》VI

Maybe a part 2 of the arcane characters saying things they regret, but they're apologizing because I can't live after reading a angst 🫠

Making up with Arcane characters after a bad argument. | Vi, Caitlyn, Jinx, Ekko, Sevika x Gn!Reader

(Previous part)

Fine, fine, here is a happy part two guys. Take it as an apology for the tears and pain I've caused.✨️

Content: Swearing, accusations of cheating, slight angst, making up, fluff, potential spoilers for season 2, established romantic relationships, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not proofread))

》VI

She knew that she had fucked up. There was no way to deny or refute it either. And your absence was further proof of that.

You were always there for her, even when things got bad and she became even worse. No matter how much she yelled or drank, you were there afterward to nurture her back to health. It was so unfair of her to expect it still, after all she had said to you. She hated herself. She hated how weak and pathetic she had become. How she can't even stand straight anymore from the alcohol and couldn't win a single game since she had lost you.

And instead of Caitlyn haunting her like she used to, it was only you now. But you were crying every time. Asking her why she hated you so much. Why she couldn't care for you the way you cared for her. Why you were always the second choice despite having been there since the start.

Why, why, why.

Gritting her teeth against the headache, she made her way through the dark, familiar lanes to your small home that you once shared together. She had to talk to you. She really, really had to. Even if it's far too late now after a week of silence in-between the two of you. She had taken the time to reflect and think about everything, especially about your relationship. And it made her realise that nothing in this world was losing you too.

Knocking on your door, she nervously waited as she heard your footsteps quickly approaching her from inside. You opened the door carefully, ironically just how she had taught you, before freezing at the sight of her. She gave you a weak smile, attempting to look calm and friendly, but it still scared you off. "Hey cupca-" You tried slamming the door into her face mid greeting, but her foot was faster to jam itself in the way.

"H-Hey! Wait, please hear me out!" "Fuck off, Vi. I'm not in the mood to hear more of your bullshit. Go back to Caitlyn since I know how badly you want that!" You never cursed, and every word you spoke made her flinch. She, for some reason, didn't expect you to be this mad. But it hurt, and she deserved it. Another thing she underestimated was, unfortunately, your strength since you somehow managed to push her away and shut the door again. "Come on! Please! I... I didn't mean what I said. I just... have been losing my shit ever since what happened. The guilt is killing me, and I know it's not an excuse! You're right, I have to stop this shit! You're right, I need to stop treating your love for granted!"

She didn't know if you were even listening to her anymore, but it didn't stop the tears that burned in her eyes. "I don't give a damn about Caitlyn like that! I never did! It always you for me. You... you cared for me when no one else ever wanted to, and I was such an idiot for not appreciating it more." Her hand slammed against the wood in defeat, her head coming to rest against it as her body trembled. She was so scared of losing you. This can't be the end. "Please. Please just give me another chance to prove myself. I know I'm a fuck up but I swear I'll do better now."

Vi nearly fell right through your house entrance when you opened the door wide with a teary huff. "God, you're such an idiot... get in already before the neighbors complain." You didn't let her reply as you simply dragged her inside and locked the door again. The pitfighter watched you do so with a gentle gaze, one that felt so familiar to you. "... Fine, I'll give you another chance... but no drinking or fighting anymore. Please." You whisper to her, and she nods quickly before engulfing you in a warm hug.

She knows that she isn't fully forgiven yet, but she'll do everything in her power to prove herself worthy of your love again.

》CAITLYN

"You're still up." Caitlyn's voice was calm and gentle now, so different from the stern and cold tone it had before. You ignored her, however, knowing better than to fall for this again. She always got like this when she knew she had screwed up and was trying to crawl back into your good graces. But this time around, you didn't allow it that easily. You refused to speak to her if she hadn't come back to apologize. And yet... you couldn't help but allow yourself at least one sharp dig at her. "And you're late to bed once again. But I suppose Officer Nolan's 'report' was just that interesting, no?" You were perhaps the only person in all auf Pultover that could ever accuse her of something so scandalous as adultery and get away with it.

It certainly would have been amusing if Caitlyn didn't feel so sick at the thought of you believing that.

Sighing, she placed her hat onto a clothing hanger, her jacket following suit. You were facing away from her on the bed, trying to read a book and rest, despite the pain in your heart. It was hard being angry at her when you loved her so deeply. But her insults had struck much deeper than that.

The bed dipped behind you, and soon enough, you felt her strong arms surrounding your body and her nose tickling your cheek. "I'm sorry, my love. I really am. I... have lost my cool, and that was wrong of me." You scoffed at her words, finding them too shallow for the pain she had caused earlier. Yet you struggled to get out of her strong grasp on you. It felt desperate. And you hated the warmth and security that it made you feel. "If that is all you have to say, then you can leave." You hissed out weakly but couldn't find any malice in it. Just heartbreak, that solidified in more tears burning in your eyes. "Because how... how could you ever say that I could betray you? Do you know how that makes me feel? Do you care?"

Caitlyn hummed against the nape of your neck soothingly, a way to acknowledge the plight she had caused you without revealing her own tears. The grief had made her into a monster. A monster that hurt its friends, family, and most importantly, you. It was unforgivable, and yet she wanted to prove herself worthy of you anyway. She wanted to show you that she hadn't changed deep down like everyone claimed. She was still yours.

"... I will find a way to end this war and resolve it peacefully as soon as I can. I swear it to you." She began, her voice low and gentle, as she listened to the sound of your hiccups and sniffling. This wasn't what she wanted. "And I apologize, truly, for what I called you... I know that you are loyal and trustworthy. Much more than I ever could be... I'm still your Caitlyn." The last part was whispered quietly, as she tried everyone in her power to not break down in front of you like this.

She hated what she had become deep down. She knew it was wrong and that her mother must've been turning in her grave at the sight of what she had done. But what she couldn't handle at all was you hating and leaving her.

There was a moment of silence before you turned to face her and immideatly hugged her impossibly close as you cried into her arms. She rubbed your back lovingly, understanding that this was your way of accepting her apology. But forgiveness will still be a long journey she was willing to take.

For now, she'd rest in your embrace thankfully.

》JINX

Deep down, you knew that she didn't mean what she said. She never would do anything to hurt you. Silco's death was just killing her more than anyone could have expected, and it was hard for everyone to deal with. But you just couldn't take the pain and hurt she caused you anymore. You've been there since day one. You were always at her side. You always took care of her when no one else wanted to. And you understood her better than she did herself. But it was ultimately just not enough. Or so you thought.

The young girl that was now dragging you through the lanes reminded you of her too. She didn't speak a word to you, and for some reason, you didn't have it in you to protest against her odd actions either. She somehow seemed to recognize you the second you bumped into her. And that was enough for her to take your hand and lead you to a very familiar hideout. Perhaps it was fate that brought you here again when you needed Jinx the most.

"Hey kid, who's our little guest-?" The rest of the young woman's words died on her tongue, and it left you simply staring at each other. There was a familiar haze in her eyes, one that you often saw when the voices were taking over. She once mentioned that you sometimes became a part of her hallucinations during longer absences, and that reminder alone made your heart ache. You shouldn't have run away that day. But what other choice did you have? She didn't trust you anymore. She didn't think you should be together anymore. Why were you even here?

