed over the vast expanse of his skin and healed his gashes with the gentle light of dendro, and never before had he come that close to falling asleep in such a vulnerable position
you truly were the most honest being he's ever encountered
but the truth is often a more daunting and treacherous path that one can ever expect
a symbol mocked scaramouche as a lock to the temple. just as he was about to burst into a vast array of colorful expletives, you placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and walked past towards the seal. flowing, green energy pool from your fingers and made contact with the seal, which reacted to your powers. an internal mechanism roared to life and soon the doors had opened wide. scaramouche look on in disbelief as you sauntered inwards with a teasing smile on your face.
the inside of the temple is vast and large. a wide, white marble floor covers the majority of the insides, and from the four corners emerged mini waterfalls. a dam lined the edges of the marble floors, where at the end lay a humble throne constructed of rock and covered in thick vines that held little flowers of varying pale colors. marble pillars loomed high above where vines creeped down and engulfed them in a spiral. light poured in from the crystal glass panes above, illuminating the marble floors in a gentle, pale yellow.
his shoes clicked against the clean marble, eyes wide and wandering in awe. but even among his fascination, there still lay frustration. you followed behind him, unusually quiet and devoid of your usual smile.
"the dendro archon isn't here." he scowled and sulkily walked up to the throne, kicking it with the toe of his boot. "all this work, and for what, a disappointment?!" he kicked the seat again, harder this time.
"SHOW YOURSELF YOU GOD DAMN COWARD!" his voice bounced off the empty walls of the temple, fists balled and knuckles white at his side. after all this time and effort, to not find the dendro archon was an absolute bash to his ego and will.
"let's go, lilium." he grunts and turns around to face you.
you who had continued to smile at him with eyes that seemed to know more than he did. eyes that carried within them ancient words lost to time and stars that could no longer been seen across the sky of teyvat.
"scaramouche..." your steps are quiet, tentative, like a cornered animal that has long evaded capture from its stalky predator.
as you walked forwards, your hands unbuttoned the clasp of your beige cloak and revealed to him the lines of dendro that ran up your neck and arms. your fingers contorted into an odd position, almost as if in prayer, as dendro energy began to swirl around you and pour itself back into your chest. thick branches sprouted from your temples and curved backwards to form horns decorated with little multicolored flowers. light illuminated from all directions and poured itself back into your body, while all scaramouche could do was stand there and watch, knees bent and hand ready to draw his weapon. his eyes burned as the air around you settled and a vibrant green ring locked itself onto your irises.
"i am (y/n), seventh archon of teyvat," click, click, with each step you took towards him, scaramouche stepped back, "god of wisdom, defender of sumeru," click, click, scaramouche could hardly believe his eyes, even though the evidence was clear as day in front of him: living, breathing, speaking to him,
"the dendro archon."
confusion turned into blind rage as scaramouche threw his satchel aside and lunged at you, catalyst floating hurriedly behind him. you allowed him to tackle you to the floor, and made no complaint when his large hand pinned your wrists over your head. his hat flew wildly to the side, lost to the air in the sudden scuffle.
"you lied to me." he seethed, voice barely above a whisper and tinted with what you considered unbridled rage as he towered over your. the earring that matched yours dangled ferociously and you feared that it may come flying off.
"i had to." you replied, still smiling with content in your eyes.
"you've made a fool out of yourself by lying to me." like the eerie rumble of thunder before the strike of lightning, his voice rumbled low and heavy and dripped with contempt.
his heart fought against the mere thought of what he'd have to do now: strip you of your gnosis and godly powers. but how could he when all he yearned to do was hear you laugh again or see your pretty smile in a situation where he didn't have your wrists pinned to the floor and wasn't agonizingly angry with you.
"defeat me in a fair challenge, and my gnosis is yours. you have my word, scaramouche." you offer interrupted any more of his raging thoughts.
"you?" scaramouche scoffed and masked his emotions with a decisively wicked laugh that sounded more akin to a huff, "you don't stand a chance against me." the grip on your wrists tightened and pressed your skin into the marble floor.
"then you should have no objections." you offered him one last smile before your body dissolved into tiny, multicolored wildflowers and sparks of green dendro energy. scaramouche fell forwards, the balance he'd kept while holding your body and wrists down now lost.
"what-"
"you've really underestimated me, scaramouche." your voice echoed from the other side of the temple, vines forming around your arms.
despite the screams in his heart to set his catalyst down and run far, far away from all of this, he knew of his obligations, and lunged forward with a surge of electro in his veins.
what he hadn't expected was to be pummeled upwards by a thick tree trunk that protruded from the ground. the impact wasn't hard enough to draw blood but it was enough to distract him while you planned your next move, summoning your weapon and drawing it at the ready.
scaramouche leapt down from the platform and formed a sword of electricity with his hands. he rushed forward and slammed the blade with all his might against your weapon, only to be pushed back with both your strength and the help of the flexible tree branches and vines that protruded from your back.
dendro was supposed to be weak and flimsy like those stupid flowers you always ask him to bring you in exchange for information, so why was it that his breath evaded him with every gulp of air he swallowed while trying to evade your thorny attacks? your long range attacks seemed to be more powerful, but even as he closed the distance, the look in your eyes was unbearable for him to gaze into.
