๋⭑‎₊⊹˚🪐⭑‎₊⊹

Crack!

The Balladeer was a fearsome villain.

Manipulating the element of electro,

He could bend anyone to his will.

Your mind conjures vivid images of those torturous purple sparks so easily controlled by the delicate fingertips of a cruel puppet. He revels in the way your back arches in shock when he just lightly grazes your sensitive nipple—

Crack!

A whimper escapes your throat as your hand mindlessly slides down the soft skin of your belly and beneath the loose waistband of your sleep shorts. Your finger tip brushes against your own wetness and you softly gasp, eyes fluttering shut. One shaky finger glides against your clit, frictionless with your slick and you whine. Just the thought of him has you soaked. Your middle finger dips down to the small hole below, too impatient to tease as you press inside—

“You are so goddamn loud.”

You squeal, eyes snapping open to find a pair of piercing blue glaring down at you.

“If you’re going to fuck yourself next to someone you should at least try to be subtle.”

You flounder for something to say, hyperaware of your sticky fingers still pressed against yourself. 

He reaches over you to grab the edge of the blanket as if to remove it and you panic—

“Wait, Scaramouche—”

Wanderer goes unnaturally still and your heart drops. 

“Wanderer,” you attempt to correct.

But the damage is done. 

He stares down at you with an unreadable expression, voice eerily calm when he speaks.

“That name… Is that who you wish was here right now? Is that who has you so desperate that you’re fingering your own cunt right beside your boyfriend?”

Yes—wait, no!

Your brain lags for a second as you struggle to remember what the right answer is but that moment of hesitation is all he needs. 

All at once his demeanor changes, his eyes dark and soulless in an unfamiliar way that makes your blood run cold but ignites a warmth deep in your gut.

He rips the blanket away, ignoring your startled protest as he grabs the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your shorts to pull those off as well. The hand you were using to pleasure yourself now futilely attempts to cover you in some form of modesty.

“Roll over,” he commands. “and don't make me repeat myself.”

The order catches you off guard but you scramble to follow, bare chest pressed against the mattress with your butt exposed to the chilly air. He roughly grabs both of your wrists and holds them together behind your back with one of his hands, the other hand softly trailing down your spine to make you shiver.

“W-Wanderer, what—”

“Wrong name.”

Smack!

You gasp, right ass cheek stinging.

Wanderer had never done this—even in his most passionate moments he is always holding back, never daring to elicit pain or leave a mark. 

But this isn’t Wanderer, is it?

With equal parts terror and exhilaration, you realize the one behind you is no longer your lover but instead Scaramouche.

Smack!

The second spank hits the exact same spot causing your eyes to well up with tears. A whimper is caught in your throat.

Scaramouche’s hand returns to soothe the aching skin and you tremble because you know his tenderness will not last. 

“Tch, so ungrateful,” he pinches, hard, and you yelp. “What we say when someone gives us exactly what we wanted?”

“Th-thank you?”

Smack!

You squeal and he pinches your ass again in warning.

“Thank you!”

"Who?"

“W-wander–”

Smack!

“Scaramouche! Ahn—th-thank you!”

He spanks you repeatedly, striking either side at random and sometimes the same side many times in a row. He spanks you until your songs of gratitude are incomprehensible mumbles. 

By the time he stops both of your cheeks are hot and throbbing. When he finally releases your arms your body melts into the bed, boneless and thankful for a moment of reprieve.

But then you feel his hands again, lifeless and cold, brush up the backs of your thighs before reaching the curve of your ass. He grips the globes of flesh, kneading them like dough before spreading them apart. You swear that you can feel the weight of his gaze on you, scornful as he observes your most private part. Your skin prickles when you feel yourself drip onto the sheets. 

Scaramouche scoffs and your face burns.

“A few light spanks and your pussy’s leaking like a faucet. You’re fucking disgusting.”

A wave of heat rushes through you so suddenly that you get lightheaded. You whimper, hands gripping at the sheets and squeeze your eyes shut. You feel embarrassed, ashamed, and so hot. 

Scaramouche cackles loudly behind you. 