"S-sorry... I'm just going to leave..." You muttered as your ears rung and that familiar burning in your eyes made your sight blurry. You felt suffocated and somehow also angry, wishing she could just see how much you loved and cared for her. But just as you were turning away to run again, her strong hand was quicker and held you back by your arm. "Wait. Let's just... talk, alright? Like we always do?" That was your thing. Whenever things got bad, you'd sit down and talk calmly to her about it. She used to scoff at it every time... yet she was the one who suggested now for once. Something about it shook you so hard that it made the first tears finally spill at the recognition she had given you for all the work you've put into her.

Jinx panicked a little at that, unsure of how to comfort you, yet at Isha's stern frown and cross of her small arms, she just hugged you for the first time in a while. And god, did she miss it.

Perhaps it was good to show the little girl a picture of you after all.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, I swear, sweetie! I... I won't ever say stuff like that again. Just don't leave me. Please don't leave me. I just, I was just-" You hushed her by just hugging her tighter and shaking your head. "It's okay... just hold me for a while. We can talk later... I missed you so much." You whispered, voice breaking into sobs. Jinx hummed weakly and sighed against your hair, the familiar scent making her relax and feel better at last.

Isha grinned to herself behind you before quickly sneaking off to let you talk things out.

》EKKO

To say that the entire firelight hideout was pissed at him would be an understatement. Absolutely everyone disagreed with the way he treated you, and the side eyes he got very much confirmed this. But the worst part of it all was definitely you avoiding him like the plague.

Every time he entered a room, you were the first one to leave in a hurry. Every time he tried speaking to you, you either ignored him or found an excuse to get away. Every time someone even mentioned his name to you, your mood seemed to dampen. And that hurt so much that it killed him. This isn't how he wanted you to feel about him. He was your boyfriend, damnit it. Yet he acknowledged that he was failing at his job way more than he should've allowed himself to. He had to fix this somehow.

Ekko couldn't just lose you over his own foolishness. You were the one person who motivated him to keep going even on his worst days. You were the light he fought for. The person he battled to come home to every day. He couldn't handle your absence any longer, especially at night when he laid wide awake in your empty bed without you.

And so, he finally had enough and cornered you one night up in the tree during a patrol you had together. One, he definitely didn't pull the strings for to happen. And ever the one to abide by his orders despite your current dismay, you were now avoiding his gaze whilst you watched your sleeping home below. It was peaceful and calm, but the pain lingered between you two too much to enjoy the moment. He didn't know how to break the deafening silence, and it made him think of backing out on his initial plan... until you surprised him by speaking up first.

"I'm... sorry for avoiding you. I didn't mean for this to become your last resort. I just... didn't want to be a burden anymore." "Wait, wait, wait... who said that you were a burden, I... I should be the one apologizing right now. Because I was wrong about every fucking thing I said to you." The words spilled out in panic at the mere thought of you blaming yourself. He never wanted you to feel like this. It made him feel even worse about himself. This wasn't right. "You're not useless. You do so much for us, for me, and I take it all for granted like the asshole I am! And I fully acknowledge that now... I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. There is no excuse for it." He shook his head in disappointment at himself, wondering if this was it now. He'd understand if you broke up with him now... but instead, you seemed to be in the mood to surprise him alot today.

"Did you... like the food I made you?" He blinked at your question in confusion, yet answered honestly. "Best thing I had all week." "Then I guess I'll forgive you... just don't do that again." Ekko chuckled weakly at your words, relief filling his senses whilst he pulled you close to press a kiss to your head. "Would never dream of it... wanna ditch patrol and fly around town?" You mirrored his sly smile, glad he had the same thing on his mind as you did. "Sure thing. But let's make it a race."

He let you win.

》SEVIKA

She took some time to cool off after your argument and returned later into the night with a clearer mind. Sevika had actually reflected on what you had said to her, and she knew you were ultimately right. She was extremely overprotective and stubborn, two things that didn't mesh well and often ended in her thinking you couldn't take care of yourself. Even if she knew better than to actually believe that.

You were strong, especially mentally. It's what drew her into you to begin with. But with the fall of Silco and a war being on the verge of breaking out against Piltover, she had no choice but to make sure that you never left her sight. And if you did, then you had to be somewhere she knew was safe and away from all the chaos she dealt with daily. It helped her focus and stay calm to know that you're okay. Yet despite how much she cared, she still fucked it all up for herself again.

And now she had to fix it, something she was never good at.

She felt awfully guilty at the sight of the things you've lovingly prepared for her, now laying forgotten and cold on the kitchen counter. She truly didn't deserve someone as kind as you. And yet she considered herself too selfish to let you go.

Slowly approaching the bedroom door, she paused to hear if you were awake or not. Unfortunately, you were, but she only knew this from the faintest sound of your sniffling and sobbing that drifted through the wooden door. Sighing to herself, she knocked once, deciding to just rake things slow and as calmly as possible. You had sustained an injury after all, and her mind was reeling at the thought of it getting worse without any proper care. "What do you want?!" Your weak voice yelled at her, and it made her frown. Yeah, you were definitely beyond pissed.

"I want to talk." Her gruff voice said, and it may have sounded like a demand if the underlying care and worry didn't overshadow it so clearly. Your silence made her initially think you were ignoring her until the door slowly opened and revealed your disheveled form. "... well, go ahead." You muttered, one hand cradling the side of your hip that was clumsily bandaged up by you. You were never good at stuff like that.

"Let me take care of the wound whilst we're at it. Can't have ya dying on me because of an infection." She sighed out before simply dragging you to your shared bed and pulling out your medkit. You didn't protest or complain and let her do as she pleased, whilst you carefully listened to her speak with an unreadable expression.

"Listen. I... get it. I really do. The way I treat you isn't right, and I know you're grown enough to take care of yourself, but... I can't risk losing you too now. It drives me crazy to think about. Even if that ain't much of an excuse, and I get that too." She was never this honest before. Usually, she simply deflected or blamed someone else. But here she was, for once admitting openly to being the problem. "Just... be more careful out there. That's all I ask of you. I won't comment on it otherwise anymore though, unless you're in serious danger. I promise." Finishing the last of her bandaging, she hummed at it now looking much securer. This way, you are sure to recover much faster.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded your head at her words, deciding to give her another chance to prove herself. You understood where she was coming from after all. "Okay, fine. I'll accept your apology... if you help me cook." She grinned at that slightly with a casual shrug. "Fine by me, if I get a taste of your heavenly cooking, sweetheart."

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.

drunk walk home - mitski (part 3)

❤︎ life in fontaine truly is a dream come true.

❤︎ (male!reader throughout the entire series!)

❤︎ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (here!)

