ceewhy

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐍𝐎𝐒

𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄,

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐘𝐔𝐄.

this absolutely ethereal commission was done by the supremely talented @kiraandfriendss on vgen 🤍 my jaw absolutely dropped to the floor whenever i saw the finished product, like i genuinely come back just to stare at it for agesss — i cannot recommend kira enough, it was such a pleasure working with them!!!

THIS IS MY OWN PERSONAL COMMISSION — DO NOT SAVE THIS OR USE FOR YOURSELF. DO NOT FEED THIS COMMISSION INTO ANY FORM OF AI.

this is bad—terrible. horrifying

wait. lets rewind. oikawa had been a good friend. no, is a good friend. needless to say that you’re one of his favorite people; ready to pull an all nighter with you, lends you his laptop one time when yours decided to blow up and out of your ass, had basically took up for himself the role of cupid for you sometimes. 

(you’re convinced it’s just out of pity, though hyping you up on social media never fails to work its wonder, gifting your face a smile, says it always looks good on you.)

but this is not the time for playing cupid. in fact, you’re going to strangle him and reduce the remains of his lifespan once you’re out of this diner that iwaizumi hajime, his best friend (part-time) works on. a one good looking (borderline distracting) of a waiter. 

the first time oikawa suggested taking you out on this very specific diner, you’re a little apprehensive, mainly because iwaizumi in his catch-up stories are just about as intimidating as the first time you’ve finally see him in the flesh. 

slate-black apron, rolled up sleeves, his voice—a deep and firm kind of low that pricks your skin the first time you’ve heard it. eyes that couldn’t help itself but indulge in the sight of his forearms as he drops off your water. but that’s not the dead giveaway, no, no— it’s how you poorly managed yourself from stammering as your fingers scramble where to land on the menu, when he leaned in to look at what you’re pointing, you dreaded over the possibility that he could smell your plain aberration. 

because you’re sure as hell oikawa does. 

“uh, this one.”

 he nods, polite. then he casts oikawa a side-glance, his face subtly flat and impassive. “the usual?” 

oikawa hums, almost non-committal. he’s grinning wide and smug and staring at you across the table as if he’s about to drop a bomb on your upcoming plate. a very mischievous, carefully-curated bomb that’s going to throw you off for days. “you know me so well, iwa-chan.”

iwaizumi doesn’t dignify that with a response, only tears off the slip from his notepad and walks off, the pen still tucked behind his ear. you track his retreating figure before you realize what you’re doing and drive your focus away from any evidence, heat rushing up your neck. 

“okay.” you face oikawa, glaring and hissing through your teeth, voice an angry whisper,  “you set me up. you said you were hungry!”

“i am hungry!” he held his arm up in mock surrender, “hungry for a successful love story starring you and my best friend.” 

exasperated, you groan. 

“oh come on, what’s the worst that could happen? he says you’re cute!” 

“i beg your pardon?” 

“swear on my moisturizer. i showed him your IG.”

“i don’t trust you.”

“you don’t have to, sweets.” 

now, lo and behold, is the aftermath of your said aberration. from forcibly agreeing that this encounter would only be a one-time thing, to becoming a regular where waiter-staffs could probably draw your face by memory. same order, same seat, same routine. and—same, yet insanely different result, where your shitty resolve has finally cracked its surface. 

no, this is still your dear friend’s fault. you love oikawa tooru, truly you do. 

but you also want to grab him by the collar and slam him into the wall. lovingly, with intent. because this—this unraveling inside you that stirs every time iwaizumi hajime so much as glances your way—is no longer just some stupid crush.

you need the follow-up water asap, humid air’s getting to you. you pretend to work through your backlog on your laptop, ignoring the misspellings and half-hearted sentences you inserted in. you dart between the screen and iwaizumi, who’s rushing from table to table, sweat trickling down his temple, biceps flexing with rolled up sleeves that’s much messier than usual. 

he looks good. 

so good it’s actually criminal. 

graceful, that’s one word you could think of in the way he moves. in that focused, no-nonsense way of his. a towel slung over his shoulder, that same damn pen still behind his ear, his brows knitted as he calls out an order to the kitchen. he glances up, once—just once—and you’re quick to play the act of adjusting your screen brightness, as ungraceful as you could be. 

“you’re so obvious,” oikawa mutters from across the table, lips barely hiding his smirk behind a forkful of omelet rice.”

“i’m typing,” you say, offended. “i’m literally working.”

“deleting and retyping the same sentence for the past eight minutes. yeah, working”

you scowl. “i need to revise.”

“you need to admit that you’re thirsting.” 

you reach over and jab his forearm with the blunt end of your spoon. sighing, you press your knuckles to your burning cheeks. “i hate that i’m still here.”

“well,” oikawa says, chewing slowly, “good thing he likes that you’re here.”

the glare in your eyes is not something to be taken lightly. “don’t do this to me tooru.”

he raises a brow, setting his utensils down like he’s ready to go full monologue. “you think i didn’t notice he always brings your order himself? that he stands here at our table longer than anyone else’s? that he remembers your drink order down to the last cube of ice?”

“that’s just good service!”

oikawa snorts. “yeah, okay. let’s see what kind of service you get today, since i’m done eating and i have to go.”

your eyes widen. “what?”

he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “i’ve got to meet someone in ten. don’t worry, i paid. just… stay here. do your fake work. and drink your water.”

“i haven’t gotten my water—”

“exactly,” he grins.

and just like that, he’s out the door with a wave.

you sit there, mouth slightly agape. you hear your laptop’s infuriating warm humming, the chatters start to buzz, and for a second you consider leaving too. maybe save yourself from further embarrassment. but before you can plop your bag on you lap and pull in your things—

“here.”

you look up. the voice could have startled you into slapping someone, if not for the familiarity. iwaizumi stands there, a tall glass of water in one hand, a fresh lemon wedge on the rim. a slight, imperceptible crease in his brow. 

“sorry it took a while. it’s a bit hectic today.” he sets it down in front of you, or that you think he had to because you’re rendered incapable of lifting your own hand and take it yourself.

…you didn’t even ask for water just yet. 