"scaramouche..." you mumbled, brows furrowed and voice tinted with hint of remorse as your weapon pressed against his electro sword, fighting against his strength with seemingly no effort at all. one of your hands moved to tuck strands of his stormy hair back into place behind his ear, and his corded temper snapped in two.
you sensed the buildup of his energy right before it released, and scaramouche swore he saw the faintest of smiles cross your lips before you were knocked back by an enormous surge of electro from his hands that burst outwards in tandem with the blast of electro. purple jets of energy poured out from his outstretched hands, still tingling with adrenaline. your body flew across the temple like a ragdoll and hit one of the many marble pillars, sending you crumbling to the floor in a coughing heap.
"it's over." scaramouche's strides over to your weakened body were cold, devoid of life in each click of his heel against the marble floor until his body loomed high over yours, sword brimming with electricity pointed dead at the base of your throat.
he expected you to cower in fear, beg for your life until you were within an inch of death. instead, you merely smiled and closed your eyes.
"go on, finish the job. you've won fair and square." your hands overlapped his sheet white knuckles, cold from gripping onto the handle with all his strength, and began to push the sword down towards your throat.
panic surged through his veins once your intentions became clear. "just what are you trying to get at?! do you want to die?!" with your weakened body, strength didn't come to your hands when scaramouche yanked the sword away from your grip. the tip of the blade rested snugly over your hammering heart and flickered every so often with a lick of violet electricity that sent tingles throughout your body.
scaramouche had slain hundreds—thousands maybe, but the hands that have snuffed the life out of so many now gripped his sword not with fury but with hesitance. fear was void in your eyes; all he saw was a being who was content, calm, and seemed to embrace death with welcome arms.
"come on, scara. it's alright, i promise." you cooed, arms outstretched like a macabre invitation.
"scara" was new, you'd never called him that before and it made his heart hurt in a way he never thought possible, like running a paper cut under frigid water or biting the inside of your cheek too hard: stinging and small yet unbearable.
you hadn't removed the earring he shared with you, it still clasped itself onto the soft, fleshy part of your earlobe and twinkled up at him in the dwindling sunlight. the slight jostle of his head brought to attention the matching jewel that swayed by his jugular, all the familiar yet foreign emotions he'd felt over the past few weeks rushed him like a bull who saw crimson. the soft underbelly of this thoughts had finally given way and he knew now that his hands could kill a thousand more, but never lay a hand on you.
the sword dissipated into thin particles of mauve electric light just as he crumpled to his knees in front of your body.
"i can't." he meekly whispered, fingers grasping at his knees for some semblance of stability.
he considered himself above others, but you alone had somehow managed to bring him to his knees and set aside his weapon, even if his mission would be failed and he'd face the wrath of the tsaritsa.
what sounded like a pleased hum purred from the top of your throat before you rose from the ground and extended a hand towards him. scaramouche's head whipped up, clearly stunned at your ability to move after baring what looked like such a painful impact.
"congratulations, scaramouche, you've passed!" you beamed as he slipped his hand into yours and stood back up, a quizzical look on his face.
"...passed? what the hell are you talking about?!" he scowled and attempted to sever the connection you'd made between his hand and yours, only for your grip to tighten and your other hand to find purchase on the line of his slackened jaw, moving upwards to his cheek.
"i mean that you've passed the test to receive my gnosis, silly."
you bit back the smile from your face as you watched scaramouche seemingly run through all sorts of confuzzled expressions before settling with an irritated sneer and flared eyes that guarded him like a cornered animal.
"test?! are you kidding me- what in the hell kind of test was that?!" he growled and used his free hand to bunch up the fabric of your collar in his white knuckled fist.
a sugary laugh crept up past your lips as the hand that held his let go and moved to overlap his fist.
"well? get talking!" he ushered, slackening his fingers on the collar of your attire.
"yes, yes, o high and mighty balladeer." like a blue bird's chirp you cooed to him and straightened out the fabric of your shirt with calm movements.
he opened his mouth to make a retort at your choice of title for him when you beat him to the punch and words that you had since swallowed began to slip from your tongue.
"my ties to celestia have long since been severed," you paused to unfurl your hand and reveal the floating gnosis covered in little white flowers and tiny vines, "the gnosis is only an empty vessel—a meaningless connection to a place i no longer associate with."
"if it's so meaningless, you could've just coughed it up and avoided this whole mess. idiot." the last word he muttered under his breath, yet it rang in your ears crystal clear like the crisp smell of firewood.