❤︎ a/n: IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! IVE BEEN SO BUSY 😭 i’m so sorry if this is ass compared to the other parts but i’m hoping you’ll enjoy nonetheless

❤︎ tag list - @wanderchive @wanderer-baizhu-simp @gimmealamp @mis-disaster @remi-appalance @lucianidealz @sleepdeprivedpotato @unemiart @heejinsong @kiiyoooo @sweett-heartzz @camryn-ciel67 @aruaruru @danika-redgrave124 @ravencalamity @snowcatlove @bunbunboysworld @kaoyamamegami @aphxdea @faesfaggotboyfriend @avatsufaust @danika-redgrave124 @red1sg0n3 @idolautism @sleepndacloud @squishyboo @ally674 @totallynotanagent

i’m SO SORRY to those who’s tags didn’t work i’ll do my best to find your comment and remind you that part three is here! <3

life in fontaine was quite different to what you had expected, however you surmised that it was due to the fact that you spent most of your days around… interesting… characters.

on one hand, you had some clingy little magician hanging off your arm and treating you as if he was your big brother wherever you went, which only reminded you of a certain redhead back in the day.

on another hand, you had a classy lady who wore a gorgous gold dress and was possibly one of the most glammed up people you’ve ever seen, who insists on dragging you around with her, taking you to all sorts of little shops and cafés. when questioned why she does this, she only smiles, saying how you seemed lonely and needed a friendly face that wasn’t bursting you eardrums with enthusiasm constantly.

having an absent female role throughout your childhood, you slowly began to cling to navia. from the moment you requested the both of you go on a little snack date, she was your official big sister!

with all these eccentric people in your life with seemingly no limit on their social battery, you find yourself overly exhausted almost every evening.

this all changed when a humble and shy diver boy quite literally tripped into your story.

❤︎

after about a month of living within the walls of fontaine, you soon come to realise you never formally introduced yourself to lyney’s younger brother, who was absent the first time you ever met the twins.

from what you could recall, freminet was a reserved yet somewhat stoic character. from what lynette had separately told you, he was easily flustered and a bit difficult to talk to. for awhile, you just accepted the fact you might not ever even meet the boy as you had never ACTUALLY seen him out and about.

until the day you decided you’d explore the waters.

like many people in fontaine, you too were curious and mesmerised about the beauty of the sea. the shimmering blue waves blended into the prismatic pinks of the seabed. an assortment of colours could be seen from the top of the ocean and you just had to know what lay beneath the surface.

so, like every normal people would do, you grabbed some overglamified water-gear (NOT diving gear), and hopped straight into the ocean. you were a fairly strong swimmer so you had no issues going under, you weren’t planning on diving deep into water ravines and ocean monuments after all.

looking at all the ocean had to offer you, your eyes glimmered in an almsot spellbound way. the ocean was hypnotic, an almsot angelic tune could be deciphered as you swam further.

going down a little, you see something almost glowing? just beneath the sand. as you go to pick it up, you then realise it wasn’t an object, but a flower. you then recalled what lyney had told you about certain flowers of fontaine.

a little giddy, you go to pick one for yourself before someone else appears in your vision. a boy wearing a diving helmet moves directly upwards from where you were, also in shock in the fact that somebody else was present.

the flower was sitting off the edge of a ravine, and so a body coming flying from the depths of it was quite a sight to behold.

the two of you stare at eachother, before you begin your ascend to the air, needing to get some air.

you notice the figure swimming up next to you, and decide it’s worth it to learn who this mysterious diver truly is. divers aren’t uncommon in fontaine for obvious reasons, so when you make it on land you didn’t expect the one to take off the helmet to be the youngest brother of the magicians.

“hello, my name is freminet”. he speaks, almost robotically. still a bit startled, you go to speak.

“nice to meet you freminet, my name is (y/n), it’s a pleasure to meet you”.

silence.

“so, um.. do you like the ocean?” the boy asks, a small blush coating his pale cheeks.

“that was the first time i’ve ever touched the waters of fontaine”. you reply rather formally, going back into rich boy mode.

“oh! cool..” he plays with his fingers.

more silence.

you two suck at talking.

❤︎

from that moment forward (after the very awkward first meeting), freminet was attached to your hip. he followed you around everywhere, and his company didn’t seem to bother you whatsoever. you were one of the first people, who wasn’t one of his siblings, to tolerate his inability to hold a decent conversation, and freminet cherished that part of you,

on the other hand, you liked how freminet didn’t make you feel as though you needed to talk with him constantly to keep the newly formed friendship in tow. the two of you could sit on a bench for hours, barley conversate, however the atmosphere never differed from comfortable.

in a way, you were each others peace.

❤︎

hello again (y/n)! are you here to once more whisk my little brother away on a little date?” lyney asks, winking as he spoke. it wasn’t often you came to collect the boy if you had something to do, and vise versa if freminet wanted some company while he worked.

you only rolled your eyes at the blonde, flicking his forehead (to which he winced slightly) before making yourself at home. by this point your migration to fontaine was close to hitting the 4 month mark, and in that time the trio of the hearth became almsot family to you.

that also means waltzing into each others homes unannounced 😃.

i’m not joking by the way, once you came home to lynette stuffing her face with a cake you bought earlier that day with lyney knocked out on your lounge. and you know what you did? ate the rest of the cake with lynette (you twos secret till this day) and marketed all over lyneys face before taking a nap yourselves.

anyways, you made yourself at home before asking lynette where freminet was. she smiled to herself knowingly before directing you to the boys bedroom.

as you entered, a truly charming scene before you unfolded itself.

freminet was fast asleep on his bed, pers sitting on his nightstand. freminet had a book cuddled into his chest, his little snores filled the room.

smiling to yourself, you go to collect the book from his grasp, worried the edges might hurt him in his sleep, before something truly taken out of a romance novel happened.

instead, freminet grabbed your sleeve and yanked you down towards him. you always knew he was a clingy sleeper, having shared a DOUBLE BED with him beforehand, however freminet had a SINGLE BED.

in schock, you look at his peaceful face that was still dead asleep, before giggling to yourself.

you successfully take the book from his grasp and put it on the floor. then you look up to the ceiling. the artwork of sea creatures and hanging bubbles from his roof was truly a mesmerising sight, his entire bedroom being themed off the ocean. everything about him drawer you in more and more.

you failed to realise that the ‘more and more’ was now directly next to you, clinging onto your chest. for the 100th time this day, you heart skipped a beat as the diver cuddled himself next to you.

‘fuck it’s you say to yourself, grabbing him gently by the waist and adjusting him so he was on your chest sideways, with you flat on your back with one arm around him.

‘you know, i think i could get used to this’. you think to yourself once more.

you didn’t know at the time, but the tune you assumed to be in your head was actually outside freminet bedroom window, being strung gently by a lyre. the figure of the person could not be seen to those passing by, but if you looked close enough..

you’d notice a jade green bard smiling to himself, an instrument of pure melodies resting upon his fingertips.

#MAYBE IN ANOTHER LIFE? [Gojo Satoru] part II

SUMMARY: Your boyfriend, who you loved more than anything, who was your will to live, broke up with you.

— C.W: ex-boyfriend! Gojo satoru x depressed! female reader , Geto Suguru x female reader , dark themes , no happy ending?

— WORD COUNT: 5.1k+

— A/N: I was supposed to finish this next week but- oh well..I hope you like it.