“no worries.” you try—you really do—to keep your hammering heart in check. lift your cheek in a smile that doesn’t look too forced. when he mirrors one of his own, though polite and stiff, is still as charming as it could be. 

then, without warning, he eyes your laptop. lingers in a way you’ve secretly hoped he would, asks you awkwardly, “are you…working?” 

you blink, “s-sort of.” 

you see the pause in his face, another smile emerges, but one good look had you noticing the faint dimple curving his left cheek. when he says, “i can give you a refill if you want to stay longer.” he sounds relaxed, or less tense now than he is seconds ago. 

you blink once more, pleasantly surprised than anything, “wait, really?” 

he nods. “yeah. i mean. if you’re writing or whatever. i’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

your stomach makes a flip, you give him thanks before he walks away. and when you watch him go, it’s when you lift your curses saved for tooru and replace it with a million blessings. you make a mental note to thank him later. 

so, yes, you stay for another thirty minutes (took more orders and refills.) forty, tops. not because you’re waiting for anything—absolutely not. you’re being productive. you even manage to fix two paragraphs and stop the spell-checker from crying blood. that’s worth something.

your phone thats buried deep in your bag vibrates from a notif. it’s definitely your dear friend. 

when iwaizumi walks by again, you can’t help but smile, “you’re still here.” 

“am i overstaying? i can go—“ 

“no,” he says quickly. then, more level, “you’re fine, just noticed. ‘is all” 

but you’re not really good at small talk, and maybe you are overstaying, maybe tooru’s gotten sick of waiting and your phone exploding shows that. you look back at your cursor and feel like it’s accusing you. you clear your throat, “i’ll um, pay now.” 

“oh,” or maybe you’re too far gone, because something kind of flickers on his face. something like hesitation, “i’ll get your receipt.”

when he returns, he places the small folder down. “here you go.”

you offer him a polite smile and open it—

—and promptly short-circuit.

because tucked neatly beside the receipt is a small folded napkin. written in scrawled, slightly slanted penmanship:

you’re here a lot. if you ever wanna come when i’m not working, i’d like to see you properly.

0XX-XXX-XXXX

when you lift your head up, he’s gone. 

he’s definitely not at the counter. not wiping tables. not walking anywhere within your line of sight—he fled.

you finally fished out your phone and immediately started typing.

help. he asked me out. 

it takes four seconds before your phone combusts.

ITS OINKS TIME: i am a god. this is my best work asffhjhjgkbvyruioqhdf send me photos from your wedding no wait i’m the maid of honor tf

you’re too busy grinning like an idiot, staring at the number on the napkin and wondering how in the world you’ll survive a proper date with iwaizumi hajime.

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available through ALL OF 4.4 : himeko nova

phase one : sparxie, dan heng: permansor terrae & evernight

ALMOST HOLY YEARNING

pairing: Phainon x Fem!Reader summary: A painfully ordinary healer is transferred into the worst possible workplace scenario: direct proximity to the literal sun in human form—Phainon, the Deliverer you have been secretly, responsibly, and catastrophically worshipping from afar. Between overflowing infirmaries, impossible odds, and a boss who thinks throwing you at the Chrysos Heirs is “character building,” you must keep people alive and keep yourself from combusting every time Phainon smiles, laughs, or unforgivably, comes back just to see you. This is, let's say, a comical story about accidental closeness, professional boundaries being obliterated, and the terrifying realization that the man you admire from a safe distance might be looking back… and finding you hilarious. wc: 9.3k

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PART IX: FREE DINNER (DEROGATORY) VS. FREE DINNER (AFFECTIONATE)

The old man's final complaint, something about the "suspicious viscosity" of his prescribed tincture, still rang in your ears as you snapped the supply cabinet shut with the decisive finality of a coffin lid. You'd won that particular skirmish through a combination of clinical accuracy, dead-eyed patience, and one perfectly timed observation about how his mustache had collected more of the medicine than his actual mouth had. He'd sputtered. You'd handed him a cloth. Battle over.

Your fingers still smelled of eucalyptus and spite.

The herbal room offered a peaceful escape. It is filled with the scent of herbs, and especially, blissfully free of other people. You could already taste the quiet. Five minutes. That's all you needed. Five minutes of sorting dried chamomile into jars without anyone looking at you, talking to you, or making you feel things you hadn't consented to feeling.

You made it four steps.

"(Y/N)! Perfect timing—"

Your entire body performed a full stop so suddenly your organs kept going for half a second. You didn't turn around. You didn't need to. That particular combination of syllables, delivered with that particular pitch of manufactured innocence, belonged to exactly one person on this wretched planet.

Daphne.

You looked at her over your shoulder. The look was flat. Not annoyed—past annoyed. Past tired. It was the expression of someone who has been to war and now views all social interaction as a potential ambush, because it usually is.

Daphne was waiting in the corridor. Her hands folded in front of her and smiling a little too innocently. The moment she looked at you, it was obvious she'd come ready for this conversation.

You could smell it. Not literally—though the infirmary's permanent perfume of astringent and human regret was doing its usual number on your sinuses. No. You could smell trouble. It had a texture. A weight. A particular Daphne-shaped silhouette that your survival instincts had learned to identify at twenty paces.

You walked past her.

“swallow it. swallow it. you will never have to face the threat of wild beasts. never again will you stand by and watch your companions die. endure it… just like before. you will then no longer be the orphan abandoned by his village in the wilderness. endure it… then every word he speaks will be answered and he will no longer be alone.”

SYNOPSIS. Someone assumes the two of you are together, when you’re not (yet), how does he react?

FEATURING. Albedo, Ayato, Childe, Kaeya, Lohen, Thoma, Venti

WORD COUNT. 5.7k total (i got carried away, please stick around)

NOTES. Just fluff through and through. I wanted to write for so many more characters!! Do let me know who else you would like to see :))

Fem!reader !! she/her pronouns are used.

ALBEDO

You spend a lot of time in Albedo's lab. You're not entirely sure when it started becoming routine, but somewhere between him seeking your presence and you deciding to stay longer than necessary, it just... happened. You'd sit in the corner with a book or just watch him work, the way he moves through his experiments with methodical precision. 

Today, though, you're in the Favonius library instead. Albedo needed to research something specific, and you went along with him without question. You're sitting at one of the tables while he browses the shelves, pulling down various tomes with focused precision.

Lisa is at the front desk when Albedo brings his stack of books to check them out. You're waiting nearby, and she glances between the two of you with that knowing smile of hers.

"My, my, someone's been spending a lot of time with our dear Chief Alchemist," she says to you, her voice sweet as honey. She's already flipping through the first book. "Taking quite the interest in his work, are we?"

"Just curious," you say, suddenly very aware of how close Albedo is standing.

"Mm, how thoughtful of you." She continues scanning, her eyes flickering up to Albedo for just a moment. "Your lover must appreciate having someone so interested in what he does."

