For Some Reason Almost Every Haitanis Entrance Appearance Are Them Literally Doing Nothing Just Vibing

。SINCERELY, YOUR BAD INFLUENCE

━━ PAIRING: scaramouche/reader

━━ GENRE: fluff

━━ SUMMARY: the pile of bills waiting to be paid had exhaustion weighing over you like a feasting ghost. good thing that your dear lover was someone who's proven to be adept at fighting off your worries in more ways than one.

━━ CONTAINS: modern!au, established relationship, reader is an office worker, domestic fluff, crude language, scaramouche is implied to be a former member of a gang/mafia, conversational mentions of violence, lowercase intended

━━ VALENTINE’S 2022 EVENT SPECIAL (LATE POST)

EACH step was made with purpose, which is to say, each step was made with a murderous glint in his eyes as he confidently walked the streets leading back to his home. a sick sense of pleasure throbbed underneath his skin, expressed in the victorious smirk on his face as his eyes watched the passers-by avoid him without so much as a complaint. never mind the fact that he was wearing your oversized hoodie or the fact that he was barely cradling four bags filled with grocery items on his own, scaramouche was just as terrifying as he was back in his heyday.

a familiar ringtone broke the silence he kept as he walked and he groaned as he fumbled with his things before opening his messaging app. though, of course, you had to be blind to miss the way the mood around him shifted. gone was the murderous glint in his eyes as it was replaced with an exasperatedly tender gaze. had the strangers not witnessed the way scaramouche nearly bit their head off for staring just a few seconds earlier, they would've been confident to say that they passed by two different people who just looked scarily similar. still, between their own busy lives and the possibility of being involved in a petty fight should they breathe in the direction of a ticking time bomb, the people left him to his own devices — just as they should do.

"where are you?" the text read and scaramouche scoffed at the cold way those words reached him. then again, what was it that he was hoping for? a few heart emojis? a disgustingly, cute nickname? he could only grit his teeth as he feels heat pool in his cheeks. typing back a quick reply, he pocketed his phone before resuming his trek home. the faster he got there, the less the chance that he'll embarrass himself by simultaneously combusting in the middle of the road because of his straying thoughts.

at home, you groaned as you stretched, back aching from the sitting position you held for hours straight. it has been a while since you had the luxury of not having to go overtime at work and you figured that it would be nice to spend it with your grump of a lover who has "subtly" expressed his displeasure over the lack of attention you were giving him these past few weeks. to your surprise, he wasn't home and was in fact, fetching groceries when you were sure it was your turn to do so. lips twitching upwards fondly, you felt your heart clench in adoration. nothing beats acts of service when you're about to pass out from exhaustion.

as if on cue (and you wouldn't be surprised if scaramouche really had a sixth sense for when you're about to fall asleep without giving him so much as a glance), the door opened to reveal your lover whose frown worsened as he spots you from afar. moving closer, he eyed you up and down before squinting — a tell that he does right before he's about to ridicule you out of concern. something about his "you look like shit" actually means "are you okay?" in his prominent language of tough love. wanting to be spared the rudeness today, you beat him to it by giving him a sugary smile.

"welcome home, honey boo! how was your trip to the market?"

scaramouche froze, before a sharp glare was directed at your laidback position on the couch, "what did you just call me?"

"hm? what was that, honey boo?"

your typically collected, although also mostly feisty, lover grimaced but the adorable blush that colored the tips of his ears made him look softer than he actually was. it was difficult maintaining your composure when he was so easy to infuriate but this time, the laughter that bubbled deep from the depths of your core was something you didn't even bother hiding. instead, you helped him set the groceries on the coffee table before pulling him into you as you laid against the fluff of your throw pillows with a sigh.

"oi, let me go. i need to put the groceries away."