“That made you twitch like crazy down here—don’t tell me you’re actually getting off to this?”

You shake your head no because you’re not, you can’t be, this is weird and Wanderer would never do this and—

Your hole clenches around nothing.

“You are—haha, how embarrassing," Scaramouche taunts.

A lewd sound is ripped from your throat as Scaramouche suddenly presses two fingers inside of you. His fingers are thicker than your own and you hadn’t properly prepped at all but you’re so wet that they slide in easily. He does not wait for you to adjust—not that you would even need to—and immediately starts finger fucking you.

His wrist twists with each thrust, massaging your gummy walls in a way that has you gushing around his fingers and sobbing into the sheets. 

“Heh, I can’t even tell which is louder: that pretty little mouth or this filthy fucking cunt.”

Scaramouche emphasizes the last word by inserting a third finger with a particularly mean twist that has you seeing stars and proving his point when you wail. Even the crackling thunder outside is downed out by the wet schlick, schlick sounds of your sopping cunt.

Each press of his fingers has you tightening, driving you closer and closer to a breaking point.

His other hand moves up, thumb brushing teasingly against the wrinkled skin of your other hole and your whole body tenses up. 

A stuttered protest falls from your lips as he applies a bit more pressure, threatening to breach that place that has never been touched before. Your brain feels like a muddled mess, strung between the mindnumbing pleasure ceaselessly assaulting your pussy and the terrifying pressure against your unprepared anus. Your chest seizes when you hear how nonsensical you sound even to your own ears as you desperately attempt to sputter for him to wait, stop–not there! But even as you protest your traitorous cunt is tightening around the fingers rapidly pumping in and out. You’re seconds away from cumming while tears roll down your flushed cheeks and you’re scared. Scared because Wanderer knows your boundaries, Wanderer would never push you too far but, Scaramouche, he—

He laughs and pulls away completely. 

Your chest heaves in shaky breaths as you try to process the overload of emotions. The disappointment of the stolen orgasm overshadows any semblance of relief and the emptiness of your still dripping cunt nearly makes you want to sob. 

You are flipped onto your back like you weigh nothing.

Through hazy eyes you see Wanderer—Scaramouche standing at the edge of the bed and staring down at you, his thin lips twisted in a smirk. His eyes—still that familiar pretty electric blue—seem to glow in the dark as they rake over your bare body. You can only imagine what he is planning to do with you but—

You lift your hand without thinking, sitting up to reach out and touch that familiar face…

Scaramouche frowns, snatching your hand away and grabbing your face instead. Your cheeks are smushed tightly between his fingers as he fixes you with a glare. 

“You really enjoy pissing me off, don’t you?”

You try to protest but it’s muffled and he squeezes harder.

“Or were you hoping to be punished? Is that what you wanted, slut?”

The anticipation of what punishment from Scaramouche might entail has your breath hitching and he smirks before ordering you to your knees. You obey quickly, clamoring off the bed to drop down in front of him. 

On your knees, you look up at him with palpable eagerness and the sight seems to please him because he allows himself to gently brush his fingertips against your cheek. You instinctively follow his hand, nuzzling into it like a kitten and his expression falls into something soft. 

Scaramouche’s tone is low when he murmurs.

“Such a good girl for me.”

The reaction is instant, your gut clenches as your pupils blow wide as you whimper. You nod, frantic in your agreement that yes, you are Scaramouche’s good girl.

You don’t know which you like more: degradation or praise; If you are seeking punishment or reward.

Scaramouche makes the decision for you.

His tender touch becomes harsh as he grabs your face again, squishing your cheeks so hard your teeth hurt.

“Come on, good girl,” he taunts sarcastically, “it’s time for your punishment.”

His grip holds you still, forcing you to watch as his other hand pulls the waistband of his pants down just low enough to release himself. His cock is fully hard, swollen and heavy, and just as unhumanly pretty as the rest of him. A bead of precum slowly rolls down the flushed head and you swallow thickly. 

You attempt to say something but it is again muffled between his grip.

“Hmm,” he hums as he steps closer, “what was that?”