← previous

read part I for better understanding

It has been several months since your breakup with Gojo, and you find yourself still living with Geto. Despite the change in your relationship status, your bad habits are still there. However, there is a silver lining to this situation - you no longer struggle as much as you have, because you no longer have the burden of paying the bills due time.

At first, you felt guilty about letting Geto pay the financial responsibility alone. You insisted on contributing your fair share. However, Geto, being the persuasive individual he is, somehow managed to convince you otherwise. He made a compelling argument, suggesting that it would be wiser for you to save up the money you earn through your work. By doing so, you would have the means to purchase necessary items for yourself in the future.

But in return geto wanted you to go grocery shopping and cook meals for him. It became a daily routine for you to venture out and purchase the necessary ingredients. Despite the repetitive nature of this task, you never complained. After all, Geto had provided you with a roof over your head and so much more. It was your way of expressing gratitude and repaying him for his generosity.

Living with Geto turned out to be a pleasant experience. He was not only caring but also incredibly kind. Whenever you found yourself in the midst of a mental breakdown, he was there to offer support. His comforting presence was like a soothing balm for your troubled mind. He would hold you close, whispering words of reassurance and understanding into your ear, doing whatever it took to make you feel okay again.

One incident that truly showcased Geto's empathy and understanding was when you were cutting yourself in the bathroom. Instead of scolding you or telling you to stop, he patiently waited behind the closed door until you had calmed down. Only then would he enter, carefully addressing your wounds with a gentle touch. It was evident that he understood the pain of depression and the toll it took on one's well-being.

After all - he had once also experienced depression.

Today, as usual, you found yourself needing to go shopping for fresh ingredients. With a shopping bag in hand, you left the room and made your way to the door that led outside.

Before stepping out, you reached for the jacket hanging near the door. It was Geto's jacket. Although you had your own jacket, Geto insisted that you wear his to protect yourself from the cold. It was that time of year when snowflakes gracefully fell from the sky and the air had a biting chill to it.

At first, Geto had wanted to buy you a new jacket, but you kindly declined, not wanting him to spend any more money on you. Instead, he offered you the option of wearing his jacket.

And so, you found yourself slipping into his jacket, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort as you prepared to face the wintry weather outside.

You stepped outside, and were greeted by a winter wonderland. The world around you was transformed into a picturesque scene straight out of a postcard. The ground was blanketed in a pristine layer of snow, untouched by footprints. The trees stood tall and proud, their branches adorned with delicate icicles that shimmered in the soft sunlight. The air was crisp and invigorating, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and the promise of a magical day ahead.

As you made your way through the snowy landscape, you couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty that surrounded you. The snowflakes gently fell from the sky, dancing and twirling as they made their descent, creating a mesmerizing spectacle. Each flake was unique, with intricate patterns and delicate edges that seemed to defy the laws of nature.

The sound of your footsteps crunching in the snow echoed through the stillness, breaking the silence and adding a touch of life to the serene atmosphere. The cold air nipped at your cheeks.

The sight of children building snowmen and families engaged in friendly snowball fights filled your heart with a bittersweet mix of joy and longing. The laughter and playful shouts echoed through the air, creating an atmosphere of pure happiness. It reminded you of the times you had dreamt of a future with gojo, imagining what it would be like to have children of your own, to experience these simple joys as a family.

But reality hit you hard, like a cold gust of wind cutting through your thoughts. Gojo had moved on, finding happiness with someone else. It was a painful truth that you had to accept, even though it still stung deep within. The image of Gojo laughing and playing in the snow with that girl flashed in your mind, a reminder that he had chosen a different path, a different future.

You took a deep breath, pushing away the thoughts that threatened to dampen your spirits.

„Y/n?“ a voice spoke from behind. Your eyes widened as you saw him standing there, your ex, with his signature white hair, piercing sky blue eyes, and tall frame. It was Gojo, the person who had once held your heart in his hands.

He stood before you, his gaze scanning your form before settling on your face. The intensity of his stare made you feel both nervous and vulnerable. You instinctively took a step back, creating a physical distance between you. Gojo noticed your retreat and froze, his eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher your reaction. Your slightly closed eyes and the way you avoided his gaze spoke volumes, revealing the pain and longing that still lingered within you.

“Gojo…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you nervously fidgeted with the collar of your jacket. The mention of his name caused Gojo’s eyes to drop, a mixture of guilt and regret washing over his features. He had always been used to being called by his first name, but hearing his last name from your lips felt like a painful reminder of the distance that now existed between you.

“How are you?” he asked, attempting to regain eye contact with you.

“I’m okay… I guess,” you replied, finally meeting his gaze. Gojo took a step forward, closing the physical gap between you. His hand gently rested on both of your shoulders, sending a wave of shivers down your spine. The touch was both familiar and foreign, stirring up a mix of emotions within you. You felt nervous, almost scared, unsure of how to navigate this unexpected encounter.

“Listen, I’m sorry for… you know… that we fired you from work. It was really not my intention,” Gojo apologized. You interrupted him, trying to downplay the significance of his actions.

“It’s fine, I forgive you,” you said, your voice lacking conviction. You tried your best to ignore the warmth of his hands on your shoulders, focusing on maintaining your composure. Gojo’s eyes widened as he observed your dropped gaze, uncertain if you were truly okay with what had transpired.

“What?” he asked again, his fingers tightening around your shoulders. That’s when he noticed your jacket, a sense of familiarity washing over him. His fingers instinctively moved to the back of your neck, pulling down the collar to read the name written there.

Geto Suguru.

His best friend’s name was emblazoned on the collar of the jacket you were wearing. It suddenly dawned on him that this was not your jacket, but Geto’s. The scent of Geto’s cologne lingered faintly, intertwining with your own. Gojo’s eyebrows furrowed as a whirlwind of thoughts flooded his mind. Was this some sort of revenge? Did you pursue Geto to get back at him, to gain his attention? How did Geto even know about your breakup, despite Gojo never mentioning it to him?

He never expected you to move on so quickly. He knew you had your fair share of struggles, and he had always been the one to bring light into your life. He had believed that you would do anything for him. But the realization that you had seemingly moved on so swiftly ignited a pang of jealousy within him. He had a girlfriend now, he shouldn’t feel this way. His girlfriend was better for him than you, but the sight of you wearing Geto’s jacket still managed to stir something deep within him.

The way you shivered under his touch made him quickly withdraw his hands. “I said it’s okay, I forgive you,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible.

“So, you and Suguru?” he asked, ignoring your response. You raised an eyebrow, ready to answer his question, but before you could speak, your phone began to ring. You quickly retrieved it from your pocket, glancing at the caller ID.

Suguru.

Gojo awkwardly stood there, his gaze shifting between you and the phone in your hand. He couldn’t help but notice that the phone you were holding was different from the one he had once bought you. The mark on the phone indicated that it was a cheaper model, a flip phone, unlike the expensive one he had gifted you. Confusion washed over him as he wondered why you would exchange a high-end phone for a cheaper alternative.

Little did he know that you had sold the phone he had given you out of necessity. You had run out of money and needed to pay the bills for the motel you were staying in. Desperate times had forced you to part with the precious gift, opting for a more affordable option.