She says it so casually, so mixed in with the mundane task of checking out books, that it takes a moment for the words to actually register. By the time they do, she's already moving on to the next book, completely unbothered.

Albedo pauses. You notice it immediately—his hand stills on the counter, and there's a moment where he seems to be processing something. His gaze drifts to the side, not quite looking at Lisa, not quite looking at you. He's just... considering. Turning the words over in his mind the way he does with everything else. 

Then, just as quietly as the pause came, he seems to release it. He doesn't correct her. Doesn't say anything at all. Just sets down the remaining books on the counter in that careful way of his.

“Oh, uhm,” You begin, looking over at Albedo. “We, uh, aren’t together.”

Lisa glances up, catches something in his expression, and her smile widens slightly. But she says nothing more.

Later, when you're back at the library and Albedo is focused on his research, you find yourself thinking about what Lisa said.

"Do you think I'm a distraction?" you ask casually, not looking up from your book.

Albedo doesn't pause in his work. "No." The answer is immediate. Certain. You turn a page.

"Lisa thinks we're together," you say.

He sets down the vial he held with careful precision. Turns to look at you fully, and for a long moment, he doesn't say anything. His soft, analytical gaze is fixed on you, and the silence stretches out—long enough that you start to feel uncomfortable, long enough that you begin to wonder if you've said something wrong.

And then, as though he had reached a conclusion so simple and obvious, "Would that be so strange?"

You realise you don't have an answer for that. And more importantly, that perhaps, no, it would not be so strange after all. 

AYATO

The Kamisato clan commissioner rarely ventured into the markets. Usually, he would have sent either Thoma or one of his other myriad helpers to fetch whatever it was he or Ayaka needed. But, today, perhaps as a change of environment—away from the towering paperwork he had to fill—Ayato decided to accompany you in your shopping. He always had a peculiar habit of trailing behind you, even when it was unnecessary. You had gotten used to his presence in your life. A shadow. An extremely coy and teasing shadow, that is. 

Besides, perhaps the presence of the commissioner would snag you a couple of good deals while out and about. 

You curled a bolt of silk green fabric around your wrist. Pretty, smooth. Ayato peeked over your shoulder, scrutinising the item in so much more detail than you were at all. 

You turned back to look at him and huffed, a sound of amusement, “What, is it not to your liking, Ayato?”

“Well,” he seemed to draw out, catching your eyes. “I hardly think it’s your shade.”

Not your shade? Just as a retort bubbled up in your throat, you were interrupted by the sound of the vendor. “Ah, commissioner!” He said. “Interested in imported silks, are you?”

The man seemed to be pulling out more cloth, shades of different colours—silver, lavender, pink, blue. His hands moved with practiced efficiency as he laid out the fabrics over the counter. He seemed to be going on and on about where each piece was imported from—this one from Liyue, the other a local craftsman from Inazuma, the other cultivated in the meadows of Mondstadt. 

But then he picked out a specific piece and looked over to Ayato. “I’m sure your lover would look stunning in the deeper blues,” he said. “Does the lady have a preference, or should we let the commissioner decide?”

You tensed. 

Lover? And the man had said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You felt your cheeks warm and suddenly you seemed to become all too aware of the little distance between you and Ayato. As though hypersensory, you could feel the way Ayato’s hands stilled, resting for a moment at your hip. You looked over at him. 

And yet, there was no change in his expression. If anything, the small smile he had on his face had stretched a fractional amount. His head tilted to the side. 

“I think she would look rather beautiful,” Ayato said. Simple and casual, his eyes snagging on you for half a second. It was like he hadn’t even heard the former part of the sentence. Or, scratch that, like he hadn’t heard anything the vendor had just said. 

The vendor was simply ecstatic to have sold something to the commissioner, and—apparently—his “lover,” and had left to wrap the item. 

You paused for a second, before turning to the man next to you. “What was that?” 

Ayato hummed non-commitally as he looked at you. “What was what?” He feigned ignorance, that smug idiot. He never missed a single thing. Once you had changed the scent of your perfume from Sakura Bloom to Naku Weed, and he had caught it the moment you stepped into his office; there was no way he hadn’t heard that. 

“He just called me your lover!” You pressed. 

Ayato just tilted his head, his fingers tapping against the wooden counter. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t correct him.”

“No.”

The heat in your face seemed to rise in temperature. Just what exactly was he playing at? Why was he staring at you like this was the most normal thing ever? Was he not bothered? And the way the merchant had said it, too, it was like everyone in the entirety of Inazuma knew about this except for you!

“Why not?” You asked, growing more shifty by the second. 

Ayato let out a laugh, a sweet, melodic little sound, “You didn't seem eager to correct him yourself.”

You opened your mouth to argue, and then closed it again. “W-Well, I was just about—but then, I…” Any and all justification that rose in your throat withered away. Especially when Ayato was staring at you like that. Like he was challenging you to question that assumption, daring you to change it. 

That day, the two of you walked away having bought an expensive indigo fabric. Matching the Kamisato insignia.

CHILDE

The training grounds were empty except for the two of you. You'd been sparring with Childe for the better part of an hour, and he was still grinning like he was having the time of his life—which, knowing him, he probably was.

"Your footwork's off," he called out, circling you with that predatory grace he had when he was actually engaged. "You're telegraphing your next move."

"Maybe I want you to know what I'm doing," you shot back, lunging. He sidestepped easily, but you'd anticipated that, spinning to catch him off-guard with a follow-up strike. He blocked it, and the impact sent a jolt up your arm. "Or maybe you're just slow today."

"Slow?" He laughed, and there was an edge to it now—the kind that meant he'd stopped holding back. He came at you with a series of quick strikes, testing your reflexes, and you matched him, parry for parry. 

Your muscles were already burning from the previous rounds, but you pushed anyway because he'd give you that look of approval when you did, that slight nod like you'd passed some invisible test. "You're the one who's slowing down. Your last five moves have been predictable."

"Only because you're boring me," you said, breathing harder now. You twisted away from his next strike, used his momentum against him, and nearly got him off-balance. Nearly. He recovered with infuriating ease, but you caught the flash of something in his expression—genuine interest now, not just amusement.

The sparring continued, and at one point, you overextended on a strike. His hand came out to steady you, gripping your arm just above the elbow. It was meant to be instructional—a correction of your form—but he held it for a moment, his thumb brushing against your skin before he released you. Neither of you acknowledged it. He just stepped back and said, "Again. Better this time."