"i'm aware," you giggle and step closer to him, "but there was a purpose for our adventure."
scaramouche studied the rotating chess piece in your palm, pristine and light in color—if he listened carefully he'd hear the soft chirps of birds and the twinkle of morning dew after a night's shower of rain; the atmosphere began to placate the burning irritation in his chest.
"my disciples caught wind that you'd be the one sent for my gnosis, and i had a feeling that you'd come seek my guidance even if it was to your chagrin." there was no helping to conceal the teasing lilt to your songbird voice, which of course fanned the flames of his sneer and had him crossing his arms.
"i was completely alright with giving up my gnosis, however, i wanted to make sure that it would fall into the right hands which is why i tagged along: to see and study your behavior."
you were far too close for comfort, and there was only so much space between scaramouche and the marble pillar as you backed him up into it and reached for his hands. his mind screamed at him to end it now and run far away from whatever hellish game you'd created, but his heart allowed you to pick up his calloused hands within yours and run your thumbs over the back of his knuckles.
"and after careful examination, i've deemed you and all you stand for worthy of my gnosis, scaramouche."
your hands released his as you dared to brave his stormy exterior and relish in the softness of his face as you cupped his jaw between both of your hands. his arms stood rigid by his side, unsure of which way to move or how to hold you.
"how..." he dryly swallowed before continuing, "why...me?"
"well, that's an easy question to answer. it's because you're a kind soul at heart. i know that no harm will come to my people, or anyone else if my gnosis is left in your hands."
from the look in his eyes, deep within the caverns of his stormy irises and inky pupils, you sensed a pool of doubt and a coating of mistrust. the jingle of the ornaments on his ornate hat twinkled gently as he turned his face to the side, ears burning and mouth etched into a warbled grimace.
"look at me, scaramouche," you tilt his head back towards you, a mirage of stardust and midnight blue flames peering back at you hidden behind the thin layer of his stinging eyes, "you could have killed me, but you spared my life. there is good in you, and there always will be."
"you're wrong, lili- (y/n)! i could kill you where you stand right this minute!" he barked, shying away from your touch in a brutish manner as he walked a short distance away from you, still close enough to touch but far away enough so his face could be hidden behind the thick brim of his hat.
"i'm not wrong, you forget my title of the god of wisom." you chortled, no louder than a gentle rush of wind.
with gentle, lilypad steps, you made your way to his side and raised his head once more with your hands so you started directly into his eyes. the firey, red blush on his face ran to the expanse of his nose and cheeks and tailed off near the tips of his ears; he looked akin to a dewy strawberry or ripe cherry.
the glowing gnosis appeared once more as you unfurled your hand, the other moving to grab scaramouche's palm and hold it wide open. the gnosis thrummed with life for a brief moment before falling silent as your fingers let go of the small chess piece and let it fall onto the calloused, fleshy skin of scaramouche's palm. your fingers gently covered his own and curled them inwards so the gnosis was completely concealed by his skin.
"go," you whispered, moving your hand back upwards to his cheek to caress the soft skin and brush aside the wild wisps of his inky, midnight hair, "go home to your tsaritsa. tell her you've succeeded, but not of how you obtained the gnosis."
you've managed to startle scaramouche enough today to the point where he'd welcome unconsciousness with open arms. but the manner in which you hold his face and press a gentle kiss to his forehead sends a flurry of emotions barreling up from his heart towards his brain. frozen in place, he could only watch as you stepped back and offered him one more smile before turning around and heading to pick up your discarded cloak in the middle of the temple. your figure grew smaller and smaller the more he stood, mouth agape and palms sweaty. the fist that contained your gnosis felt so warm and soft, like the gentle pitter of rain in spring or the brush of a lukewarm petal on a hot summer's day—so much like you. his mind no longer screamed at him to shove those damning thoughts of you into a corner.
with every hurried step he took, the binds around his heart became undone and left nothing but a shriveled up empty core that pounded and swelled with life. his hand grabbed around your elbow just as you scooped up your cloak from the middle of the temple, his eyes blown and grip tighter than ever.
"scaramouche?" you innocently tilted your head to the side, curiosity enveloping your irises that now lacked the vibrant green dendro ring.
ah, your curiosity, your kindness, your gentle nature, your humor, he adored everything about you, and he could hide it no longer.
with a yank of his hand forwards, his lips eagerly met yours in an uncharacteristically jumbled and awkward yet endearing kiss. he swallowed your surprised squeak and melded his lips properly against your own, arm coming around to hold your body flush against his. scaramouche's fist let go of your gnosis and let it tumble to the ground, using his free hands to dig into the small of your back and trap you in his broad arms.