"later..." you groaned as you nuzzled your face deeper into his neck. an action that worsened the already vibrant hue on his cheeks, "didn't you say you wanted my attention last week, schnookums."

scaramouche jabs a finger at your waist, "shut up or i'm leaving."

you loved him and you love the act of teasing him even more but at the end of the day, you were a human who instinctively clung to the idea of preserving your life from ferocious, little people like your lover. deciding that you're going to live for at least another fifty peaceful years, you silently snuggle up to him. right, this was better... there was no need to tell him that the way his arms were firmly wound up around your waist — occasionally even tugging you closer — was enough to tell you that he had no intention of leaving the couch anytime soon.

from his position, he could hear the rhythm of your heart clearly and the way you would occasionally sigh in contentment. he's far from being religious and the colorful words he spouts on the daily are enough to have him excommunicated under multiple counts of heresy and blasphemy but if he were to be truly honest and vulnerable with himself for a change, this — you and him and silence, separated from the rest of the tumultuous world — is heaven. it's either that or heaven is nothing at all.

after all, what could paradise offer that could top the way your fingers ran through his hair, massaging the parts that hurt whenever something or, rather, someone, decides to give him a headache? your hand falls from his hair and to his back, tracing swirls and shapes down his spine and it took his all to not shiver as little zaps of electricity traveled with your touch. right... this has to be heaven, the only kind he'll believe and turn holy for. confident now that you won't see his face, scaramouche leaned up to brush his lips over the side of your neck — lightly, barely there but loving, all the same — before closing his eyes. the groceries could wait.

it was half past seven when he awoke once more and immediately, an irritated grumble left his lips at the notable lack of your presence. standing up with a low whine, scaramouche moved towards your home office knowing that that's the only place you'll be at this hour.

"what the hell are you doing?"

you hummed in reply, not shocked at the annoyed tone he was using with you when he purposely announced his irritation for the world to hear with each loud stomp he made on his way over to you, "there was an emergency at work. i just need to get this done quick."

"you're at home. stop slaving yourself for your shitty boss."

you don't respond, too busy typing an email for your colleagues and scaramouche didn't like the lack of response as before you know it, he had turned your swivel chair in his direction and flicked your forehead.

"ow! what—"

"you have thirty minutes to fix whatever it is that your incompetent co-workers fucked up. if you're not by the dining table by then, i'm throwing the router in the bin and knocking you out so you'll actually get a decent amount of sleep, you moron with shit for brains."

knowing that there was no room to argue with him, you nodded in defeat, something that made scaramouche snicker, "now, how hard was that?"

"ugh, romance is dead i swear..."

"tragic. happy valentine's, brat."

laughing at his jab, you went back to work with renewed motivation and aggression as you deleted a few lines from your email that came out sounding too polite. seriously, he and his gremlin attitude were rubbing onto you.

in the kitchen, scaramouche stared at the ingredients in front of him. he wasn't a bad cook per se, he just wasn't the best. cooking was usually left in his... acquaintance's hands. the annoying ginger head dropped by too often for his liking and when scaramouche told him off for lounging around his home when he brought nothing to the table, he began bringing tupperwares of food made by his mom instead of taking a hint and not coming over anymore. still, you were thoroughly amused and well-fed given the strange turn of events so he learned to take it in stride. the less work for either of you, the safer it was for the rest of the world.

staring at the vegetables in contempt, scaramouche huffed before scrolling through his contacts where at the top, your favorite fast food restaurant's delivery hotline was saved for all the times you found yourself craving something he can't possibly make. hesitating, scaramouche glanced at the vegetables again before giving up and dialing. while there's less romance now that he's proven incapable of making a proper homecooked meal that's not eggs and bacon, he knew that credit's still due as he recited your order, memorized through the heart and well, the number of times this situation has occurred.

so what if there's no candle-lit dinner, scaramouche argues as he continues to defend his choice fifteen minutes after he placed his order, at least you'll be eating something that isn't burnt today.

to his surprise, you finished five minutes before he expected you to and you were even pleased that he had ordered in instead of cooking. too much work you said, but scaramouche figured that you've just been watching too many romanticized sitcoms as of late. the rest of the night was a blur of doing your nightly routines side by side, no different from a regular day and frankly, he liked that. over the top, corporate benefiting actions were never his style anyway. what he did remember was that you had sloppily laid your body over his last night, effectively knocking the air out of his lungs as he was left to support your entire weight without any sort of warning. the high-pitched evil voice that reigned the insides of scaramouche's head urged him to push you off of him to return the utter lack of regard but one look at the dark circles under your eyes and he was sighing in defeat. how detestable... if he had known that he would keel over for someone so weak, he would've laughed and thrown a world-ending fit of rage earlier. you were neither great nor mighty but, good heavens, you seem to have a knack for making his blood boil. he knew that some people are born gentle and kind but you? you were overflowing with so much goodwill in your heart that you might as well adopt those annoying, little cherubs that are glowing and praising every single one of your self-sacrificial acts of kindness behind your back.