You came at him again, and somewhere in the middle of it, there was a moment where he caught your wrist mid-strike. His hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful. He could have thrown you. Instead, he held it for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and you were close enough to see the slight raise in his eyebrow—a challenge. You twisted your arm, trying to break free, and he let you go with a grin.

"Getting better," he said.

"I've always been good. You're just finally noticing," you replied, and charged at him again.

By the time you both called it, you were both breathing hard. Sweat dripped down your temple, and your arms felt like lead. Childe was still smiling though, that infuriating, easy smile of his that suggested he could do this all day. He grabbed his water bottle, tossed you one, and you caught it easily. The cold water was a relief as you drank, trying to catch your breath.

You were leaning against the nearby pillar, still catching your breath, when you heard voices approaching. Not close yet, but getting closer. You recognized one of them immediately—Paimon's high-pitched chatter, and underneath it, Lumine's quieter responses. You didn't think much of it. They were probably just passing through the training grounds on their way somewhere else.

Childe was standing a few feet away from you, already looking refreshed despite the exertion. He had that energy about him, the kind that didn't seem to deplete no matter how hard he pushed himself. He caught you looking at him and raised an eyebrow.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" he asked, already moving toward you.

"Just wondering how you're not completely dead," you said. "Normal people need recovery time."

"I'm not normal people." He stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Without any real thought to it, he reached over and fixed a strand of your hair that had come loose during the sparring, tucking it back behind your ear. It was such a casual gesture, the kind of thing he did without thinking. Your breath caught slightly, but he was already pulling his hand back, already grinning at you like he hadn't just done something that made your heart rate pick up for reasons that had nothing to do with the exercise.

"Definitely not normal," you muttered, looking away.

"Hey, Childe! Lumine and I were just—oh!"

You looked up to see Paimon floating toward you both, her expression shifting to something almost knowing as she took in the sight of you two standing close together, both flushed and breathing hard. Lumine followed behind her, her eyes flickering between you and Childe with that quiet observation of hers.

"We were just heading to the Adventurers' Guild," Paimon continued, but there was a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "But wow, looks like you two have been going at it pretty hard. I'm just glad Childe's finally found his special someone! But sheesh, do you have to go that hard on her?"

There was a beat. You opened your mouth to correct her, to clarify whatever assumption she'd just made, but Childe moved first. His arm came around you without hesitation, pulling you against his side in one smooth motion. It was the kind of casual contact you two shared all the time, except it wasn't casual now. Not the way he was looking at Paimon, not the way his hand rested at your hip like it belonged there.

"Yeah, well," he said, his voice easy and warm, "took me long enough to find someone worth the effort."

Lumine's lips curved into the faintest smile. "That's one way to put it," she said, and there was definitely something knowing in her tone.

You felt your face flush. You pushed against his chest, your hand flat against the fabric of his shirt.

"You're insane," you said, but you were already laughing despite yourself, despite the way your heart was doing backflips.

Paimon giggled, seeming satisfied with whatever she thought she'd figured out, and Lumine gave you both a small wave before they continued on their way. You watched them go, still half-pressed against Childe's side, and the moment they were out of earshot, you pushed away from him properly.

"You want to enlighten me on what you were implying there?" you asked, turning to face him.

Childe's grin was still there, but something underneath it had shifted. He wasn't quite looking at you directly, was instead focused on something past your shoulder, his expression caught between amusement and something you couldn't quite read.

"Was I implying something?" he said, but there was no real teasing in it now.

"You just told them we're together."

He finally looked at you then, and his expression was softer than you'd expected. Still smiling, but there was something real behind it—something that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the sparring.

"And?" he said softly. "I wasn't lying though, was I?"

KAEYA

You'd been coming to the tavern with Kaeya for weeks now. It started innocuously enough—he'd asked if you wanted a drink after a particularly grueling shift, and you'd said yes mostly because you were too tired to say no. Somewhere along the way, it became routine. Every few nights you'd find yourself at the counter with him, and he'd order for you without asking. He always got it right, which was irritating in its own way.

Tonight was like any other night. You were sitting at your usual spot, the one that had somehow become your spot, when someone approached. One of the regulars—a member of the Adventurer’s Guild—someone you'd seen around enough times to recognize but not enough to know by name.

"Kaeya," the man slurred, leaning against the bar. "Your girlfriend's looking particularly radiant tonight."

You felt your spine stiffen slightly. Girlfriend. The word hung there for a moment, waiting to be corrected. 

You looked over at Kaeya, waiting for him to say something, to clarify, to do whatever it was he normally did when people made assumptions. But he just smiled. That easy, lazy smile of his. 

"Isn't she always?" he said, and the man laughed like it was the most charming thing he'd ever heard, and walked away.

You stared at your drink. The ice was melting slowly, diluting the amber liquid into something weaker.

"You could've corrected him," you said, looking over at him with barely concealed flustered confusion.

"Could have," Kaeya agreed. He wasn't looking at you, was instead focused on something across the bar with that detached amusement he wore like a second skin. "Didn't seem worth the effort."

You let it go. It was small enough, harmless enough. Kaeya was always like this—playing into characters, scenarios, whatever amused him in the moment. And besides, this was the tavern. People were drunk, made assumptions, barely thought twice about anything. Everything Kaeya said carried that thin veneer of humor, that deliberate lightness that suggested nothing he did was ever meant to be taken seriously. This must have been yet another attempt at his particular brand of entertainment, or maybe an effort to fluster you. Which you weren't falling for. Obviously.

But a few days later, he suggested dinner at Good Hunter's. You'd gone, mostly because you were hungry and he was there. Sara smiled when she saw you two sit down underneath the parasol. 

“Maybe the both of you would like a seat that’s more private instead?” She had suggested. Your face erupted into flames when she suggested that. And although you tried to correct it, Kaeya had already confirmed, and you found yourself in a shaded area to the side. The kind of area that everyone implicitly agreed was for honeymooning couples. 

You sat across from him, irritated, and tried to focus on your food. Kaeya, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered. He ate with deliberate slowness, and at one point he leaned across the table, his eye catching yours with a particular brand of teasing softness.

"You're scowling," he said, like it was an observation about the weather.

"I'm not scowling."

"You are." He reached over and tapped your forehead with one finger. "Right here."

You pulled back, but he'd already retreated, that infuriating smile still in place.

By the time you were walking back through the city, your irritation had crystallized into something sharper. Something that demanded to be addressed.

"What are you doing?" you asked, stopping abruptly in the middle of the street.

