strawberry jam

tighnari would take it horribly. fennec foxes mate for life; he chose you for the rest of his life. part of his yandere inclinations are because you wouldn't truly understand how heart-wrenching and soul-destroying it would be for someone of his species to watch his mate - the love of his life, his soulmate - leave him. he gets . . . despondent. honestly, half of gandharva ville's forest rangers are out looking for you to drag you back to him - they not only don't believe tighnari could do something so awful, but they're more likely to blame you for running away.

diluc takes it horribly too. he's already a vigilante, but with you gone, he's probably out every night desperately looking for you. calling in every favour he's ever been owed, listening to every piece of gossip, getting in contact with his old intelligence agency . . . diluc won't believe you've done it on purpose. he's keeping you safe - so, without him, the only option is that you've been taken by someone untrustworthy and you're in danger. at least when he gets you back he'll be too relieved to properly punish you.

ayato takes it reasonably well on the outside; he calls in the shuumatsuban and tells them to find you at any cost, and keeps his face polite and his smile serene. inside, he's raging - but he's a master at playing games to his advantage. he knows you'll be found - and when you're back in his clutches, there'll be hell to pay.

zhongli also takes it reasonably well - at first. it's only when he's alone he lets his full rage out; dragon nature angry that his greatest treasure has been stolen, hands shifting into claws as he resists the urge to call forth pillars and shatter every stone and rock in sight. if you're extremely unlucky, this emotional imbalance on a man normally so stoic might help the erosion along a little . . . and then, the man who finds you and drags you back to his nest home is far more morax than zhongli.

And, when he sees you braiding Tonia's hair or listening patiently as Teucer tells you all about his newest toy (or, more transparently, the Ruin Hunter Childe disabled and brought home during his last visit), it just makes him so happy. You say you don't have any other choice, that innocent children shouldn't have to suffer because of their older brother's fucked up delusions, but he can't get rid of that soft, melting feeling in his chest, can't resist the temptation to hold you close and mutter little nothings about miniature versions of you and him running around a cabin tucked into a snow-covered mountainside. You aren't ready for it, right now, and he's too caught up with his responsibilities as a Harbiger, but one day, he knows it's going to happen.

You'll be part of his big, happy family - whether you want to be or not.

Zhongli

Your eyes.

Over the course of his immortality, Zhongli's found that eyes tend to hold age more tellingly than flesh ever could. His own are unpleasant to gaze into, sharpened by war and hollowed by loss - still bright, but illuminated by a prying sort of light, more piercing than gentle. He's met children no taller than cattails whose eyes suggest that they've already lived a full century's worth of hardships, adults well into the twilights of their lives who still see the world the same way newborn crystalflies might, and while there's something he can admire about each and every pair he encounters, your eyes are his favorite, by far.

Softened, trusting, emanating a warmth he knows he's done nothing to earn. You're so unfalteringly mortal, despite how long he's kept you by his side, so unaware of all the cruelty and all the suffering you'd have to endure if he wasn't so eager to act as your shield. He could stare into your eyes for hours, and he often does - holding you in his lap as he carefully inspects the way your fear of him makes the color of your irises that much more breath-taking. He prefers it when you're happy (or, as happy as you allow yourself to be, at least), but there's a certain appeal to the dark glint you take on when you try to lie to him, and the tears that well-up whenever those lies have to be carved out of you. Truly, there's no sight he holds closer to his heart, no aspect of any living thing he finds more beautiful.

He only hopes that, one day, your eyes will shine with the same love for him as his do, for you

Xiao

Your voice.

It's an ironic fixation, considering his adamant refusal to actually talk to you. If he had it his way, he'd never say a word, never do anything but rest his head in his lap and listen to you ramble and laugh and purr his given name the way you used to, but he'd rather die than say that aloud, and his constant aire of 'mildly-annoyed-but-willing-to-tolerate-you' doesn't do him any favors. He used to spend hours outside of your bedroom window, listening to you sing while keeping an eye out for any would-be intruders, but that was a small pleasure he sacrificed when he decided his obsession was more important than your freedom. You don't sing as often, anymore.