After answering the call, you quickly excused yourself, explaining that you needed to go buy groceries. However, before you could make your way out, Gojo reached out and gently grabbed your arm, in which you hissed.

"Wait," he said, "Are you and Suguru dating?" His question hung in the air, his eyes searching yours for any hint of confirmation or denial.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain the situation. "No, Gojo," you replied, your voice soft but firm. "I just live with him. We're roommates."

Gojo's grip on your arm loosened slightly, his expression shifting from confusion to relief. The relief was evident in his eyes, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

"I see," he said, "I'm glad to hear that." There was a brief pause between the two of you as you tried to progress what he just said.

Why would Gojo be glad to hear that you and Geto weren't dating? As you tried to process his reaction, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, extending it towards you.

"Uh, since you live with Suguru, it must be bothersome for you," he stammered, struggling to find the right words. "Take this apartment key. It's for you, as an apology for getting you fired."

You hesitated, unsure of what to do. You didn't want anything from Gojo, especially not as a form of apology. "I'm fine being with Suguru. I don't need this key," you replied, pressing it back into his chest. You turned around, ready to walk away and put this painful encounter behind you.

But before you could take another step, Gojo's voice called out, desperation lacing his words. "Wait, please take it!" His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, causing you to flinch. The pain from the cuts on your arms intensified, and tears welled up in your eyes.

You quickly shrugged off his hand, wanting to escape the physical pain. As you looked up at Gojo, you saw his eyes downcast, filled with remorse. It hurt to see him like this, knowing that you still hadn't fully moved on from him. You wanted him to be happy, to see him smile, but it seemed like that was a distant dream.

"Okay, I'll take it. Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible. You reached out and took the key from his hand. With a heavy heart, you turned away from him, determined to focus on the task at hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go buy groceries."

"Right, uh... have a good day, Y/n!" Gojo called after you. Your heart pounded in your chest as you walked away,

—

"Suguru, I'm home," you called out, stepping into his house and slipping off your shoes and jacket. The familiar scent of Suguru's home enveloped you as you made your way to the living room, where Geto was lounging on the sofa, engrossed in a TV show.

"Welcome back," he greeted, turning his head to meet your gaze with a warm smile.

"I have some news," you announced, making your way to the kitchen to unload the groceries. Geto followed you, his curiosity piqued, and settled on a chair at the kitchen island, facing you.

As you began to unpack the grocery bag, placing items into the fridge, you tossed a bag of chips to Geto. He caught it effortlessly, his eyes lighting up with gratitude as he opened the bag and popped a chip into his mouth.

"So, what's the news?" he asked, his voice muffled by the chips.

"Well," you started, carefully choosing your words, "I found an apartment." You decided not to mention that it was Gojo who had bought it for you. The thought of Gojo's gesture still stirred up conflicting emotions within you.

Geto's eyebrows raised,"Where is it?"

You continued to organize the groceries, avoiding eye contact as you replied, "It's not too far from here, and it‘s quite big too, so if you want you can move in with me. You know, it‘s really nice to finally have someone who cares for me other than satoru.." you trailed off.

You mustered the courage to look back at Geto's face, and your heart skipped a beat at the wide-open eyes staring back at you. "You want me to move in with you...?" he asked,

"Yeah... I'm afraid I got attached to you... sorry," you muttered, your hands finding their way onto the counter as you looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

Geto was taken aback by your confession. He had always known about your deep love for Satoru, as you would often seek solace in his room after a nightmare, finding comfort in his presence. In those vulnerable moments, you would whisper Satoru's name as you fell asleep, leaving Geto to silently bear the weight of unrequited love.

From the moment he first laid eyes on you, fate seemed to have decided that he would fall in love with you. But to his surprise, you were already dating his best friend when you first crossed paths. He had initially dismissed you as one of Satoru's chicks, assuming that you would be discarded after a short while. But it turned out that your relationship with Satoru was serious, and his heart couldn't help but ache with jealousy.

He couldn't help but steal glances at the way you looked at Satoru, the admiration in your eyes and the way your lips curved into a smile whenever he was around. It made him envious, but he knew he had no right to feel that way towards his best friend. So he buried his own feelings and pretended to like you only as a friend, even though his heart yearned for more.

As time went on, Geto began to notice a change in Satoru's behavior. The manwhore tendencies he had abandoned when you and he started dating seemed to resurface. It was as if he had grown tired of the commitment and started seeking the attention of other women right in front of Geto's eyes.

The pain of witnessing Satoru's infidelity gnawed at Geto's heart. He wanted to protect you, to tell you about Satoru's behaviour, but he couldn't bear the thought of hurting you with those words. He knew how deeply attached you were to Satoru, how you would forgive him for every transgression, even something as devastating as cheating. You simply couldn't let him go.

Until one day, the inevitable happened. The two of you broke up.

The news hit Geto like a punch to the gut. On one hand, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief that you were no longer tied to Satoru's unfaithfulness. But on the other hand, he knew that your heart would be shattered, and he couldn't bear the thought of seeing you in pain.

You stood there in the kitchen, glare dropped as you mentioned your ex‘s name. Geto's heart ached for you. He wanted to offer comfort, to hold you close and assure you that everything would be okay. But he knew that the wounds were fresh, and he would have to tread carefully, waiting for the right moment to reveal his own feelings.

For now, all he could do was be there for you, offering a shoulder to lean on and a listening ear.

„Sure..I can move in with you if that‘s what you would like.“ he spoke, forcing a smile.

Your eyes immediately lightened up as you heard his words,“really?“ you asked.

Geto nodded, his smile growing wider as he saw the genuine happiness radiating from your face. "Yes, really," he replied,“I want to be there for you, to support you and care for you in ways that Satoru couldn't."

A wave of gratitude washed over you as you realized the depth of Geto's commitment. It was a stark contrast to the fleeting affection you had experienced with Satoru. You had always yearned for someone who would truly see you, who would cherish and prioritize your happiness above all else. And now, standing before you, was Geto, offering you just that.

A mixture of emotions swirled within you - excitement, relief, and a tinge of sadness for the end of your relationship with Satoru. You took a step closer to Geto, your eyes locked with his, as you whispered, "Thank you. Thank you for being here for me."

Geto's smile softened,"You don't have to thank me," he replied gently.

-

No.

No.

No. No. No..

What is this?

This is not what Gojo expected when he entered his apartment after being away for a week. The first thing he heard were moans coming from his and his girlfriend's bedroom, and immediately he made his way there to investigate. What he saw was something he never could have imagined. His girlfriend, completely naked, was on top of someone else, riding them on their shared bed where they used to make love. It was a scene that shattered his heart and left him feeling betrayed.

She was cheating on him.

Gojo stood frozen by the door, his eyes wide with shock, his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief, and his once joyful smile replaced by a look of pain.

As he looked at the girl who had been his girlfriend just moments ago, Gojo couldn't help but draw parallels between her and you. The guilt he had felt then was nothing compared to the remorse that now gnawed at his soul.

In that moment, he couldn't fully comprehend the impact of his actions, but now, as he stood in that bedroom, he felt the weight of his betrayal crashing down upon him.