"who said..." he began once parting from your breathless lips, gulping for air himself, "that you could leave my side?"
scaramouche's eyes darted from your own and back down towards your lips, cheeks ruddy and warm and mouth parted to breathe in the sweet air you managed to steal from him. you followed his gaze and ran your fingers against the dangling jewel from his ear that matched yours.
"i believe..." you started with a giggle, using your thumb to run against his bottom lip, "that the tsaritsa will be awfully upset to know that you've discarded the gnosis like that."
scaramouche scoffed and grabbed your chin between his forefinger and thumb and muttered a, "i don't care," before taking your lips as his once again.
it's a pretty, forward way of confessing, but scaramouche becomes your lover from that day onwards!
he garbles out an offer to come stay with him, which you accept!
the trip back to snezhnaya was filled with longing looks and breathless kisses that left him weak in the knees
of course, he makes sure that affectionate gestures are in private settings because celestia forbid that a fatui agent walk in on scaramouche, red in the face, being pampered with kisses and affectionate words by his archon significant other
when he presents the dendro archon's gnosis to the tsaritsa, she's quick to catch on that his means of acquisition were...unorthodox
but makes no comment of it, much to his relief
as soon as his business is done in snezhnaya, he makes haste to his (luxurious) residence in inazuma which is where he chooses to lay a base with you
because he's a harbinger, he often must leave at unpredictable times in a hurried manner
before, such a mobile lifestyle was fine because it was just his own back that he had to worry about and no one else's
however, you have now entered the picture
he'll make contradictory responses about leaving you alone for prolonged periods of time
"you'll burn the damn place down while i'm gone."
"you say that while you're hugging and kissing me goodbye, scaramouche."
"...shut up."
by associating with him in general, you've inherently become a target for outside parties that have a bone to pick with the fatui (which are there are, unsurprisingly, a lot of)
you might have to remind him that you're a literal archon and can defend yourself perfectly fine (and even then it'd be difficult for him to part from you)
aside from the chaos that is his life as a harbinger, when all is quiet and there's no missions on his belt, he'll be right by your side
his love is shown largely through words of affirmation, except they come off as the exact opposite with good intentions hidden beneath them
you help him spar in the large backyard, and he's surprised to learn that you can easily take him down
part of his time with you has led him to discover a lot more about you, like the fact that intense emotions of yours manifest into flowers that bloom along your body
one too many times has he whispered suggestive words in your ear with a teasing, sultry lilt, or let his hand wader across the span of your body
only to be met with wine red roses that bloomed from the depths of your skin and wrapped around his hands
scaramouche will never admit the way your kind words and gentle touch send his heart racing
from the simple tap of his shoulder or the warmest of embraces lined with sugar filled kisses: he loves your touch
he's not used to authenticity; kind, genuine, pure of heart compliments and words, which is why he hates that you manage to fluster him so easily with "that shirt makes you look even more handsome" or a "be well and stay safe, darling"
scaramouche is used to bandaging his wounds—both physical and (eugh) emotional—in complete solitude
but you're here now, and he begins to realize that he finally has someone to rely on—someone who cares about him to the most authentic extent
rain hammered down against his body as he approached the steep climb towards the large, luxurious house that sat atop a secluded hill in araumi.
blood, his own or someone else's, smeared itself across his cheek and shielded itself from the rain by the large rim of his hat. his bloodied nose ached with every intake of rain laden air; the only smell scaramouche could possibly register at this point was the irony peak of blood. his legs burned and ached with every step forwards; tingling vibrations shot themselves up from his ankles to the small of his back. the open gash on his torso felt like burning ice and stung with every raindrop that splattered onto his bloodied shirt. the house loomed onwards and high above, led up to by a trail of pearly white stairs crafted of marble; he was seriously beginning to regret the fancy structure of his house.
his breath stuttered against his lips upon reaching the first step, body sagging onto the railing when he heard a voice from above.
"scaramouche?!"
he looked upwards to see your figure, void of any umbrellas, coverings, or shoes and only in your night clothes as you stood near the first landing of the steps. with the steady candlelight from the house behind: you looked like an angel.
how he had managed to make it under the warm roof of his house, he wasn't quite sure. scaramouche only remembers your frantic touch and his arm slung around your shoulder as you walked step by step up to the porch. before he knew it, scaramouche found himself soiling a fresh, snow white futon with the blood and dirt that covered his body while you made haste to pull off his soaked shoes and gather appropriate materials to help clean him up. hat already tossed to the side, you peeled layer after layer of soaked clothing off until he lay bare in nothing but his boxers, large gash on display for you to gawk at.