really, what was he thinking when he fell for a saint?

now conscious, scaramouche toyed with the idea of telling you off and guiding you back into his stellar path of becoming a grudge-holding menace of society. it's definitely not a concern for your well-being that's bringing this thought into mind. it's just... scaramouche sighed, before directing his gaze to the continuous pinging of your phone from far away. he should really give your overindulgent coworkers a piece of his mind. stopping in his tracks, a devious grin and manic look crossed over his face. something that was hurriedly removed as you let out a muffled whine, now also roused from sleep.

"wait... what's happening?"

scaramouche smiles and that was when you knew that something was awfully wrong, "good morning to you too."

shivering slightly, you reluctantly left the bed in favor of getting to work on time. if things went south because of him... well, you'll think about that later when it does occur.

noon approached much too swiftly and before long, it was your lunch break. you could skip lunch, you mused as you eyed the towering pile of papers you had to get through today but before you could begin working on another one, a small bag was placed in front of you haphazardly.

"...scara?"

"why are you looking at me like that with your blank eyes?!" he seethed as a soft pink brought color to his face again, "it's your break, right? there! i bought you lunch because i made too much!"

you doubted the legitimacy of his last statement but before you could tease him or thank him for that matter, he was already scurrying off. shaking your head, you opened the bag only to be greeted with a neon pink post-it with "stop sucking up to your scum of a boss and report him for passing his workload to you. it's not like i can't beat him up if things go wrong" written on it. stifling a laugh, you opened the container to be greeted with the leftovers from last night and freshly cooked eggs made exactly the way you like them.

that man, really... you giggled to yourself as you began typing a report to the hr.

each step was made with purpose, which is to say, each step was made with a murderous glint in his eyes as he confidently walked out of your office and back to his home. a sick sense of pleasure throbbed underneath his skin, expressed in the victorious smirk on his face as his eyes watched your hopeless colleagues avoid him without so much as a complaint. nevermind the fact that he was definitely acting like a househusband just as ajax teased him to be or that he's shorter than everyone he passed by, scaramouche was just as terrifying as he was back in his heyday and the scaramouche of back then is all too happy to be the monster that terrifies those who dare exploit what's his.

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© 2021 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐗𝐗. all rights reserved. do not copy, claim, repost or translate in any platforms but reblogs are appreciated.

#your highness, do you love me?

—how do they treat you with favor if you’re the tsaritsa’s heir

CHARACTERS. fatui harbingers (Tartaglia / Childe, Arlecchino, Pantalone, La Signora, Sandrone, Scaramouche, Il Dottore, Columbina, Il Capitano, Pierro); Tsaritsa’s heir! Gn! Reader

THEMES. Can be platonic/romantic, it’s on you; fluff; crack on some

WARNINGS. reader is a simp for everyone /hj; sandrone is gaslight gatekeep girlboss; obv tsaritsa is your mother here… biological or not is not really implied

NOTES. You are free to think what’s the reader’s age or appearance as i did not really specify those things here~ p.s. i tried to write for pulcinella… but i really can’t lmao

Archons, in general, do not pass down their divinity to their own blood. But for you and the Fatui, this was different. For them, the Tsaritsa was the one that built them and made them who they are now—giving them power and the ability to conquer the world of Teyvat.

…

TARTAGLIA, being the newest member of the Fatui Harbingers, is expected to do what newcomers do: be too showy with their loyalty—however, this is already quite apparent with his personality all the more, which made him stand out for you as he was twice as showy as the others than you’ve ever seen.

He was not exactly a good person, but he was the Harbinger that did not mind talking to you casually, especially after your permission. And you liked it. It was a breath of fresh air, and it gave you a sense of being one with them, not just someone who had a position just because you were their Queen’s heir.

“Are you leaving?” you question, catching him along the hallways, on th way out of your mother’s throne room.

“Hm? Why? Are you going to miss me?” he lets out a sly smirk to which you chuckled—how he can make you laugh in amusement within seconds still amazes you up to this very day.

“You’re so funny, Tartaglia.”

“So… you won’t miss me?”