He grips himself by the base and carelessly slaps his cock against your lips, chuckling as his precum is smeared across your cheeks. He finally loosens his grip on your cheeks just enough for you to speak and you open your mouth.

“Plea—mmph!”

Scaramouche shoves himself in, to the hilt, laughing when you choke. 

His hand slides up from your jaw to the back of your head, gripping a fistful of your hair to control your movements. He forces your head forward at the same time as his hips so that he hits the back of your throat on every thrust. 

Your face is a mess, wet with drool and precum and tears, and you can’t breathe the desire to please him overrides your every common sense. You hollow your cheeks as much as you can, running the tip of your tongue across the vein along his shaft and he groans, his head falling back in pleasure. 

“That’s it—shit—being so fucking good for me.”

You moan against him, thighs squeezing together as you continue to let him use you. He doesn’t stop until your ears are ringing and your vision is swimming with black dots.

The moment he pulls out you gasp for breath.

Scaramouche allows you a moment to breathe, quietly observing while you cough and blink through the dizziness. He waits until your breathing is even, grip still firmly holding your hair.

“Open your mouth,” Scaramouche orders. “Wider.”

Your mouth opens obediently, expecting him to slide inside you again—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans down slowly until his face is hovering above your own. The angle forces your neck to crane back uncomfortably and you briefly wonder if he’s going to kiss you—

His lips fall open and you watch with bated breath as a thick glob of saliva rolls down his tongue. 

It collects at the tip of his tongue, growing heavier and heavier until it eventually falls, splattering directly into your mouth.

“Swallow.”

You do. 

You swallow Scaramouche’s spit and maybe it's the shock—the debauchery—but it makes you moan.

Scaramouche immediately cackles.

“Haha—fuck, you really are a slut.”

The words are so mean but his tone is nearly reverent and he’s suddenly pulling you on top of the bed with startling urgency. You are given no time to react as he spreads your legs wide, slotting himself between your open thighs.

His length slides between the puffy lips of your pussy, head nudging against the hood of your clit and you gasp. 

“Shit,” Scaramouche whispers as he lines himself up, “I’m not going to last long.”

It is the only warning you get before Scaramouche pushes himself inside. You squeal, fisting the sheets while he stretches you open around his thick cock. He doesn’t wait at all, forcing you to take his full length in one slow motion, inch by inch, until he bottoms out.

“Your pussy is too fucking greedy,” he grunts. “Can barely fucking move.”

It’s not your fault, you think—but then Scaramouche is slowly pulling almost all the way out before splitting you open again all the way to the base and your eyes are rolling back. Within a handful of thrusts you’re already dazed and cockdrunk, babbling noisily beneath him.

One of his hands slips down to rub circles around your clit, hitting the sensitive bundle of nerves on every other loop just to watch how your hips uselessly attempt to jerk away from his iron grip.

You’re rattling out nonsense now, half sentences of his name and that feels so good, please don’t stop interspersed between the embarrassingly loud squelches of your sloppy pussy getting hammered.

“Shut up,” Scaramouche snaps even as he tilts his hips to drive his cock into the spot he knows will make you scream. Your gut is tight with a tension that’s rapidly approaching its breaking point.

“Always so fucking loud.”

A hand wraps around your throat and your eyes snap open.

Scaramouche holds your gaze as he applies pressure to the sides of your neck, just enough to cut off your air supply and you immediately fall apart. 

Your pussy clenches hard around him, forcing his pace to stutter before he seems to punish you with even harder and faster slaps of his hips, fucking you through your orgasm.

It drives you to the brink of overstimulation, tears running down your cheeks as you make pitiful, choked sounds.

You feel pressure against your lips and it takes you a moment to realize he is kissing you, his hand still wrapped around your neck like a collar. It’s clumsy and wet, a desperate mashing of mouths. You don’t have the cognitive function to properly reciprocate but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Scaramouche breaks the kiss to gaze down at you and in your lightheaded state you can’t tell whether the curve of his lips is one of love or cruelty. 

You hope it’s both. 

He finally releases your throat and your lungs fill with oxygen so quickly you get a headrush.