Silence is the worst punishment you can inflict on him. You'd never be able to tell from his reaction (or lack thereof), but it really does hurt Xiao when you purse your lips, bite your tongue, refuse to respond when he goes through the trouble of speaking to you. During your little shows of rebellion, it's all he can do to mind his temper, to try and satisfy himself with the little, murmured nothings he can get out of you in your sleep, when you don't realize that you're feeding into his dependence. He'd never force you to do anything, even if he does sometimes find himself wondering how easy it would be just to choke a few words out of you. He doesn't want to hurt you. He doesn't want to make you hate him, no more than he absolutely has to.

He just wants to hear you say his name.

Diluc

His home.

More specifically, the Dawn Winery. It's the last thing his father gave to him, the place where he and Kaeya grew up, the only consistent Diluc allows himself to trust in all of Teyvat. Although it's no more fortified than any other home in Mondstadt, he knows he'll never have to bring the duties of the Darknight Hero within its walls, nor will Master Diluc Ragnvindr ever have to worry about being rendered powerless in his own domain. It's a fragile sanctuary, but he cherishes it all the same. How couldn't he, when he already has so little to hold onto?

That's why his heart tightens the way it does when he comes home to you, curled up in his bed, one of his coats draped over your body and a book from his library still spread open next to your head. He adores the interest you take in every little thing, approaching the opulence of his home with the kind of wide-eyed excitement he hasn't seen in a long, long time, and he feels so warm whenever he catches you wandering the vineyard, despite how dangerous it is for you to be around all that sharp, unpredictable equipment without his supervision. He knows that you aren't fond of your arrangement as he is. He sees the way your eyes light up when he mentions the city, and he's aware that your frequent requests to join him on his little day trips away from the manor aren't just innocent ploys to stay on his side, but still.

Is it so wrong for a man to want to keep the things he loves close to his heart?

Kaeya

His loneliness.

That is to say - just how starved he is for any and all types of companionship. He's just such a busy man, too preoccupied with his work as a knight and too estranged from the family he was raised into to ever seek after the affection he thrives on, and he's not exactly the kind of man who can simply let himself admit he wants someone to rake their fingers through his hair and giggle as they kiss the corner of his lips. That's why he tends to act so quickly, why he feels the need to hold you so close to his side. He does love you, but it's a needy sort of love, the type that's always going to take more than it gives. He does his best to love you, but he absolutely needs you to love him.

Which is why he acts the way he does. Holding you in his lap, playing as domestic as you'll allow, only ever speaking to you in that clawing, coaxing voice - as if he thinks sweet words will be enough to make up for the fact that he chains you to his bed every night and bruises your lips every morning. He'll act like nothing's wrong, do his best to treat you as a lover would, and even if you'll never hear him say it, he expects you to do the same, to coo and simper and love him until he can believe you genuinely care for him, if only until your next escape attempt.

He's willing to do whatever he has to, if it means he's never left alone again.

Cyno

Your smile.

Your smile, and your laugh, and that adorable clapping-jumping-squealing thing you do whenever you're particularly excited about something. It might just be because of all the years he spent as General Mahamatra, all the scholars who seemed to lapse into silence whenever he finds himself within earshot, but there's something about your joy that sends a warm, pleasant jolt down his spine - not totally unlike the feeling of fresh blood dripping down his polearm and over his hands. He'd prefer it if you laughed at his jokes rather than his attempts to explain the subtle nuances of his humor, but he's willing to take what he can get, when it comes to you.

And, because of that, he's willing to make so, so many compromises for you. He's not the jealous type, but he can't suppress the twinge of irritation he feels whenever he catches you with another man, another member of the Akademiya, laughing at some inane comment spouted off by someone who hasn't even taken the time to study your preferences. He's not mad at you, of course, it's more of a... frustration, just pronounced enough not to be dulled by that lovely smile of yours. It's because he holds you so dear that he feels the need to be so protective. It's because he cherishes you that he feels the need to keep you away from those who would take your light for granted.

It's because he considers your smile to be such a treasure that he can't help but think, in his weakest moments, that you'd be better off locked away.

Scaramouche

His heart.

Or, whatever dark, empty void he has where a heart should be, at least. He's just such a sensitive creature, softened by loss and made vulnerable by hurt, and he can't help but look for things to soothe the pain - whether or not you meant to worm your way under his skin and flow into the cavity he desperately needs something to fill.