You could only smile and send him look, “You’re free to guess, Eleven.”

ARLECCHINO gives you the same respect as she does with the Tsaritsa. She knows her place and her role, and she may not talk to you unless you talk to her first.

“Knave, Knave, have you heard? I heard Tartaglia went to look for Scaramouche. Would you be going as well?”

“I am not,” she answers, “not unless the heir wishes for me to go, then I shall-”

“Ah, no! Don’t!” You immediately interrupt her, “How about spending time with me instead?”

“If that is what you wish, Your Highness.”

“Knave…” you gave her a look—and for her, it was a look she often saw from the Tsaritsa, whenever she is displeased, that is—“I told you to call me by my name, did I not?”

A shiver runs down her spine, bowing her head down, “I apologize, Yo—Y/n.”

She feels a flutter in her stomach when she catches you smiling brightly—as bright as the sun that does not dare to peek in the land of Snezhnaya—what was this? Is this of worry that she had displeased the heir? Or was this because it’s you? Either way, both do not go well with her—this could jeopardize her standing as a Harbinger as well.

“Good! Now, accompany me? Knave?”

“Very well… Y/n.”

PANTALONE treats you quite handsomely (just like he is…) actually. He has a ton of gifts for you, especially when he came to realize how you liked being given one. He’d shower you with material things, and would even give them personally quite a few times—your birthdays most likely.

To be frank, he only did this at first to earn your favor, at the very least, make you have a good word to say about him to your mother just in case.

But things got out of hand.

“Ah, be careful! Lord Pantalone is fond of Your Highness’ heir. He would not tolerate it if he heard you say anything about them!”

Even the others had noticed the (not-so) subtle actions of the Harbinger, and yet it was him who thought that all this time, he was only doing this for such a simple reason.

But why does he find it infuriating just by hearing others say your name? Or whenever he sees you act more friendly to the other Harbingers.

He certainly has to find a reason why.

And the only way is to go and find you and have a nice chat.

Yes… just a chat.

LA SIGNORA is known for being one of the Tsaritsa’s closest aides, and that was how you came to know her as well.

As she is closer to your mother than the others, you’ve seen her far too many times and was able to also converse with her as well.

However… she’s quite…

“Ah, well it isn’t you, little one.”

“I… why do you always call me that?” you purse your lips, almost pouting in front of the Eighth Harbinger, to which she could only giggle.

“Why? Are you displeased with such a thing? Would you rather I call you…” she paused leaning in ever so slightly and making you lean back… but she didn't say anything else—just giving you a knowing smirk and look.

“C-call me… what?” You tried to question, entertaining her response, whatever it is.

“Hmm,” she hums yet never answers the question. She stays in that position a moment longer before she leans back and crosses her arms.

“Seeing as you couldn’t propose a new name, I’ll continue calling you the same, little one.”

SANDRONE does not really speak to you much, but people could feel that she truly favors you, probably much more than the other Harbingers and even the Tsaritsa.

Yet that favor seems to have come from somewhere else.

“I see you all are unaware, yet unawareness is not an excuse for this treachery. Your Highness, if you may allow me to punish them for their disrespect towards you,” the woman bows her head with a hand on her chest, making the Fatui members tremble at their leader’s words.

“T-the heir themselves! Please have mercy-!”

“They are my subordinates and yet they do not know who the heir of Your Majesty is. I am disgraced by such,” she raises her head and sends a look at you, eyes gleaming, “Your Highness should not let themselves be treated this way.”

Is she… urging you?

“I…”

“Have mercy, Your Highness-!”

You looked away, closing your eyes with a sigh.

“I’ll leave it to you, Sandrone.”

She smirks—which you failed to see—and replies, “As you wish, Your Highness. You truly are a great fit to the throne.”

SCARAMOUCHE is not favored by everyone, and maybe that’s why he does find satisfaction whenever you show your kindness to him.

Like a lone moon in the middle of the dark.

Not that he’d ever admit to such a thing.

“Scara!”

He grits his teeth, jaw and shoulders tensing at the way you referred to him—and at the mere sound of your voice. He bit back the words he so wanted to blurt out, aware of his surroundings—the eyes and ears that your call had caught attention of.

After all, it is not that usual for you, the heir of the Tsaritsa, to call someone—let alone a Harbinger with a nickname.