Gojo's gaze shifted from his ex-girlfriend to the guy who had been underneath her. A surge of jealousy and insecurity coursed through him, as he couldn't help but compare himself to this unknown person. Who was he? What did he possess that Gojo lacked? The comparison was inevitable, and it only added fuel to the fire of pain that already consumed him. Doubts gnawed at his mind, questioning his worthiness and wondering if he had failed to measure up, if he had been inadequate in some way.

The room felt suffocating. Gojo's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of the shattered love and trust that lay in ruins.

Gojo stormed into the bedroom, his anger and hurt fueling his every step. The force with which he swung the door open was a reflection of the turmoil raging within him, a physical manifestation of the chaos that had erupted in his life. His eyes, filled with a mix of desperation and fury, locked onto the figure lying beneath his now ex-girlfriend.

"Satoru, wait!" the girl cried out, her voice laced with panic and fear, as she was pushed away from the person beneath her. But Gojo was beyond reason, consumed by a maelstrom of emotions that drowned out any pleas for mercy.

Gojo lunged forward, his hand shooting out to seize a handful of her hair. The pain of his grip was a stark contrast to the tenderness he had once shown her, a cruel reminder of the power he held over her in that moment. Their eyes locked, and in that intense gaze, he saw her pupils constrict, a sign of both fear and resignation. Her lower lip quivered, a silent plea for him to release her from his grasp.

But Gojo was deaf to her pleas, his grip on her hair only tightening as she desperately tried to free herself. The sound of her voice, trembling with vulnerability, fell upon deaf ears as he murmured a single word, "Why..." His voice was filled with a mix of confusion and betrayal, unmoved by the smaller hands that desperately attempted to pry his hold loose.

And then, like a dagger to his heart, she uttered the words that shattered his world. "I'm sorry! I found someone else—I love him... please, let go!" Her voice trembled with a mixture of guilt and desperation, her words echoing in the air like a painful confession.

The weight of those words crashed into Gojo's consciousness like a tidal wave, the impact reverberating through his entire being. Found someone else...? The realization hit him with a force that stole the breath from his lungs. These were the same words he had once spoken to you, the words that had torn your world apart.

As if struck by lightning, Gojo released his grip on her hair, his hand falling limply to his side. He stepped back, his eyes filled with a mix of shock and disbelief. The girl, now free from his hold, collapsed onto the bed, her body crumpling under the weight of the emotional turmoil that had unfolded before her.

Was this the same anguish you had felt when he had confessed he had found someone else? Did he truly forsake someone as remarkable as you for this girl? The weight of his actions settled heavily upon his shoulders, a burden he could no longer ignore.

As he turned away from the girl and the person she had been with, Gojo's mind became a whirlwind of regrets and what-ifs. Memories of your time together flashed before his eyes, each one a painful reminder of what he had lost. The pain of his own betrayal and the pain he had inflicted upon you mingled within him, creating a storm of guilt and remorse.

Gojo found himself in the living room, his body sinking into the couch as he attempted to make sense of it all. The weight of betrayal pressed upon him, threatening to crush him beneath its burden. It was as if his entire world had crumbled in an instant, leaving him feeling adrift and broken.

His mind was swirling with regrets and unanswered questions, he couldn't help but wonder if there was any way to mend what had been irreparably broken. Could he ever earn back your trust? Could he ever make amends for the pain he had caused? The questions plagued his thoughts, but the answers remained elusive.

With a heavy heart weighing him down, Gojo rose from the comfort of the couch and made his way towards the front door. The weight of his emotions pushed him to leave, to escape the haunting memories that seemed to linger within the walls of the apartment. His mind was consumed by a single thought - he needed to find you, to apologize before it was too late. Perhaps, just maybe, you would find it in your heart to forgive him.

However, little did Gojo know that time was not on his side. As he hurriedly made his way to the apartment he had given you, a place that was meant to be his girlfriend’s sanctuary, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that he had entrusted you with the key instead. The thought of seeing you again, of having the chance to make things right, gave him a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that surrounded him.

Arriving at the apartment, Gojo rushed up the stairs, his mind filled with a whirlwind of thoughts about what he would say when he finally saw you. His hand instinctively reached into his pocket, grasping onto the spare keys that he had kept for emergencies. With a mix of anticipation and anxiety, he approached the door that was supposed to lead him to you. Taking a deep breath, he inserted the key into the lock, turning it slowly and opening the door.

However, instead of being greeted by an empty room, Gojo found himself standing in the midst of a completely transformed space. The apartment had undergone a complete renovation, a stark contrast to the memories he had held onto. But amidst the unfamiliar surroundings, his eyes were drawn to something that instantly caught his attention - clothes scattered across the floor. A shirt, two pairs of pants, and a bra lay haphazardly, creating a puzzle that Gojo couldn’t help but try to piece together.

Confusion furrowed his brow as he pondered the presence of the bra on the floor. If there was no sound of moaning or clapping, then it meant that you didn’t have anyone over, right? But the pants… they were definitely not yours. They were too wide, too different from your usual style. Gojo’s gaze swept the room, searching for answers, before he made his way through the apartment, his steps guided by an unexplainable instinct.

He stopped in front of a closed door, hesitating for a moment before gently pushing it open, revealing a sight that shattered his heart into a million pieces. His eyes widened in disbelief as they landed on Geto, his best friend, lying in bed with you cradled in his arms. The sight of Geto’s upper body, partially exposed, showcased his muscular chest and abs, while your figure rested against him, your shoulders and neck adorned with small, telltale bruises. Both of you were fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the presence of another person standing by the door.

A mixture of shock, betrayal, and anger coursed through Gojo’s veins as he tried to comprehend what he was witnessing. Why was Geto here? He had always been aware of Geto’s secret crush on you, but he had never expected his best friend to make a move, especially not with you. The pain in Gojo’s heart intensified as he saw you, the person he believed to be his and his alone, in someone else’s arms, covered in another person’s kisses and bruises.

Gojo stood there, his heart heavy with disbelief and heartbreak. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Was it too late? Was there no way to fix what he had done?

Suddenly, a voice broke through his thoughts, bringing him back to reality. It was his best friend, looking at him with a mix of concern and frustration. Gojo's eyes met his, and he could see the unspoken question in them.

"You gonna continue staring or what?" his best friend asked, his tone slightly teasing.

Gojo's emotions surged, and he couldn't hold back the words any longer. "You did it on purpose, didn't you? You waited for the moment she was vulnerable so you could swoop in and be her hero. All in the hope of leading her into bed."

His fists clenched, and he wiped away the tears with the back of his sleeve. His best friend remained calm, his gaze steady. "I'm merely doing what you couldn't. I'm here for her, offering support and care in ways you never could, Satoru."

Gojo's anger flared, and he shouted, "What do you mean?!" But his best friend cut him off, his voice firm but gentle.

"Don't shout, she's had a tough night and deserves some rest," he said, covering you with a blanket.

"You act like you're some kind of savior. What gives you the right to step in and play hero in her life?"

His best friend sighed, meeting Gojo's gaze with unwavering resolve. "I'm doing it because she deserves genuine care and someone who will love her just the way she does."