"scara..." you mumbled and ran your fingertips over the reddened edges of his wound.
he hissed at the sudden contact and gulped for air through his chapped lips. you smiled apologetically and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "you'll be alright, just hold still."
energy the color of a dewy leaf or thick, pale moss, thrummed from your fingertips as you hovered over his wounds. the dendro energy from your skin began to morph his skin and shut the gash in slow, gentle motions, leaving behind nothing but a thin scar across the middle. your hands moved across the span of his body, taking great care not to miss any patch of skin, no matter how small the wound. finally at ease, scaramouche trained his eyes on you with bated breath as you lovingly tended to his wounds with a strong ring of green around your irises. your hands finally glided over to his face, where blood smeared his cheek and the thin trail of blood from his nose greeted you with a nasty leer.
"not mine, promise." he mumbled when your thumb rubbed over the patch of dried blood on his cheek. his words didn't seem to ease the worried look on your face.
a few more motions of your hands and his nose was good as new. your hands reached for the basin of warm water and gentle washing cloth as scaramouche sat up, a haggard breath escaping his lips.
"i may have healed your wounds, but you need rest. they will reopen if you exert yourself." you warn, warm hand cupping his cheek while the other wiped the trail of blood from his nose.
"don't give me that shit, i'm completely fine." he huffed, but allowed you to continue wiping his skin down with warm water.
"please, scaramouche," to his surprise, tears began to pool in your eyes and cascade down your cheeks in silent waterfalls, "you are so important to me, take better care of yourself, please."
though his body stung and you'd just warned him about moving, scaramouche couldn't help but pull you into his lap and lock his arms tight around your body.
"i'm not going anywhere. it'll take an army and it's general...and a dragon to kill me." he mumbled into your scalp, feeling the weight on his chest lessen with a snort in response to his sarcastic response.
"promise?" you moved your face from his neck to look him in the eye, remembering just how bloodied he'd been just moments earlier.
scaramouche moved his hand to grab your pinkie in his and shake it. "throw me in the ice or whatever if i do."
you giggle and raise his hand to your lips, eyes shut in pure bliss and a gentle smile etched on your lips. in that moment, scaramouche wished with all his might that his time with you would be stretched out into an eternity.
you had a weird start to your relationship: never did scaramouche ever fathom that he'd find someone to put up with his disagreeable personality
nor that he'd fall in love with the prime target of his mission
but you managed to wrangle him up in your vines of love and swaddle him in a warmth that was unfamiliar yet welcomed
he's not one to revere the gods as ethereal beings; to him they're no more than placeholders, or figureheads
however, you are the only archon that has his complete and utter devotion
and it's not because of your archon status that he is devoted wholly to you, but your kindness and love that brings him to his knees
despite his unpleasant behavior, there isn't a single thing he wouldn't do for you, even if he'd grumble and complain about it all the while
the earring that dangles from his ear and matches your own reminds him that he has someone to come home to, and someone to love
the day khaenri'ah fell is all a blur in dainsleif's mind
he lost everything:
his home, his people, his status, his life
all thanks to the heartless gods who cared not for the lives of puny mortals
despite the foggy remnants of his memory, he does remember something in particular that has stuck with him for centuries onwards:
how someone managed to bring him to safety, away from all the carnage and rot of khaenri'ah's destruction
by then, the curse of immortality had been laid, but whoever it was who saved him had managed to sneak through the wreckage and haul his unconscious body out of the pits of khaenri'ah into a grassy plain of wildflowers
though in and out of consciousness, he remembered the clean ring of vibrant green around their irises, the sweet smell of fresh flowers, their soft touch as they mended his wounds, and their honey-like voice that tried as much as possible to keep him conscious
the last thing he remembers before slipping into oblivion was the calmness and ease of his pain and the hum of energy in his ears
he awoke that night in a small clearing next to a crackling campfire, arm in a sling and a blanket over his body
since then, he's embarked to seek answers and pursue goals that were far out of anyone's reach
he wandered aimlessly as days trickled into weeks, then months, years, decades, centuries
until he finally meets you in sumeru
you're an advisor for the study of medicinal herbs at sumeru's finest academic institution, where dainsleif heads one day to procure both information and herbs
upon talking to him for just a bit, you discover that he is in search of a specific type of plant and offer your physical assistance to help him find it
throughout your little adventure, dainsleif finds that you're excellent to work with and before he can even ask if you'd like to come with him when he leaves sumeru, you offer up to join him on his travels first
he finds great solace and versatility in you: your dendro vision allows for easier access to places where nature invades, and your amicable and kind personality makes for great bargaining skills
over time as you travel more and more places together, dainsleif begins to feel an unfamiliar weight in his chest that doesn't exactly feel unwelcome
warm, calm, serene, peaceful is how he feels when you're around
he can't help but be enamored by everything about you: your eyes, lips, curve of your nose and rise of your cheeks. your kindness, your gentle nature, your perceptive insight and intelligence. all of it.
the romantic tension between you two was unbearable in the best way
quiet flames flickered from the small campsite and cast gentle shadows across the span of his face. he observed with a quiet smile, the way in which your fingers skimmed through line after line of some ancient books you had procured today, spines broken and covers worn with age and love. a shiver rocked your body as you scooted closer to him for warmth, your hips coming in contact merely once and it was enough to send tingles throughout his body.