“Your Highness,” he hisses, and pauses just as soon as he had faced you, glaring at you as he mutters in a low tone, “do you love me?”

“W-what?!” You staggered and instinctively looked around. It was a good thing he had questioned you without letting others hear or else—

“I said—”

“I heard you for the first time, Sixth.” Your firm voice made him halt, as well as probably caught more attention from the people around you. It was not that usual for you to talk seriously in front of others—especially to SCARAMOUCHE.

He raised a brow at your tone, only to let out a scoff when you drop the serious look on your face and smile at him again.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No! But you got my heart!”

He makes a disgusted look on his face, only to face away with a huff, crossing his arms. Ah, he should really make you stop… but it’s not like he could—or that he’d want to.

IL DOTTORE… Well, you probably found him scarier than Pierro honestly. At first.

As time went on and you continued to observe him, you realized that...

Just as much as someone like him craves for things that are interesting for him, he was the one who you found interesting.

“Ah… you’re here again, Your Highness! A pleasure for you to join us.”

You found yourself smiling at the grin that the Doctor gave you, standing at your usual place and placing your arms on the desk—one that is quite far from his workplace, as he’d one time told you it was “dangerous to come near”.

“What is it that you’re up to today, Dottore?”

“My, my, aren’t you a curious little cat?” He hums and turns to face you, “this time will be a secret, however. Fear not! Your expectations will be granted once I present to you what this experiment is about.”

“Oh? A surprise? I didn’t know you like surprises.”

“Oh I don’t” he smirks, “but I know you do.”

You adored COLUMBINA’s voice the moment you heard her, and it was you who gave her her name.

“Damselette, truly fitting, isn’t it?”

“I am grateful, Your Highness.”

Anyone could tell that there is something going on between the two of you—either you favor her greatly or that she follows whatever you say as if it is law.

“Isn’t she the Harbinger that the Heir is fond of?”

“I bet that she only became a Harbinger because of the Heir.”

“What are you saying?! That Harbinger is terrifying! Did you not hear what she did on her most recent missions?”

“What? What did she do?”

You were passing by with COLUMBINA when you caught the voices of the Fatuus not too far away from both of you, before they could say any more, you halted from your tracks and reached for your companion’s ears, cupping them and preventing her from hearing anything.

She perks her head but does not say anything. You could still hear the others’ voices, to which prompted you to signal from the guards that were accompanying you, and they knew full well what the look on your face tells.

Removing your hands from COLUMBINA’s ears once the guards had taken the talkative Fatuus’ away, your heart swelled on the smile that she flashed onto you, bowing her head and letting you hear her sweet voice.

“Your Highness is always there for me, and this humble servant shall always be by Your Highness’ side.”

You scoffed, smiling back.

“Good.”

IL CAPITANO… he knows his place—his title as a Fatui Harbinger, but he also would have tendencies where would show some human kindness that probably very few of his colleagues do possess… every once in a while. And honestly, that was what you liked about him. That regardless of his strength and title, you could see an ounce of humanity in him—despite there being a chance that he’s not anymore.

You’d never know.

Nonetheless, it shows whenever he was with you—or when you see him, actually. You two are not that close, it was difficult to. You are the heir of their Queen, who were you to make friends with technically her subordinates? Your mother would not permit you to, nor would she let them do the same.

One day, however, changed it all.

It was the day that you had seen IL CAPITANO training on his own. Ever since, you were mesmerized. It’s quite unknown to you whether it was because of him and his movements or was it your desire to fight.

But nonetheless, it broke all the walls down and prompted you to ask “Could you teach me?”

You caught his attention—maybe way before that day.

“I mean… could you train me? To be as strong as you. You’re strong… right? I’ve heard Eleventh ask you to spar with him before. Maybe… you can teach me that too. To spar.”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. '' You could hear the grin in his voice, but you can’t really see it with his mask on.

Actually, you think to yourself, you shouldn’t, you replied to him in your mind, only to merely smile.

Not that he’d ever know.

Not now, that is.

You cannot really remember when was the first time you met PIERRO, as he was already there when you were born, and he had been a constant in your life. Maybe you almost forgot a time where he wasn’t present and by your side.

Nonetheless, you’ve always seen him as quite intimidating, but also somewhat of a protector. At one point, you had heard your mother tell him to guide you on the right path. And since then, you’ve always noticed him whenever he was near.