"Walking," Kaeya said simply. "Same as you."

"Don't be difficult. Everyone keeps thinking we're together and you're not correcting them. You're actually—" you gestured vaguely at the space between you, "—playing into it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed, that low, warm sound that always seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest. When he looked at you, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place. Something that felt almost like he'd been waiting for you to notice.

"I think you like it more than you're willing to admit," he said softly. His eye was half-lidded, that familiar amusement still there, but underneath it was something else. Something that made your chest feel tight.  "The question is whether I should keep pretending not to notice."

He was already walking ahead, already moving past you with that lazy stride of his, and you were left standing there, flushed and furious and unable to quite articulate why his assumption felt less like teasing and more like he'd read something in you that you weren't ready to show him.

Damn Kaeya.

LOHEN

The training grounds were filled with apprentice knights, all watching intently as you explained the formation they'd be running through. Lohen stood beside you, arms crossed, and you could already feel the restlessness radiating off him like heat.

"This is boring," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Just let them fight something real."

"They need to understand positioning first," you replied firmly, not even looking at him. "We're not sending them into the field unprepared."

"Unprepared is half the fun," he said, and you heard the grin in his voice.

You turned to face him. "You know what? Not everyone gets a thrill from almost dying."

"Their loss," he said, and there was something playful in his eyes, something that suggested he enjoyed getting a rise out of you. One of the younger apprentices nudged their friend, both of them watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement.

"This is why we have strategy," you continued, turning back to the group. "Lohen charges in and—"

"And it works," he interjected.

"And you get lucky," you corrected.

He laughed, "Lucky. Right. That's what we're calling it."

The training started smoothly enough. The apprentices moved through the formations you'd drilled into them, and you were positioned to observe and correct. Lohen was supposed to be doing the same, but his attention kept drifting, his foot tapping with barely contained energy. You could see him watching the apprentices with the kind of hunger that meant he was already bored. At one point, you caught him staring at you instead of the recruits, and when you raised an eyebrow in question, he just grinned wider.

After about an hour, one of the younger recruits approached as you and Lohen were standing together reviewing the performance. The recruit was still catching their breath, clearly impressed by how well the formation had held.

"It's lucky that the two of you are paired together," they said, glancing between you both. There was genuine respect in their voice. "Aren't the two of you together?"

The moment those words left the apprentice’s mouth, you could see something wicked shine in Lohen’s eyes. You opened your mouth to clarify, but Lohen moved before you could. He crossed the distance between you in a few strides and pulled you against his side, his arm wrapping around your waist like it had always belonged there. Your face went hot immediately, but he was looking at you with that chaotic grin of his, like he'd just been handed the best entertainment of his day.

"And she's the only person who could ever keep up with me," he said, loud and theatrical, and you could tell he was leaning into it now, performing for the apprentices. You felt your cheeks burn as you realized what he was doing, deliberately making a show of it, spinning this into something bigger just to see you get flustered. The manic energy was at full throttle, and he was clearly enjoying every second of your embarrassment.

Your face went hotter. One of the apprentices bit their lip to keep from smiling, while another looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the display. But most of them were watching with interest, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Lohen—" you started, trying to extract yourself, but he didn't let go. His grip on your waist was firm, not painful, just insistent.

"And she's brilliant," he continued, spinning you slightly so he could look at you properly. His hand was still on your back, and he was looking at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Everything I'm not. Everything that keeps me from getting killed in a ditch somewhere." There was something underneath the chaos when he said it, something that suggested he meant it more than he was letting on.  A few of the recruits exchanged glances, and one of them smiled knowingly.

"You'd be lost without her," one of the bolder apprentices called out, earning a few quiet laughs from the others.

"Completely lost," Lohen agreed, but there was something in the way he said it that wasn't entirely joking. For just a moment, the manic energy seemed to settle, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the training grounds that mattered. "Actually, yeah. I would be."

Then he released you, and the chaos returned. He was already moving away, already tossing some comments to the apprentices about formation angles, leaving you standing there flustered and hyperaware of every eye on you.

The rest of the training passed in a blur of corrections and positioning. By the time you finally dismissed the apprentices, your face had only just stopped burning. Lohen was already collecting his things, and you found yourself watching him move with that restless energy of his, wondering what he'd actually meant in that moment when everything had seemed to pause.

THOMA

You were sitting in one of the Kamisato estate's quieter rooms, mending a tear in one of the ceremonial clothes when Thoma appeared with tea. He set it down beside you without asking and settled into the seat across from you.

"That's going to take forever," he said, watching you work the needle through the delicate fabric.

"Only if I rush," you replied, concentrating on your stitching. "You taught me that."

He smiled at that, leaning back and watching you work. It was comfortable, the kind of silence that didn't need filling. You'd been coming to this room more often lately, always finding some reason to be here. Mending. Reading. Just sitting. And somehow Thoma always seemed to find his way in.

After a while, he got up and moved to sit beside you instead. He didn't ask permission. He just shifted closer until his shoulder nearly touched yours. He picked up a different piece that needed mending and started working on it without preamble.

"You're still doing that stitch wrong," he said after a while, no judgment in his voice.

"I know," you said, not bothering to correct yourself. "But you always fix it for me anyway."

He smiled, and you swore you could see the pupils of his green eyes dilate a fractional amount. His hand came over yours, guiding the needle through the proper motion. His fingers were warm, and he moved slowly, making sure you understood. When he pulled back, you found yourself missing the contact.

You worked like that for a long time. Sometimes he'd hum something soft under his breath. Sometimes you'd ask him about his day, and he'd answer while still focused on the mending. At one point, you reached for more thread at the same moment he did, and your hands brushed. Neither of you moved away.  You both just continued working, shoulders close, existing together in the quiet of the afternoon.

"You're thinking too hard," he said once, glancing at your face.

"How can you tell?"

"You get this little crease," he said, reaching over and smoothing it away with his thumb. It was such a gentle gesture that you forgot to breathe for a moment.

You were so focused on the mending that you didn't notice when Ayaka appeared in the doorway. She had a few attendants with her, but she stopped when she saw the two of you sitting close together, heads bent over the work, your shoulders nearly touching.

"Oh, there you two are," she said warmly. "I've been meaning to mention something." Thoma looked up, and you followed his gaze.

"There's a couples' festival coming up at the end of the month," Ayaka continued, her tone genuinely kind. 

"I thought perhaps you two might enjoy attending together. It would be nice for you to have some time away from the estate."