"cold?" he asked.
you placed the book down and nodded, coming closer to his side if possible. with a single click of the clasp, the charcoal cloak that draped over his shoulders fell from his body as he placed it over yours.
"well that's not fair," you pout, fanning out the fabric so that instead of just you, the cloak covered both your bodies, "we both need to be covered."
there was no hiding the furious blush on his face as you inch even closer to him if it was possible to do so, your head coming to rest on his broad shoulder.
"are you okay, dain? your heart is beating so fast..." voice tinted with faded whispers, your fingers run over the thick fabric that protects his bare skin.
"yes, i'm...fine. do not concern yourself with my wellbeing, you need to warm up." dainsleif murmured gently and tugged the fabric up closer to your shoulders.
he wasn't sure when you'd wriggled your way past his thick irony boundaries or when he'd become so comfortable with your touch, but he didn't mind if you used his shoulder like a pillow and drooled on him, or spurred him onwards into hole in the wall buildings to discover ancient products. and his most favorite: when you'd craft flowers from your fingers and thread them through his coat or hair.
"i can't just not care about you, dain. that's silly." you giggle and brushed aside wisps of his ashen locks from his piercing azure gems. he resisted the urge to lean down and press a kiss to your forehead once your arms wrapped around his torso, so snug and comfortable.
"ah...then i apologize."
"dain?" you look up at him with sparkling eyes, threaded by pale, persimmon flames from the campfire that completely entrance him.
"yes, (y/n)?"
much to his surprise, your hands slink up to hold his face so he stared directly at you.
"can i show you how much i care about you?" there was a new gentleness to your voice that he'd never heard before, and the confusion that painted his face at your words dissipated once he nodded and felt his head tilt to the side and your soft, downy lips press against his cheek.
for far too long, he'd imagined the feeling of your lips on his skin in manners that had him burning up and shaking such thoughts out of his head. but now, having got a taste, his desire seemed to be insatiable. your lips parted from the soft of his cheek far too soon for his liking, your eyes shy and mouth curved into a timid smile.
"i'm sorry if i overstepped any- mmph?!"
before you could speak any apologies, you find that dainsleif's lips had connected and molded to fit perfectly against yours. his arms snuck around your waist to stabilize you against his throbbing heart. his mind was completely encased by all that you were: your body, mind, and soul filtered through your connected lips and became one with his in the most vibrant and indescribable ways.
dainsleif reluctantly parted from your lips with a quiet gasp and rose a hand to cup your burning cheeks.
"i care deeply about you as well, if it was not evident."
despite the teasing nature of his remark, his eyes shied away from your intense gaze, the one that sent butterflies up from the confines of his stomach.
"hehe, at least now," you giggled and pressed a gentle kiss first to his nose, then a lingering, chaste kiss to his lips, "i am well aware that our feelings are mutual."
dainsleif never exactly expected for you to return his feelings, but he considers it a win in his book
though he feels infinitely unworthy of your love and affection, you often remind him that he deserves the world and all the love contained within it
it takes a while for him to open up about his past, but he trusts you with all that he is
so he sits down and tells you all he knows of his origins: khaenri'ah, the gods, his immortality, all of it
given that he's under the impression that you are a mere mortal human, his immortality is a subject that pains him the most
to know that you'd one day leave him behind and succumb to the fate of time
but you know that isn't true, and you recognize him as someone familiar from the wreckages of khaenri'ah
hiding your secret eats you up inside, especially since dain has made it excruciatingly clear that he desires nothing to do with the gods or anyone or anything associated with them
eventually, hiding becomes too much and you realize that he deserves the truth, even if dainsleif were to discard your bond
sitting under trees and reading had become a pleasant past time for the two of you, though you've always much rather preferred to hear dainsleif's smooth voice recount tales from the aged book that would have your eyes drooping and mouth curved into a serene smile.
but today, your face lacked its usual vibrancy and your smile seemed devoid of your usual joy as he read word after word with you perched on his lap. instead, your eyes lingered on the gentle green glow emitted from your hands and the guilt that ate away at you inside. the sun was just about to blanket itself over a drape of midnight sky, and dainsleif had begun to set up camp when he finally asked, "you don't seem like yourself today, is something the matter?"
you take in a shaky breath before turning to face him with hesitation in every one of your movements. "dain...you despise the gods, right?" timidly, you step into the shallows and fear knowing that soon you will have to face the deep end.