Gojo's eyes widened, his mouth falling open in disbelief. "I love her just the way she does!"

"If you did," his best friend calmly replied, "you wouldn't have cheated on her multiple times and then left her for someone else."

The accusation hung heavily in the air, shattering any pretense of composure between the two friends. Gojo felt the weight of his best friend's words, realizing the depth of the hurt he had caused. The room seemed to echo with the fractured friendship and the complex emotions entangled in this unexpected confrontation.

"I never wanted things to turn out like this," Gojo confessed, his voice filled with regret. "What do you expect me to do now?"

His best friend's gaze hardened, his voice firm. "Face the consequences of your actions, Satoru. But understand this: she doesn't want anything to do with you now. Give up and let her find the happiness she deserves elsewhere."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Gojo struggled to find a response, a knot forming in his stomach. His best friend continued, his voice softer this time.

"She moved on, Satoru," he said, his eyes filled with a mix of empathy and deception. "You broke her trust, and she's found someone who treats her with the respect and love she deserves. Don't complicate her life any further."

Gojo's jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists as the realization hit him. The person beneath the blanket, blissfully unaware of the turmoil surrounding them, remained a symbol of the consequences of his actions.

"I messed up, I know that," Gojo admitted, his voice filled with remorse. "But I can't just give up on her."

His best friend's expression hardened. "Giving up isn't about abandoning her; it's about respecting her choices. She doesn't want you in her life anymore. Accept that and move forward."

"You had your chance, Satoru. Now it's time to let her go," his best friend said, his voice filled with finality.

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hay días en los que no me reconozco. Veo mi cara en el espejo y no es la misma que ayer, veo mis fotos y no soy la persona del otro día.

No entiendo porque mi cara cambia tanto, ¿a qué se debe? realmente me gustaría entenderlo.

me siento tan disgustado por mi deforme cara que no es la que tenía ayer, me invade la incertidumbre al no reconocerme que solo quiero quedarme encerrado en una caja sin salir al exterior jamás.

KING OF MY HEART, BODY AND SOUL | LYNEY

notes 2k words, does contain arlecchino quest spoilers but it’s nothing too big, mom and dad are fighting (i could be talking about any of them)

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

Rosalie eyes the flower warily. “What am I supposed to do with that? My hands are—” The terrifying stranger pitches the flower to her lap, a clear rebuttal, “—tied… Okay.”

She wishes she could kick it off, yet her legs were also tied. Defeated, she accepts the offering but doesn’t say a word about it. Gratitude is far from what Rosalie is feeling at the moment. Ingratitude, fear, confusion. Those describe it better.

For better or for worse, Rosalie scrambles to take hold of the conversation, if only to show these people that she wouldn’t show her ingratitude, fear, and confusion. The flower jostles with her rough movements. “You’re—Fatui, aren’t you? I believe all of you owe me more than just a talk. What do you want with my child?” 

“Hey, lady,” the woman with the purple hood once again growls, “don’t talk to The Knave like that!”

The Knave. That sounds so familiar. Rosalie thinks deeply, wondering where she had heard it from in passing.

“It’s alright. She’s distressed,” The Knave addresses her subordinates, but she’s looking right at Rosalie. “You may refer to me as The Knave. Arlecchino, fourth of the eleven Fatui Harbingers.”

Harbingers. Out of the eleven, she managed to rope herself into the fourth one. Rosalie turns just a little bit pale. A Harbinger had been inside her shop without her knowing. If you had come home earlier, what would The Knave have done? Rosalie doesn’t know if this situation is any better, either.

“And, just so you know, before she was yours, she was my child first,” The Knave muses.

Oh. Right. Previous Fatuus and The Knave is a Harbinger—that makes sense.

“But—she’s not even involved with any of you anymore, right?” Rosalie asks weakly, her stomach taut with apprehension. “Why are you doing this? Where is she right now?”

The Knave appraises Rosalie for a good minute, as if her sorry state would make the choice for her. “I gave Y/N plenty of freedom. If I didn’t, you never would’ve even met her.”

Rosalie bristles. “What, I have to be grateful?”

The Knave huffs out a small laugh. “That would be narcissistic of me. Of course not. But you shouldn’t be hostile. If I meant to harm Y/N, I would’ve done so already.”

“Did you let her go on purpose?” Rosalie asks. She’s getting agitated by the power this woman is clearly showing off.

“I suppose you could say that,” The Knave wonders. “But I just had no worries. I’m more familiar with her than you think. I knew that she wouldn’t have gone too far. I knew this would happen eventually.”

Rosalie is confused. What is this? Was this one of those monologues that the bad guys jump into to reveal their master plan—like, in the musical plays?

“Of course, no one could have foreseen the Traveler's appearance.” The Knave taps a clawed finger on her chin thoughtfully. “That also made it much more complicated than it was supposed to be.”

Traveler. Where has Rosalie heard that before? “The Traveler… The Outlander? Aether?”

“Correct. Aether, as some of you prefer to address him. Had it not been for his interference, perhaps this wouldn't have turned out differently—he is an unexpected factor. Though, you, Miss Rosalie, you’re also one.”

Rosalie is still very much confused. But she sits still, obedient, wondering where this might go. The villains would reveal some flaw in their master plan somewhere.

“Or perhaps I would’ve left all of you alone had it not been for Lyney’s disobedience.” Wait, Lyney? “I will not have any distractions to the children occupied with their missions. He has already failed.”

“Y/N has been by my side almost every day. How would she have managed to sabotage a Fatui operation?” Rosalie asks.

“Showing up to Lyney’s show was enough of a distraction. I must admit, even I didn’t expect her to appear that soon. It must be The Traveler.”

“Wait, it was truly Mr. Lyney?!” Rosalie wasn’t even aware that Aether had been more than he let on, much less Mr. Lyney being Fatui.

Oh. Oh! Rosalie remembers now. The day she first saw Aether and Paimon was the day they went to watch Mr. Lyney’s magic show. Since then, you have begun acting strange, and Aether started to linger more often, but Rosalie hasn’t given it much thought. She simply chalked it up to you making friends—definitely not messing up a Fatui operation.

“Are you following, Miss Rosalie? Lyney has failed, and Y/N has disrupted our mission. You see, children in the House who go against our rules receive punishment.”

Rosalie doesn’t like where this is going. She knows the answer already: “What is the punishment?”

“Their lives.”

Rosalie winces. Fatui don’t play around.

“But Y/N isn’t part of the House anymore…?”

“Her memories are no different than one of a child currently in the House.”

At her stunned silence, The Knave seems to take pity. “I have a child that’s concocted a potion to make them kill a part of themselves that was involved with the Fatui.”

Kill a part of themselves?

Rosalie’s brain lags for a second. “Are—are you saying no one’s dyi—”

“If Y/N has no secrets to spill, then there is no reason to punish her. She can enjoy a life that never involves the Fatui in the first place. However, you became a factor. It would’ve been difficult for me to make her forget everything when you were there. If I make her forget her life in the House, she will forget you too, as everything that led up to meeting you involved the House. And that would make things a lot more complicated than necessary on your part.”