And one time, you had the courage to walk up to him and actually talk to him.

He was… rigid, so to speak, but he entertained your talk and the conversation, so it didn’t stop you from trying to speak or have a chat with him every once in a while, sometimes even in his office where you just talk his ears off and he listens. He indulges you, you think. And honestly, you were just there because you were quite curious if he’ll ever tell you off or scold you in any way—just like your mother would whenever you try to initiate long nonsense chats with her.

But he doesn’t.

And maybe… you’re still trying up til this day, and he already knew your intentions whenever you try to talk to him.

“Your Highness… you’re here,”

“Ah, yes, I have another story to tell you!”

“I have reports to finish but,” he pauses, sending a look to you, “I shall listen to whatever you have to say.”

Reblogs and comments are appreciated~

Taglist is on the reblogs!

my take on the scene we didn’t have the pleasure of witnessing

One Wish [Xiao x reader]

A/N: Yeah yeah Lantern Rite already passed but who cares. AFTER THE RECENT QUEST (2.7 chasm) I FEEL THE NEED TO WRITE FOR XIAO. 

And yes, the last bit is inspired by Tangled (the boat part).

Warnings: Cringe?? Haven’t written in a while.

Genre: A bit of angst at first, fluff (dw happy ending)

————————————————–

It’s been three weeks, and you still feel awkward around Xiao.

It’s not your fault really… or maybe it kind of is. Either way, you feel like you can’t look at him the same way.

Three weeks ago, you decided to take every ounce of your bravery, and confess to Xiao. You’ve liked him ever since that day at Wangshu Inn. The way he protects you, and keeps his promise by coming just by the call of his name. He even began to walk with you if he ever saw you nearby. It was difficult to keep your feelings to yourself for so long.

However, Xiao didn’t have the positive reaction you expected. 

Keep reading

His reaction to being called gēgē by a child.

Kazuha, Thoma, Gorou ver.

Itto, Scaramouche ver.

Requested by @lunavixia​.

A/N: It feels a little out of place for a tsukumogami to be picked up by an adeptus, so the reader is an actual human child in Xiao’s version.

Xiao | Female reader | Scenario

“(Y/n), please don’t run! You might trip and hurt yourself!” Chongyun cried as he reached out for the young girl’s figure bolting away in the distance. Once she had disappeared beyond the gate beside Wangshu Inn, the exorcist fell on all fours in despair as scenarios of his possible doom by a certain yaksha’s hands flashed through his mind. “Adeptus Xiao will no doubt have my head if he finds even the tiniest scratch on her-!”

Keep reading

“ GENSHIN IMPACT !! ” 🏷️— SNEZHNAYA DOES NOT BELIEVE IN TEARS (CHILDE X READER).

＃CHARACTERS! — CHILDE.

＃CONTENT WARNING(S)! — ANGST.

＃MASTERLIST! — HERE.

＃ALT ACCOUNTS! — @yyolkchi (spam/sketch posting account!) & @ddollipop (mature fic account!)

＃A/N! — INSPIRED BY THE OFFICIAL RELEASE OF THE HARBINGER DESIGNS, SOMEONE CONVINCE ME NOT TO SIMP FOR PANTALONE, HELP ME.

Snezhnaya isn't always so bitter and cold.

Sure, the winter is unrelenting, the snow piles high, up and above the heads of small children who know of nothing else outside the nation's borders, —but there's warmth to be found in this icy place. Warmth comes and goes like the frosty winds that sweep across the land. It's fleeting, and painfully unreliable, but perhaps the worst part of it all is that you reach for it every single time it comes back around, no matter how long it's been without a single flickering flame off in the distance to let you know it hasn't been extinguished.

Childe comes and goes as he pleases. He's a Fatui Harbinger first, and your lover second. You know that to be the case, even when he denies it, even when he insists to you that he does what he does in order to build a better life, —for himself first, then his family and you, because you've "always been included in that from the day I fell in love with you." Family. It's nice to think about, but it's hard to imagine that Childe sees you so fondly when he hardly ever sees you at all these days. His visits have gotten shorter, only lasting a week at most, and they're now few and far between. His travels have gotten longer, and he comes back with more injuries than he ever has before.