You felt your face warm. Thoma's reaction was immediate. His entire face flushed a deep red, from his neck all the way to his ears. He set down the cloth quickly, maybe too quickly, like he needed something to do with his hands.

"Oh, we're—" he started, his voice slightly strained. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he was trying for his usual politeness, but the fluster was unmistakable. "We're not actually together, Lady Ayaka. We just spend a lot of time together because of work, that's all."

The correction was gentle, the way everything Thoma did was gentle. But there was something in the way his hands gripped the cloth a little too tightly, the way he wouldn't quite meet Ayaka's eyes, that made your chest tighten. One of the attendants looked faintly disappointed.

Ayaka's expression softened with understanding, and she nodded. "I see. My apologies for the misunderstanding." She excused herself politely, and the moment she left, the room felt smaller somehow.

You picked up your mending again, but your hands felt clumsy. Thoma did the same, but neither of you were really focused on the work anymore. The ease you'd had before was gone, replaced by something tense and uncertain. The afternoon light filtered through the screens, and the silence stretched between you, heavy with things unsaid.

When the sun started to set and you finally set down your work, Thoma was already moving. You said something soft to break the tension, just to ease it.

"That was kind of awkward," you said quietly, not quite looking at him.

He paused, his hand lingering on the cloth. You could see him turn it over in his mind, searching for something.

"I didn't mean to be rude," he said, finally meeting your eyes. "She was just... it caught me off guard."

"I know," you said, offering him a small smile. "It's fine. These things happen."

He looked at you for a long moment, and there was something in his expression that made your breath catch. Something that looked like regret, like he was reconsidering something he'd just said.

"Actually," he said, and his voice was steadier now, "about that festival."

You looked at him, waiting.

"It might not be a bad idea," he continued, and there was a careful consideration to his words, like he was choosing each one deliberately. "For us to attend together, I mean. Not because anyone thinks we should. But because..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Because I'd like to spend that evening with you. If you'd want to."

Your breath caught slightly. There was nothing casual about the way he said it, despite how carefully he was choosing his words. There was intention there, and something that looked a lot like hope.

"Yeah," you said softly. "I'd like that."

VENTI

Venti had dragged you out to yet another performance. You weren't sure why he felt the need to do this—invite you specifically, stand you in a particular spot in the crowd where he could see you, like your presence mattered to the mechanics of him playing. But he'd shown up at your door this morning with his elfish smile and asked if you were busy. A pointless question, really. He would have begged and whined until you relented had you said no. 

On the way to the fountain, he'd been insufferable. He kept humming fragments of melodies, stopping abruptly to ask your opinion on them, then laughing at your answers like you'd said something hilarious when you were just trying to be helpful. At one point he'd grabbed your wrist and spun you around on the street for no reason, just to see your expression, probably.

"You're going to make me dizzy," you laugh, pulling your hand back.

"Is that a complaint, windblume?" he asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he already knew the answer.

"Yes," you lied.

He had just smiled like he could see right through you.

Now, standing near the fountain while he set up, you watched him adjust his lyre with great care; the kind of care reserved for especially special things in one’s life. Which, for Venti, was music and—you were noticing more and more—you. 

He kept glancing over at you, making sure you were in the right spot, making sure you could see him properly. You found it funny, it was almost like a nervous tick. A flick of his gaze to you every few seconds to make especially sure that you had your eyes on him. It was unnecessary. Of course you could see him. You were always looking at him anyway.

Another bard approached as Venti was finishing his setup—someone you recognized vaguely from around the city. They exchanged greetings, the kind of easy familiarity that suggested they knew each other from the musician's circles. You turned your attention back to the fountain, not really listening until the other bard said something that made you tune back in.

"Your recent stuff has been different," he was saying to Venti. "All of it sounds like it's about the same person."

You felt something shift in your chest. His recent stuff? You hadn't really paid that much attention, if you were being honest. But now that it was being pointed out, you found yourself wondering if that was true. 

You'd been hearing him play new things lately, pieces you hadn't heard before, and now you were suddenly wondering who they were about.

The bard glanced over at you, then back at Venti, and you watched something click into place behind his expression.

"That your muse?" he asked, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

Venti laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made people turn their heads, that seemed to move through the air like something physical. He spun—actually spun, his coat catching the light—and when he looked at you, there was something deliberate in the movement.

"The best one I've ever had," he said, and he was looking directly at you when he said it.

Your face went hot. The other bard laughed too, charmed, and the conversation continued between them, but you weren't really listening anymore. You were stuck on that phrase, on the way Venti had said it, on the realization that apparently his recent compositions had been about you and you'd been too oblivious to notice.

An hour later, after the performance was over and you'd managed to slip away, you found yourself at the tavern. You were nursing a drink when Venti sat down beside you. He waved a hand to the bartender, and Charles just sighed—a routine. And then Venti’s gaze was fixed on you.

"You've been thinking about what I said," he observes.

"I haven't," you say, which is a lie and you both know it.

"Mm." He's amused. You can hear it in his voice. "That's exactly why you’ve been zoning out since my  performance?” He had that teasing lilt in his voice. You wanted to puncture his voice box. 

"You can't just say something like that and expect me not to—" you start, then stop because you're not actually sure what you're going to say. Expect you not to what? Wonder if he meant it? Wonder what it means? Wonder if you're reading too much into it?

"Not to what?" Venti prompts, and there's that tilt of his head again, that soft amusement in his expression.

"You know what," you snap, trying not to sound flustered. 

Venti, all he does is laugh. You really want to puncture his voice box. 

thanks so much for reading!!

⊹ What do they want vs what do they need. these should not be the same thing. what they want is the surface goal ( the job, the person, the revenge, the answer.) What they need is the thing underneath that they can't name yet. The story is what happens in the gap between those two things. if they're identical your character has nowhere to go.

⊹ What are they wrong about. Not morally wrong necessarily. just. what belief do they hold that the story is going to test. What assumption do they make about themselves or the world that turns out to be incomplete? A character without a wrong belief is already finished. They have no arc, give them something to learn even if learning it hurts them.

⊹ How do they talk when they're nervous. Do they go quiet or do they talk too much? do they deflect with jokes? do they get weirdly formal? do they ask questions instead of answering them? the way a person behaves under pressure is who they actually are. And it should be different from how they behave when they're comfortable.

⊹ What do they find funny. this one sounds small and it is not small at all. Humour is worldview. What makes someone laugh tells you what they value, what they're afraid of, how they handle pain. A character with no sense of humour is just flat. even the gravest person finds something absurd. find the thing.