“I think you deserve a reward,” Scaramouche murmurs, his hips erratic and voice strained in a way that tells you he is nearing his own release. “—but only if you beg for it, of course.”

His words, combined with the sadistic smirk, has the tension in your gut returning. 

You’ll do anything for him.

“Please,” you whimper weakly. 

Scaramouche scoffs and the fingers rubbing against your clit pinch meanly.

“Please, Scara—”

Scaramouche suddenly pulls out and you sob at the emptiness before he grips your hips and lifts them up, up, up—the breath is nearly knocked out of you when realize he’s just bent you into a mean mating press. He settles on top of you, crushing you beneath his weight as he presses himself back against your hole.

From this position you are forced to watch your own drooling cunt getting split open for a second time. You stare as your puffy lips are stretched open obscenely wide around the girth of his cock.

In this position it feels like a much tighter fit and yet he reaches deeper, so deep you swear you can feel him in your lungs. 

Your walls cling to him pathetically as he begins to pull out, your creamy pussy leaving a milky ring around his shaft.

Scaramouche immediately sets a brutal pace and you’re forced to just take it, completely immobilized beneath his bodyweight.

“Sc-Scaramou—ah–please!”

“Please what?” Scaramouche sneers. “How am I supposed to give it to you if I don’t even know what you’re begging for.”

He’s so fucking mean, you think. 

But you’re the one creaming around his mean cock.

“Please—your c-cum, fill me up, Scaramouche,” you stutter with flushed cheeks, “I want you to breed me, please pleasepleaseplea—!”

He curses and presses his face against your neck, his movements faltering before he drives in as deeply as he can. 

He’s pressing into the deepest part of you, tip nudging something that has never been touched before. Your cervix, you realize and it sends you over the edge. 

Scaramouche moans, unexpectedly pitchy and loud against your ear, before you feel warmth burst inside of you in quick spurts, coaxed by your walls milking him greedily. 

It fills you thoroughly, nearly threatening to overflow but the position ensures it stays inside, deep in your womb. 

He ruts into you a few more times, responding to the pulsing of your walls, before he finally pulls back and you flop onto the mattress.

Your heart is still racing as your body slowly comes down from the high but you know he has no such physiological effects.

And indeed, when you gather the strength to roll over onto your side, you see him sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks completely normal, hair just barely mused but expression indifferent, as he adjusts his clothing.

His head turns towards you and you freeze, feeling vaguely like a small mouse being spotted by a housecat.

“Um,” you start awkwardly, “Wanderer?”

The uncertainty in your voice is obvious and he raises a brow in question.

“Are you angry?”

“Always,” he replies cooly, “you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Are you angry at me for, um, cheating on you?”

His lips curl with amusement.

“Cheating on me? With myself?”

Well, if he puts it like that…

“Still,” you persist, “I know you have a lot of… regrets about that time in your life and I don’t want you to relive those bad memories—”

Wanderer suddenly leans over to pick up your forgotten blanket from the floor before laying it on top of your body. You are suddenly aware of the heaviness in your eyelids and the soreness in your limbs.

The orange hue outside the window tells you it is nearly sunrise but you have no intentions of getting out of bed anytime soon. Your eyes are already beginning to droop when he finally speaks.

“Obsessing over the past is a waste of time–I’ve done enough of that. Tonight was… fun—"

Wanderer says it as if it physically pains him to use the word in relation to himself and you have to bite the blanket to stifle your giggles.

“—so I would not protest if you called me that again. But only when we are alone, got it? If people hear that name they’re going to start asking questions.”

You have a feeling “people” just means Nahida and Traveller but you nod in agreement anyway.

You extend one arm out from under the blanket, making grabby hands toward him and he scoffs. 

Wanderer mutters something about how childish you are but he obediently draws closer anyway, slipping beneath the blanket with you and allowing you to ready your head against the crook of his neck. His hands, cool against your warm skin, settle on the curve of your waist. 

You close your eyes, falling asleep as his finger taps the rhythm of your heartbeat.

Try as you might to ignore them, the fantasies come incessantly, vivid images of what it would have been like to meet Scaramouche.