But you can't seem to let him go, no matter what he does, no matter what he says, no matter how many times he disappears into the distance and leaves you hanging by a thread for days, weeks, months. . . You wait. You turn down the men that only swing by the confectionery shop you work at to flirt with you while they mindlessly order small boxes of chocolates or fudge. You go home to an empty bed, saving his side just in case he crawls in through the window again in the dead of night. You hold that shirt of his that he left at your apartment not-so-accidentally half a year ago to the lower half of your face, breathing in whatever's left of his scent after all this time. It's fading, just like he is. . . But you won't wash it, nor will you wash yourself clean of him. The ties between him and you have turned into iron chains. Sometimes, they curl around your neck and pull taut until you're sputtering, falling to your knees on the floor next to his side of the bed.

You weep. You worry. You drive yourself mad wondering if he's okay, if he's injured, if he's doing alright. And then he waltzes his way back in like he never left, —and you should be angry. You should probably hate him by now after all the sleepless nights and harrowing days he's put you through, but the moment he returns with that arrogant laugh and that cocky smile, you've already lost the fight. He opens his arms and you've slotted yourself between them before you have half the mind to stop yourself, letting him hold you even though he doesn't deserve to. The thick fur of his coat tickles your neck, then weighs heavily on your spine when he sheds it like an unneeded extra layer of skin and places it around your shoulders.

Now's the time when you should shove it off, look him dead in those ocean blue eyes and tell him that you're tired of this, —that it's all too much, and you deserve better. But when he's here, he's the best man you could ever ask for. He's doting, even when his body aches and it's hard for him to move around properly. He understands when you crack under the pressure, letting you cry on his shoulder as he rubs little circles into your skin by the fire. It crackles, and your heart sings for him. Childe is all you've ever wanted. For so many years, you've watched him grow and change, becoming the person he is today who is many things: some good, some bad. But the bitter truth remains that you are an affair, second to his job that he works for tirelessly. As long as he's a Harbinger, the only place you'll ever have is as a homewrecker.

Here you are though. . . Again.

"Easy," he requests, voice strained from the pulse of his aching ribs, "—I missed you too."

"It's been two months since I last saw you, Childe," you comment, sounding much more bitter than you'd intended. "No letters, no nothing, and I. . . I was scared something had happened. Something bad."

Guilt floods through his veins. He hadn't even realized it had been quite that long. His tireless work which often requires an intense amount of traveling is known to easily allow him to lose track of time. Still, he knows he should have sent someone to give you a message somewhere in between his camp setups. He should have done more to ensure that you weren't losing sleep over him.

"I'm sorry," he relents, voice thick with melancholy. "Time gets away from me on jobs. That's not an excuse, though. I need to be more mindful of your feelings, and I'll work on that."

You hate this. When he has time to spare for you, the last thing you want to do is spend it talking about all the ways he's made you worry or feel small unwittingly. In a way, you feel equally responsible for your own feelings. He never misrepresented himself to you after all. . . You knew what you were getting yourself into, and you jumped headfirst into the fire. Because Childe, above all things, is warm. 

"We can talk about it later," you mumble against the skin of his neck.

Later will likely never come, but you're keen on overlooking that. For now, at least. Until he leaves once more in a few days time, and you're forced to reconcile with loneliness again. And so the cycle will begin; he leaves, and you tell yourself this is the last time. When he comes back, you'll pull yourself free of his grasp: the one that's ice cold sometimes, but still manages to nip at your moth-eaten, frostbitten heart. But then the next time comes around, and you find yourself in his embrace again.

"People are starting to stare."

They're common folk from the looks of it, just regular citizens of Snezhnaya, same as you. Even so, it's impossible to know when someone may be working as an informant. Childe's head on a platter is worth at least a couple hundred million Mora. . .

"You're pretty," Childe notes, a playful smile pulling at the corners of his lips, "they can't help themselves."

That's far removed from the reality of the situation, but his comment still makes you giggle. The truth is that Childe is somewhat of a Snezhnayan celebrity; much as all the Harbingers are. They rule with an iron fist over a great deal of politics, trade, travel, economic systems, and social functionality. The Harbingers are well respected, but also immeasurably feared. That is the real reason all the people have begun to throw glances your way. You're with Childe.

"Hardly," you brush the comment off, stifling a giggle.