And he absolutely loathes you for it, too. He doesn't want to be so weak. He doesn't want to allow himself to be governed by the forces that end mortal lives and drive gods to madness. He doesn't want to be tied to a being as insignificant as yourself in such an undeniable way, and yet, he'd give anything to curl up in the space between your ribs and live there until the rest of the world rots away. His wild temper can be calmed by your hand on his cheek, even if he still puts on a convincing act, and he despises the days when he can't summon the willpower to do anything but lie in your arms. It's a vile sort of intimacy, as unwanted on his end as it is on yours. If he was any younger, any less desperate, he might be tempted to get rid of you; slip something toxic and bitter into your tea or send a bolt of pure lightning through your nervous system and free himself from your influence permanently.

But, he's already had one heart taken from him.

You’re squinting a little bit as you move towards him, a hand up in front of your eyes to ease the adjustment from near-total darkness to a well lit room. He hears you, you know, because the moment you’re within arm’s reach he twists in his chair to face the side.

You step forward one more time, now close enough to see the drooping eyelids of your barely-awake lover as he looks up at you, before you finally speak.

“Cyno,” you say softly, “come to bed. How long’ve you been working, lovely?”

“As soon as I finish this,” he mumbles, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. He ignores your last question—well, ignores or he just hasn’t heard it at all. Your lips pull into a frown again.

“Your paperwork isn’t going anywhere, you know.” You reach forward and cup his face, thumb rubbing back and forth on his cheek. Cyno turns and presses a kiss to your palm, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

“The paperwork won’t, but they—the people that—the—”

“The rule breakers? The plagiarizers?”

“Yes.” He sighs, leaning further into your hand. You shake your head and watch as he tries to keep awake. “Them. Those people. Those… those scoundrels.”

Despite your best efforts, you huff a laugh. “Scoundrels? You’re sounding a lot like that old lady back at the market now, Cyno.” He sighs again when you brush the hair from his face; you tuck it behind his ear with a feather-light touch. “Look, see? Maybe you’re a changeling, lovely. You really are turning into her. You’ve got the hair to match, too.”

“M’not old,” he grumbles. “You are.”

“Never called you old.”

“Shuddup.”

Your grin fades into a small smile when he sinks even further into you; you’ve moved to stand between his legs so he doesn’t fall flat on his office floor. Hands having left their places on his cheeks, now they card through his hair, pushing it from his face as he rests his head against your stomach.

“Cyno,” you say gently, “come to bed.”

You just barely manage to make out the words he says into your stomach: “Jus’ one… one more. One last.”

“You can barely keep awake, lovely.” 

Cyno shakes his head weakly. You narrow your eyes. His actions don’t seem to match up with his words: even as he says he doesn’t want to, he nuzzles into the warmth of your body, fingers tracing circles on your knees.

When your hands still in his hair, he whines. 

“In the morning, who do you think’s gonna have to deal with all the little mistakes on your reports just because you chose to keep pushing yourself?” He mumbles something against you that, this time, you can’t quite make out. Either way, you say, “That’s right, lovely. It’ll be you.” 

You start running your fingers through his hair again, and now Cyno melts, giving in. His entire upper body’s slumped against you and so, afraid of him falling asleep on you completely, you push him back gently and pull a hand from his hair to cradle his jaw, tilting his head upwards a little so he can look at you properly. 

“So, what about now?” you hum. Your lover blinks up at you, sleepy-eyed. “You feel like coming to bed?”

A moment before Cyno murmurs, “M’kay.”

You smile, thumbing his cheek again. “M’kay. D’you mind standing up for me then, lovely? Just ’til we get to the bed.”

He answers with a push of his body away from yours, hands braced on the edge of his work desk so he can stand properly like you’ve asked him to. Your arms hover over his sides, at which he sends you a look.

“M’not that sleepy,” are the words that accompany said look, which make you raise your eyebrows.

“Sure, lovely,” you say, guiding him towards the door, hands hovering over his sides. Like you only a few minutes ago, he stumbles his way into your bedroom. Two or three times you have to steady him by the shoulders because he keeps tripping over his own feet.

Finally, you reach the bed. Cyno crashes into it, letting out a satisfied hum as the comfort wraps ’round his aching body. You smile, climb in after him, and pull the blanket over you both.

It’s immediate, the way he reaches for you. Cyno’s weight drapes over your body, and at last, your lover settles against you, face tucked into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped fast around your waist. Your own hands have returned to his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. You sigh when you feel him press his lips to your skin: once, twice, and a third time. I love you, these sleepy kisses mean. He does it again. I love you.