"yes, i have no respect nor care for them at all. why do you ask?"
the lump in your throat began to pulse, almost as if to tell you not to speak the words that had been broiling in your stomach for so long, but you knew it was impossible.
you allowed your eyes to slip behind their lids as your hands folded themselves into a position of prayer. viridian and chartreuse swirls of dendro energy formed from your chest and enveloped your body for a brief moment only to dissipate and leave you floating back to the ground in white, ancient garments with golden rings on your upper arm and left thigh. thick, chocolate colored branched formed by your temples and curved backwards to form horn-like structures. striking strips of verdant dendro energy ran up your arms and legs and settled at your throat to form the heart symbol.
you opened your eyes, and dainsleif found himself face to face with a ring of bright green around your irises that seemed so familiar.
"i'm the dendro archon." your voice was meek, and nothing like that of a god. from your clasped hands, your fingers unfurled to reveal your tiny gnosis decorated in little flowers and gleaming of warmth and the gentle touch of a flower petal.
if he hadn't seen the gnosis, or your archon clothes, dainsleif would hardly believe you. a joke, a taunting tease akin to pinching his cheek in a loving manner or nudging his ribs, that was what declaring yourself as an archon sounded like. but the gnosis in your hand, the tattoos on your skin, the clothing on your back, it all pointed to the obvious.
he was sure his expression was ruthless given the manner in which you silently responded with guarded hands.
"dain..." your hand unconsciously reached out to him to hold his face, but never got that far.
fury coursed through his body like a toxic viper, devoid of rational thoughts or understanding. his muscles jerked to slap your hand away, teeth bared full and anger glinting his in starry pupiled eyes.
"DON'T COME NEAR ME! don't take another step!"
you felt your heart stop in your chest. his eyes roamed over your body like a man possessed. you'd never seen dainsleif this angry or worked up. your sweet, kind, albeit too formal and a little awkward, dainsleif. each day he'd wake up and gaze at you with nothing but love and adoration, and now he stood before you defensively, shielding himself as if you were a monster.
"dain, please i can explain-"
"explain?! there's nothing to explain," dainsleif backed away from you, even as you halted your footsteps forwards, "you archons simply love to toy with people, don't you?"
his hands worked quickly to gather his items and sling his backpack over his shoulders.
"did you perhaps think that you could spend your time toying with a mortal? am i amusing to you? did you have your fill?!" he barked, eyes narrowed into hostile slits.
your voice wouldn't meet your lips no matter how hard you tried. you desperately wanted to deny his claims; that you loved him with all your heart, but it seemed your strangled silence was enough of an answer for him.
"do not follow me."
he didn't dare look at your face, for to feel compassion or empathy for a god would be a gross negligence of their actions towards his people. dainsleif had never ran that fast before in his life, nor had he ever faced the dilemma that brewed within his heart that urged him to turn around and talk things out. but the damage had been done, and he knew that there was no saving a bond shared between a khaenri'ahan and an archon.
you watched with watery eyes as dainsleif hurriedly ran further and further away from your embrace. your body fizzled with dendro energy as you numbly walked towards a nearby stream and crumpled to your knees, eventually falling limp on your side. rejection had been your worst fear, and not only had it come true but it cost you your most beloved. and now there was nothing you could do about it, so you cried and cried and cried and let the ground around you absorb your agonizing pain.
he can't exactly get you off of his mind no matter how hard he tries
dainsleif ends up spending a week in a hotel in a town far away from where he left you and can hardly rise from bed without feeling a rippling pain in his heart
a constant war between his emotions and his mind play out, and he doesn't know which side to align with
against all he stands for, dainsleif finds himself wandering back to his time with you: your radiant smile, jubilant laughter, kindness, generosity, empathy, the soft curve of your body and the gentle, feather light tough of your lips on his
thoughts of you plague his mind day in and day out, no matter what
there exists a lingering guilt that eats away at him when he recalls the brief moment he looked up to see the absolute distraught emotions on your face
he finds himself sitting on the edge of the hotel's bed, unable to sleep and mind filled with thoughts of you as he runs his thumb over an intricate bookmark you had bought for him
dainsleif often wonders about the ring of green around your eyes in your archon form, and why they appeared to be so familiar and so warm
and it suddenly hits him: memories of the distant past khaenri'ah where he'd been spared from the god's wrath and dragged unconscious from the wreckage
those same, familiar green irises sparked the realization that it had to be you who saved him
and this realization released the floodgates for the wave of guilt that crushed him under its weight
he had left you all by yourself and rejected you when you'd bared all of yourself to him
you knew who he was the moment you first met him, and kept silent of your kind deeds and he just knows that it's because that last thing you'd ever want is for him to feel obligated to be with you
and it's this realization that has his mind giving way to all the thoughts of you that he's suppressed
dainsleif can only hope that you would give this sinner just one last chance to beg for forgiveness
night had fallen by the time he reached his destination. dainsleif isn't sure what called to him to return to where he left you, after all you were quite intelligent and staying in one place for too long while traveling was never the brightest idea. but much to his surprise, your items lay exactly where you left them and had faced the elements. he stooped to pick up a soggy copy of your favorite book off of the ground that had faced the hardships of rain, the very same one he had been reading to you the evening of your confession. his heart stung and stuttered to know that something could have possibly happened to you.