"Hardly?" Childe parrots, "—Don't be so modest. You're the most beautiful person in Snezhnaya. In all of Teyvat, even. And trust me, I've probably seen every inch of this world. Parts of other worlds too, and none of it compares to you."

He means it. Not just outerly, though he does think your physical beauty is utterly unmatched, —but internally. When he's down and wondering if he should even bother to pull himself back up, he thinks of you, and you give him the strength he needs to move forward. He thinks of your smile, the way your eyes reflect starlight, the way your bleeding heart welcomes him and gives him shelter. When he sleeps beside you, he likes to imagine that he's sunken into your being, and that you've sunken into him. He sleeps behind your ribcage, right next to your beating heart, and you sleep next to his.

"You're laying it on thick tonight," you comment.

His compliments pile up like the snow at your feet, and you know what that means.

"You're not staying for long, are you?"

The glimmer in his eyes dies out a little as his face falls, and you wish you hadn't said anything. It's too late now though.

". . . Things haven't been easy since Rosalyne's death," he says. "Her work has been mitigated to the rest of us, and I've been given the tasks that require the most travel, since I'm the one who leaves Snezhnaya the most."

He's avoiding the question, and you sigh; warm breath hitting the cold air in a little cloud of vapor.

"You'll be gone by morning then?" You ask.

Childe opens his mouth to speak, but you already know the answer, so he purses his lips together a few seconds later. There's no point in rubbing salt in the wound.

"Let's go," you prompt, pulling him by the hand. "It's freezing, and you don't have a coat anymore."

"I don't really need one," he assures you, "I was born and raised here in Snezhnaya, after all. I'm more than used to the weather."

You just want to get inside. Both because your fingers have started to go numb, and because you know Childe has injuries that you're keen on looking after before the sun rises and daybreak comes. By then, he'll be gone again, and you'll be left to wait for him once more.

The way snow crunches under his feet is an almost comforting sound. It's been a while since you've heard it. There's a certain something to every little thing he does, —as if the world all but bends for his will and the universe seeks to bow at his feet. He's the only man alive you'd wait this long for.

He squeezes your hand as if to say "I'm sorry."

And you squeeze his in return to let him know that it's okay, —everything is fine— even though it isn't. It never really has been. But when this coat is draped over your shoulders, his fingers have laced with yours, and he's pulling you close to keep you warm, it's easy to convince yourself that maybe one day everything won't be so bad. He'll find a way to make things better for everyone: himself, his family, you. . . He'll find a way to ease the sting that comes when you wake up in the morning and he's not there.

He'll hold you to sleep, then pull away at the first sign of sunrise. Just like the icy winds of Snezhnaya, he'll come and go with the breeze.

They're bitter. They hurt. But they dry your tears when they swoop in from the north, and sometimes, they carry Childe's heartbeat along with them.

The thick blanket of snow along the ground glitters in the humble moonlight. Childe's hand is placed at the small of your back, matching the curve. And somehow, it's comforting in ways any apology he could ever give never would be. Once again, you're being swept away; washed out into his sea. You're drowning in him.

"I love you," he whispers, for your ears only.

Like it's just between the two of you, —some deep, dark secret, or something precious he hopes you'll only ever need to hear from him.

You'll think about that secret, that precious whisper, come morning when Childe sneaks away at the first sign of daylight. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll catch a glimpse of his footprints before the new snowfall rains down from the heavens and buries them, erasing all traces that he was ever even here in the first place.

"I love you too," you answer honestly.

It's all you have the will to say

But sometimes, I wish I didn't.

No thoughts head empty only rubedo and reader living that ✨cottagecore✨ life away from the cult like I've read in some sagau fics-- which leads to incidents like these happening:

Y'all should make sure to plug yall noses or Rubedo will be worried sick 👃 cuz that won't be the last time something like this will happen

Should I draw those too tho-

the fandom: omg kenma is sooo baby we have to protect him

Kenma:

Random Headcannon of the day:

Inui had been scouted by several entertainment agencies, however when he showed his scar they backed off.

This earned him the nickname "Pretty Boy" within the Black Dragons. Even Taiju teasingly called him this once. Kokonoi lives for it, and has been punched more than once for it.

Thoughts.

“Someone who won’t run away” and now homeboy is running away from him , himself 😭

Credits to luty_nii on instagram