⊹ What are they ashamed of? not their tragic backstory. their actual shame. The small ugly thing they would never say out loud. The time they were a coward. The feeling they pretend not to have. The desire they think disqualifies them from being a good person. Shame is where the most interesting character work lives and most writers skip straight over it :(

a/n: omg this literally took me forever to get to, but this idea came to me because of @rotheboattohell thank you!!! 

synopsis: sae laughing internally at rin’s flow state. 

the field feels louder when you’re watching him. 

not because the crowd is screaming – though they are, a constant roar rolling through the stadium like thunder – but because everything about rin drowns it out. the way he moves, the way he cuts through defenders like they’re inconveniences instead of people, the way the ball sticks to him like it belongs there. 

you’re standing off to the side with the others, half-listening to whatever commentary is being muttered nearby, but your eyes are locked on him. 

and then you notice it. 

you blink once. twice. 

oh! 

oh wow. 

rin’s tongue is out. 

PAINED: through gritted teeth, unaware of the sound because of the pain, head falling back, curling around the source of pain in an attempt to shield self

CELEBRATORY: jumping up and down, screeching with surprise then quickly covering mouth and laughing, grabbing hand of loved ones, grinning widely after

HORRIFIED: backing up, wide eyed, shaking, involuntary sound quickly muffled with a hand, followed by teary eyes

ANGRY: guttural, screaming until there is no air left, approaching the source of anger, turning red, eyes brimming with tears of rage

EXCITED: higher pitched, frantic, unable to contain noise, suffocating on the emotions

GRIEF: guttural and wordless, coming from deep in their chest, dropping to knees, doubling over, repeated sounds of agony

premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you can’t stop thinking about…until he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, here’s what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys' favorite memories

features. kazuha, diluc, childe, wanderer, alhaitham, xiao, ayato, cyno, itto, kaeya, baizhu, dainsleif, tighnari, thoma, heizou, bennett, kaveh, zhongli

kazuha

You're crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.

“Of course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planning—”

“You’re being rather harsh on yourself.”

You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.

“You were gone longer than expected,” he explains, seeing your confusion. “Beidou sent me to check if you’d lost your way—or started arguing with local wildlife.”

You flush. “No, I’m just…talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.”

He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. “Hm. The axle’s intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.”

You blink. “Oh. You’re not going to tease me about earlier?”

“I speak to the wind as if it listens,” he says lightly. “Why would I judge you for speaking to yourself?”

You glance at him. “And does the wind ever answer?”

He smiles faintly. “Only when I’m quiet enough to hear it.”

And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadn’t answered, but he had.

diluc

He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: “Okay, you’ve got this. He’s just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome man—Archons above, why am I like this?”

He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.

He blinks once. Slowly.

“…I assume that was about me,” he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.

“I—No—I mean—kind of?” you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.

He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.

“Understood,” he mutters.

For the rest of the day, he’s overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like it’s flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for you—steaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: “You’ve got this.”

childe

He’s passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: “Okay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.”

He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “Wow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure you’re not Fatui?”

You shriek in embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“Long enough to know you’ve got potential,” he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.

You groan and hide your face. “I was joking. mostly.”

“Nah, I kinda like it,” he teases. “Plan A’s got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?” his voice softens just a bit. “If you ran, I’d just find you. You know that, right?”

You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. It’s quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.

“But…if you do need tissues, I’ve got plenty.”

Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.

“New plan,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Plan D: stay right here.”

wanderer

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He'd simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.

“He probably doesn’t even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.”

He replies instantly. “Try it. I’ll throw one back.”

You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. He’s already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.

“I notice,” he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. “More than you think.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.

alhaitham

He’s walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.

“Okay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he won’t know I was here. Unless…he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archons—what if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?”

His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. “For the record, I do catalog them by page wear.”

You jump, dropping the book you’re holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.

“Also, you’ve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.

“You misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,” he remarks, tone neutral. “But I’ll let it slide.”

You’re still frozen, blinking at him.

Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, “Next time you wish to come by, just ask. I’d rather see you here than not.”

And then he starts reorganizing beside you. He’s silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

xiao

You’re sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. “Why did I say ‘sweet dreams’? Who says that to Xiao? He’s the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks I’m a sentimental weirdo—”

“I don’t.”

You whip around. He’s suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.

“I don’t think you’re weird,” he repeats, voice soft and steady, though there’s the faintest crease in his brow like he’s wondering if he’s said too much.

You scramble to stand, completely flustered. “Wait, how long were you—?”

“I heard my name,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.

The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.

“No one’s said that to me before.”

You blink. “Said what?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams.”

There’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.

“I didn’t think those were something I could have.”

The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, without looking at you, he adds, “But I liked hearing it. From you.”

Your heart flips once, hard.

And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, “Goodnight. I hope…yours are sweet, too.”

ayato

He’s strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.

“Lord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?”

His brows lift in faint surprise. 

“And why did I tell him it was ‘transcendent’? That’s not normal person behavior. That’s the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.”

Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himself—knows it's indecent to linger—but curiosity roots him in place. It’s rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.

You pace a few steps, oblivious. “He probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasn’t. I think. Ugh.”

He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.

“I didn’t realize I’d been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.”

You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.

“I must say, your critique was…vivid,” he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. “And rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.

“Though I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Next time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.”

cyno

He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.

“Okay, okay. Don’t laugh if he tells another joke. But also don’t not laugh, because then he’ll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?”

He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, “What do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.”

You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.

“That was…better than usual,” you admit.

He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. “So. You’ve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?”

You blink, caught. “No. Definitely not.”

He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. “Interesting. That implies you anticipated more. Which means…you’re expecting me.”

“…to keep telling them?”

He nods solemnly. “Correct. And now that I know you’re preparing, I’ll have to escalate.”

You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, he’ll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. You’ll pretend not to swoon. He’ll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.

itto

You’re standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, don’t flirt, just survive eye contact.”

A voice behind you booms, “Well hey, I think you’re already killin’ it!”

You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Itto’s standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.

“Also, flirting’s totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.”

You clutch your chest. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“Since the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured I’d stay for the ending.”

You groan. He’s still grinning.

“But hey,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, “you don’t gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, y’know, you could flirt if that’s easier.”

You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing he’d probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, “...I liked your hair today.”

He lights up like the sun. “See? You’re killin’ it!”

Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.

kaeya

You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knights’ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.