Is… she saying that she considered Rosalie’s feelings?

“Now, I am here to allow you to decide. You could also choose to forget her.” The Knave perches a hand on her hip. “You’re her mother now, are you not?”

“Why didn’t you ask Y/N first?”

“Would her answer dictate your decision?”

“Of course.”

“Even if she chose to forget you?”

Rosalie’s mouth parts for an answer. She wishes it was quicker than The Knave’s question that Rosalie feared more than anything, but instead, she finds herself uncertain. “…If that’s what she desires. I have no right to tie her by my side.”

“Hm. Quite an answer.” The Knave looks at Rosalie with what feels like a smile. It certainly doesn’t appear as one—neither side of her lips quirked, but her eyes felt lighter. “But do not worry. It’s why you’re here. Y/N would be asked, eventually.”

Ah. So Rosalie is just bait.

She wants to feel angry at the woman in front of her, but to her horror, she is instead understanding her. Like she could read what The Knave has been concealing behind each word—what the diplomat truly wants to say.

Rosalie hesitates, looking up at The Knave through her lashes. Her crimson eyes are terrifying, and having been tied up to a chair while the fourth of the Fatui Harbingers is standing is just as unsettling—Rosalie hasn’t relaxed an inch throughout the entire conversation.

“You still think of her as your child, don’t you?” Rosalie asks Arlecchino.

Arlecchino, fourth of the Harbingers, director and ‘Father’ of the House, turns away. “Attachments to traitors are only a hindrance in the House.”

It is not a clear answer, but doesn’t that make it clearer?

Rosalie takes a deep breath. She takes one long look at the flower on her lap, thinking back to when you first held one from her shop, froze it, looked at her with the roundest, fearful eyes, and knew that her answer was clear, too.

Thunder roared as the sun dipped behind the rolling hills of Fontaine. It struck badly and poured even worse. Each second passing without Rosalie in your sight, without knowing what could’ve happened to her, itched your rage and despair more and more. The more you worry, the more your temper rises.

You were arguing with Aether as to whether or not you should get the freaking Iudex involved—you vehemently refused, while Aether asserted that it was for Rosalie’s safety as well—when you spotted two familiar figures from afar.

Lynette is leading Lyney inside the shop, side by side. Your ire grows exponentially at the sight of them, hackles rising in a snap. How dare they. How dare they have the nerve to even think about showing their faces to you? How dare Lyney march back into your second life like he didn’t just ruin your first one, but now this, too.

Lyney’s eyes are wide with worry as they reach the door. “Y/N, what happened—”

“Of course you knew where I live,” you say, brimming with contempt. “Did you tell that to your ‘Father’, too? Or was she the one who told you?”

“I was the one who knew, Y/N,” Lynette admits, her voice infuriatingly calm. “Lyney knew you wouldn’t want him knowing where you lived, so I volunteered to get intel and give you his gift. We came here because we thought ‘Father’ did something, and, well…”

The atmosphere drops. Everyone feels it—everyone but you, the catalyst. They flinch at the assault of the biting chill, of your fury in the form of a glacier.

“What… happened?” Lynette asks cautiously, quietly. You’ve never seen her terrified of you; it’s so wrong, but what they’re doing to you isn’t right either. So, really, who’s the bad guy here?

“Rosalie’s been kidnapped,” you say, clipped.

“Your guardian,” Lynette says, surprised. “The woman who runs the shop, right?”

“My mother. Don’t act like you didn’t expect this to happen.”

“We’re pawns in this, too,” Lyney says, finally finding his voice, it seems. “Please, I know it doesn’t seem that way right now. Let us prove it to you if you let us help—”

You scoffed, bitter and cold. You bit back the bite of ice and wondered how ironic it was that every time your Vision acted out, it was, more often than not, tied to Lyney.

“What, so you expect me to believe you’d just go against your ‘Father’ like that?”

“I would,” Lyney says without missing a beat.

How maddening. Aether, Lynette, and Paimon were shivering, wide-eyed and unsure, yet Lyney stood unfazed. No, he burns. His eyes, his gaze, they smolder your bleak anger. But that only serves to irritate you even more.

“Lyney,” you warn.

“I would, Y/N,” Lyney cuts, eyes narrowed fiercely. “I would for you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lyney.”

“I do. And you know I do!”

“Give me a good reason to believe that.”

“Because I lo—” Lyney grits his teeth, and finally, some real emotion—no more tricks, no more lies; his frustration satisfies you—at least until he says, “I like you, okay? You know this.”

Maybe deep down, you really did know. You felt it. Maybe you even feel the same. But your brain’s fogged over, and all you can think about is how Lyney keeps taking everything from you—‘Father’, your pride, your spotlight, and now Rosalie.

Aether reaches out. “Y/N—”

“Shut up. None of this would’ve happened if I never met you,” you snap, turning away at the sight of his eyes flashing with hurt.

You turn and stomp off, refusing to acknowledge their protests and Lyney’s weak pleading. The door slams shut and rattles, with ice spreading from where you’ve touched it. “Find your sister yourself. Stupid brothers, getting me involved… This is why I’m an only child…”

And so you’re back to square one. Alone. So be it. Maybe this is truly where you belong, anyway. You don’t need them, and you definitely don’t need Lyney and his blind love.

This is how it would come to be, eventually. You, leaving; or them, leaving you. You long expected it. Or maybe it is because you forced it—you wanted it like you’d feel in control if things went exactly as you expected.

So why does leaving them feel nothing like control?

notes i know i kept saying i was excited to post this chapter, but now that im actually posting it i got nervous LMFAOO its been a month since the last update. i dont know how i did tbh!!! but either way, tysm for reading and i hope u can stay with me for four more chapters <3

TAGLIST.

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caitvi x f!reader, established!vi x reader

caitlyn learns something new.

~~~~

"your girlfriend's pretty," caitlyn says innocently enough, watching as you play with the kids of the underground. there's something about that's so magnetic, so utterly wonderful that caitlyn can't help but be drawn in.

vi sighs dreamily. "isn't she?" she replies, smiling before eyeing caitlyn playfully. "so, ah, you like women, huh?"

caitlyn turns an adorable shade of pink, blue eyes widening as she looks at vi.

"i–! i mean, i do find–find women to be a-attractive and–" she stutters and vi can't help but find it immensely endearing. it makes her want to tease caitlyn more.

"relax, cupcake," vi says with a laugh. "this is a safe space and besides, that's good to know."

caitlyn blinks, the pinks of her cheeks fading a little.

"why?"

vi nods over to you. "because pretty girl and i have been having some talks so she'll be happy to hear you swing that way."

caitlyn's brows furrow, her confusion obvious as she says, "what do you–?"

then she looks over at you and sees you staring at vi and her. your eyes meet before you're winking at her, pretty face alight with mischief and opportunities.

caitlyn gasps, suddenly feeling hot beneath her collar, as she ignores vi's knowing laugh.

oh.

Daddy Dearest Pt 2

Smau: in which the jjk men are your father and they're losing a daughter Warnings: angsty, not proofread Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna Pt 1

Happy Valentines Sonic !

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