his eyes frantically searched the shady tree area for any sign of you, only for a trail of small, yellow flowers to catch his eye. they trailed downwards off a rugged path, and his legs felt compelled to adhere to the strange breadcrumb trail.
the flowers lead him to a small clearing, where a gentle stream rushed by, and where your figure lay on your side surrounded by heaps upon heaps of little, lemony flowers. dainsleif's chest began to morph and twist with every step he took towards your body, still in your archon form. he feared so greatly that death had taken you into its hands as he knelt down with trembling legs to your body. much to his surprise, you were quite awake and numbly staring at the rushing water in front of your face. the light in your lovely eyes had faded, leaving the ring a dull hazel, the color of dirt or faded mud. faded tear tracks marked lines down the center of your face, and he knew that the damage he had done was immense.
"(y/n)..." his voice warbled with suppressed emotions as his lips morphed into a watery frown.
your eyes peeled themselves away from the flowing water and connected with dainsleif's, to which you replied with a half hearted chuckle and no more.
"i'm hallucinating now? heartbreak is fascinating." you mumbled with a sad smile as your hand moved upwards to caress his skin.
"you're not hallucinating, i'm...i am real." he murmured just as he placed his hand over yours.
the light within your eyes began to spark, then glimmer with hope as the realness of the situation set in. no words could escape your lips before he had pulled you up, drawn you into a tight hug and pressed kiss after kiss to your temples, just below your branch-like horns.
"could you ever forgive this foolish sinner?" dainsleif mumbled into your shoulder and squeezed tighter, as if you'd fade from his grasp should his grip slack even the slightest.
"dain...it's me who should be asking for forgiveness, not-"
dainsleif was never a selfish man, but with you he was allowed to indulge and savor your warmth. his lips cut off your refutes just as they were about to emerge from your lips.
"you saved me, didn't you?" he asked once parted from your lips.
"you remembered." you cooed, thumbing over his ruddy cheeks.
"i tried my best to reason with the gods, but dendro is not as powerful an element as others think." a sigh enveloped your words with regret and sorrow, hands moving downwards from his face to his shoulders, "but then, i saw you. and narrowly i managed to get you out before total ruin fell to khaenri'ah."
dainsleif's heart hammered ferociously in his chest upon understanding the true magnitude of your words. you hadn't laid siege to khaenri'ah, you hadn't harmed his people in any way. you were innocent.
"i'm a fool." dainsleif berated, guilt wrenching his heart in every which way.
"you're no fool, you've just been hurt." you coo, wiping away at a stray tear that trickled down his face.
"how is it that you're able to be so kind to me even now?" he asked. your sniffles and mumbled whimpers hidden behind that smile of yours tore his heart in two, knowing that his rash actions had been the cause of your sorrow.
"it's because i love you, wholly. you are no toy for me to play with, and i will follow you to the ends of teyvat if you would indulge me." you caress the heat of his cheek and allow him to wipe away the tears that had fallen from your eyes.
"and i, you, whether you were mortal or an archon. you'll forever have my heart." and the words he spoke were truer that he'd even been, more honest than he'd ever felt with himself in so long.
his words made your limp heart swell with affection, and any doubt you might've had flitted away with the cool wind.
"you are absolutely beautiful." his eyes study you in a passionate way as his hands glide over your bark horns, to your supple cheeks, then finally coming to thumb underneath the skin of your vibrant, crystal-like eyes where a ring of soft green peered back at him.
you shy away from his gaze, face warm and fluster evidence in the warbled smile that creeps up onto your lips. but dainsleif was not finished, for a man who craved every inch of you he could never be satiated with doubt lingering in your body.
"i promise to you, you shall never shed another tear under my watch, my starlight." his lips hovered above yours momentarily, as if asking for permission before you closed the gap and looped your arms firm around his neck.
the love of a god was infinite and powerful and even if he were to wander the grounds of teyvat for a century more, he'd be alright as long as you stood by his side.
despite his grievances with the gods and celestia, dainsleif has come to an odd conclusion: not all the gods were responsible for what happened
you are his prime example
your capacity for love and kindness is so foreign to a man who has known nothing but solitude and grief
and he learns to embrace it, one step at a time with your help
dainsleif carries a heavy conscience, but he's at east knowing that you are but a momentary longing glance away and he's free to usher you close for comforting cuddles
he's much more careful with expressing his distaste for the gods around you after you reveal yourself (even if you encourage him to be more vocal)
dainsleif believes in fate as a harbinger of sorrow and anguish
but if fate had brought you to him, then perhaps fate wasn't such a bad concept after all
date published: september 10th, 2021
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