“Genius. Absolutely genius. ‘Nice weather, Kaeya.’ That’s what I went with. Might as well have added, ‘Hi, I’ve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?’”

A breath of laughter—not your own—cuts through the silence.

“I’d be open to both,” a familiar voice replies.

You freeze.

He’s there, lounging against the window alcove like he’s been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.

Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. “Next time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until I’ve left the building. Unless,” he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, “you were hoping I’d hear it.”

You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.

“I was just thinking out loud,” you manage.

“So I gathered. And for the record”—he passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeve—“I find it flattering.”

You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.

At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.

“If the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.”

And then he’s gone.

A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. “You, uh…look like you saw a ghost.”

You exhale, voice thin. “Worse.”

baizhu

You’re by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. It’s been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.

“If I faint in front of him again, I’m just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.”

“Hmm. I’ll make a note to check your glucose levels...and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?”

You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didn’t just obliterate your self-esteem.

“It’s a surprisingly common condition,” he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Often triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.”

Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. “Lovesick. Very contagious,” she stage-whispers.

You bury your face in your hands.

Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. “I could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutual—and, strangely, quite welcome.”

dainsleif

You think you’re alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: “I bet he doesn’t even remember my name. I’m probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.”

His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. “You are not a footnote.”

You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesn’t speak gently, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.

“Names are more than words,” he says. “They are memory. History. Presence.”

He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.

“I remember your name,” he continues. “Not only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you weren’t sure I’d hear it, or hold it.”

You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.

“Don’t assume I forget the things that matter,” he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heart—louder now, and somehow less alone.

tighnari

You’re elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.

“Okay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, ‘Wow, your ears are so expressive today,’ like some feral maniac.” You groan and press your forehead to your palm. “He probably thinks I’m studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?”

“To be fair,” a dry voice answers behind you, “most people don’t notice ear movement unless they’re watching very closely.”

You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.

“You were there…the whole time,” you croak.

“Roughly since the ‘feral maniac’ part,” he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. “You were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.”

You cover your face. “I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“You didn’t,” he says gently, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “I didn’t mind the compliment. It was…oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.”

He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.

“Next time,” he adds, not looking up, “less spiraling, more speaking.”

His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.

And then he mutters to himself, “They’re only expressive when you’re around, anyway.”

You pretend not to hear. For now.

thoma

You’re alone in the kitchen—or so you believe—flipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. “Okay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!”

“Crispy like my smile, huh?”

You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.

“I’m flattered,” he says, stepping closer. “But now I’ve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?”

“I—I meant the gyoza, not your— Wait, no, I meant both—I mean—”

The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan can’t take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.

“No, the gyozas!”

Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.

“You know,” he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, “you didn’t have to set them on fire just to impress me.”

“I didn’t—!”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Means I get to help.” He tosses you a wink. “Teamwork, right?”

Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on “optimal gyoza symmetry.”

Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Still not sure what a crispy smile is, but if we’re talking about yours…I think I get it now.”

heizou

You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.

“No, Heizou, I don’t need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very much—”

A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.

“AAHH—” you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.

Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. “Whoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I should’ve brought a warrant first.”

You freeze, mortified. He’s already dusting off his sleeves like it’s just another day at the precinct.

“Really now, that’s the welcome I get?” he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.

“You snuck up on me mid-spiral,” you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. “That’s reckless behavior, even for you.”

He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.”

Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like he’s just cracked another case.

“You know,” he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, “talking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, say…a face and a name?”

You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re insufferable.”

He tilts his head. “And yet, I’m the one you keep muttering about.”

You try to come up with a retort. You fail.

“Don’t worry,” he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, “your secrets are safe with me.”

“You are the secret,” you call after him.

“And still,” he says without looking back, “you can’t seem to stop confessing to it.”

bennett

“Okay, just be normal. If I trip, I’ll just play dead. He won’t even notice. He’s used to disasters,” you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurers’ Guild.

“Wait, was that about me?”

You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.

Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.

“No—I mean—kind of?” you stammer.

He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. “I mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, but…hey, you’re not gonna trip.”

He pauses, then adds quickly, “But if you do, I’ll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, I’ve got decent reflexes! Usually!”

He’s turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.

“Not that you’ll fall, or need catching! It’s just—If you did fall, hypothetically, I’d be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.”

You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.

“So,” you say, grinning, “wanna grab lunch before something does explode?”

“Yes! Wait, are you asking me out?”

You hesitate. “…Would it make you trip if I said yes?”

“Most likely.”

“Then, I’ll give you ‘probably’ as my answer.”

“Perfect.”

kaveh

He hears your muffled voice through the wall.

“If I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, I’m going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.”

A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.

“Well,” he says, in full dramatic cadence, “had I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I would’ve brewed peppermint for the nerves.”

You groan and throw a pillow at him.

“Ah! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So you’ve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.”

You peek between your fingers. “Kaveh, please go.”

He places the tea tray down very deliberately. “I’ll leave,” he says, moving toward the door, “but only after I point out that I’m flattered, deeply and profoundly.”

He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.

“By the way,” he adds, not quite looking at you, “it’s mutual. The whole…emotional-overload-in-each-other’s-presence thing.”

And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.

zhongli

You’re standing outside Wánmín Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.

“You can’t just stare at him every time he talks. He’s not poetry. He’s a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.”

You pause, frowning at the phrase.

“Tea and regret?”

You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.

After a moment’s pause, a faint smile graces his lips. “I believe that’s a new metaphor.”

Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.

“You may continue your soliloquy. I find it…endearing.”

𑣲 ‧₊ in the lines of your palm, there is love

they are jewels, you see, my hands, they are a language for living love.

𑣲 ‧₊ character : alhaitham 𑣲 ‧₊ fandom : genshin impact 𑣲 ‧₊ notes : quote from alda merini. for @vultursvolans for the winter wonderland event !!! hello i love you ryuryuyuyu my terror #myterror . OMG WE HAVE WRITTEN ALHAITHAM FOR EACH OTHER DURING THE HOLIDAYS

alhaitham loves quietly. softly. it doesn't come as naturally as he'd like, doesn't come with the same ease as learning and studying from the textbooks that line his shelf. it's different, learning to love this way. difficult at times.

worth it, he thinks. it's always worth it.

in the knowing of you, there is a growing adoration and warmth that floods his being : a strange feeling, unfamiliar in its existence but forever welcomed. he thinks about you more than he expects, and somewhere along the way, he learns to let the walls down, learns to make all his edges less sharp. kinder.