He looks identical to your Wanderer: slender limbs of porcelain draped in traditional Inazuman silks, a head of silky dark hair, and a striking pair of eyes that glow.

But, unlike Wanderer, Scaramouche is cruel.

Scaramouche is more puppet than man, more archon than mortal, and he is devoid of any emotional attachments. In your imagination, you are always kneeling before him, prostrating as you beg for a mercy he does not give.

Scaramouche does not show restraint the way your lover does.

Wanderer would never dare to cause you harm, always handling you with gentle hands during your intimate moments.

But, Scaramouche… You think he would rather like to see you bleed.

You have imagined him torturing you in a thousand different ways. Sometimes it is with the sharp edge of a blade, laughing at the fear in your eyes as he presses it against your throat. Sometimes it is with the hot wax of a candle, silently watching you squirm as the heat sears your bare breasts. Sometimes it is with the cold wood of his bare hands, striking your ass until your skin blooms into red and purple bruises.

Regardless of the method of torture, your fantasies all end the same way: Fat tears streaming down your cheeks as you beg for more.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

The words startle you from your thoughts and you look up to find Wanderer sitting in front of you from you arms and legs crossed and he regards you with an expectant expression.

Glancing down at the scattered research papers and a half-finished story draft on the table, you recall what you were supposed to be doing.

“Uh... Studying,” you offer weakly.

Wanderer raises a brow in a way that tells you you’ve failed some type of unwritten test.

“Not what I asked but this is exactly what I mean. You’ve been so distracted lately…”

He pauses, cornflower blue eyes flitting across your face in search of something.

“You aren’t sick, are you? What are your symptoms? If you are unwell, we need to tell Lesser Lord Kusanali, she can fix you and—”

Your boyfriend’s genuine concern makes your stomach twist with guilt for fantasizing about Scaramouche.

What would Wanderer, the man who has decided to dedicate the remainder of his immortal life to atoning for his past sins against humanity and celestia alike, think if he knew you were getting off to the worst time in his life?

You resolve to never, ever let Wanderer find out about these sick thoughts of yours.

You will not be his fourth betrayal.

“Diarrhea,” you blurt.

Both of you freeze.

Wanderer’s concerned expression drops into something unreadable and your cheeks are beginning to heat up but you are already too committed to the lie to back out now.

“I think I ate something weird at Cyno’s place last week, I’m sure I’ll be fine after a few more trips to the toilet—in fact I think I’ll do that right now—see you at home later, dear!”

You snatch up your papers to stuff in your messenger bag and zip out of the cafe as if a Sumpter Beast were hot on your heels.

What a perfect save, you think.

It was, in fact, not a perfect save.

While your stomach issues excuse bought you a few days of peace, Wanderer seemed to be watching you even more closely than before.

Any time you catch yourself in the midst of zoning out you find him there, already staring right at you. At first you tried to play it off, feigning the usual exhaustion of a dedicated scholar or claiming you’ve been brainstorming ideas for your latest story.

But Wanderer’s stern gaze makes it clear he does not buy it at all and it is only a matter of time before he corners you and demands an answer.

You have tried your best not to have those impure thoughts, you truly did try. But it seems to haunt you, bits of inspiration appearing throughout your daily life.

One time, you had picked up your favorite novel, The Heartless Fae. You had hoped to replace your traitorous thoughts with the frivolous fantasies of fae princes and brave warriors.

Instead, the explicit scenes of passion have you imagining a certain harbinger and yourself in the characters' places. You wondered if the harbinger would throw you down and have his way with you like Jules does with Zakar in chapter twenty-two, binding your arms like a criminal before teasing your bare skin with the sharp edge of a dagger—

You had to borrow one of Alhaitham’s painfully boring essays to calm yourself down after that.

Another time, while researching historical texts for a writing assignment you stumbled across a textbook on ancient Inazuma. You cracked it open without hesitation, always eager to learn more about distant lands and the foreign cultures. But within a few pages the notable lack of information about the Raiden Shogun and electro gnosis became clear, almost as if it were intentionally scrubbed from the records.

You were reminded of the night Wanderer confessed his origins to you, his quiet retelling of his Creator and the search for his purpose. That was when told you about his past title, The Balladeer.

Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers.

You had only heard tales of the Harbingers.

Just their name seems to strike fear in the hearts of many and Wanderer seemed to confirm why when describing Scaramouche as a particularly ruthless leader.

Scaramouche was not governed by the moral principles of humans. He did not hold any reservations about destroying anything or anyone who stood in the way of his quest for Godhood. In fact, the trauma of his past betrayals inspired him to revel in the destruction. He would raze entire villages with fire, maim innocent civilians with electro, and murder his own subordinates without mercy if they so much as breathed too loudly in his presence—it painted a gruesome picture.

“I was not known to be particularly nice,” he had joked. “But I guess that hasn’t changed much.”

And perhaps that was the crux of the problem and the root of your fascination.

Scaramouche is not a myth constructed from one of your fantasy novels nor an unobtainable relic of ancient history. Even under a different name, following a different purpose, the experiences and memories of Scaramouche still exist.

Scaramouche is still alive.

Sometimes, you swear you can see him in the way Wanderer speaks.

If someone dares to test Wanderer’s patience, they never make the mistake twice. For all of Wanderer’s frequent glares and sarcastic quips, he rarely ever shows true anger. But if someone really pushes him, ignoring his boundaries and repeatedly demanding more than Wanderer is willing to give, something in him shifts. His cornflower blue gaze darkens in those moments, cutting to the person in a way that immediately has them faltering as Wanderer gives one final warning.

The presence of Scaramouche becomes most apparent when Wanderer fights.

You have only seen Wanderer in a serious fight once and it was for your own protection.

The two of you had been on the way back home from something of an impromptu adventure through the jungle. You had pestered him to come help you collect samples of Kalpalata lotuses to study for your latest story idea. You had read they only grow on cliffsides and climbing was not quite your strong suit. Your boyfriend, however, had a perfectly good anemo vision that would make reaching the peaks of cliffs a breeze.

You had told him as much (ignoring how he rolled his eyes at your genius pun) and he must have been in a good mood because he had only protested minimally before relenting.

The lotuses were beautiful. It was your first time seeing them in person and not merely illustrated in textbooks—you had excitedly said as much to Wanderer, who held you in his arms as he used his vision to keep the two of you suspended in the air. He had likely seen them a thousand times before in his long life wandering across Teyvat, but he still nodded along with your words and gave you a small smile that made your heart skip a beat.

You ended up leaving the cliffs without any lotuses. Perhaps Tighnari’s lectures about preserving nature were finally rubbing off on you because you decided your sketchbook and kamera were adequate documentation. The sun was just beginning to set when you and Wanderer could spot the familiar shape of the Divine Tree in the distance, indicating you would be home within an hour or two.

“Tonight I’m craving something fried,” you announce as the two of you walk side-by-side.

“Well you are having curry with rice, I already bought the ingredients yesterday.”

“But what if I don’t want curry with rice.”

“Then you can starve. You need to stop eating all that fried shit anyway—”

Wanderer suddenly freezes next to you, head snapping towards a tree just a few paces ahead.

You nervously follow his gaze but you don’t see anything unusual. You strain your ears, expecting to hear the heavy footsteps of a wild boar or perhaps the warning growl of a Rishboland tiger—but you can only hear the soft rustle of leaves and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Just as you open your mouth, the hulking figure of a large man steps from behind the tree to reveal himself. Two equally intimidating figures follow closely behind, forming a triangular formation. The red and gold insignia on their clothing catches your eye and your breath catches

Eremites.

The moment they take a step forward, Wanderer slides in front of you.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” the large one in front says.

He is tall, completely drawfing both you and Wanderer with a voice that is deep and raspy. Despite his reassuring words the lopsided smirk on his face and the way his eyes seem fixed on you in particular does not quell the anxiety in your gut.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Wanderer drawls. “If you value your lives at all you will all turn around and leave us alone.”

The eremites seem to find the threat humorous and they exchange looks before chuckling amongst themselves. The once peaceful breeze seems to pick up around you, gusts of wind ruffling your clothing and forcing you to look away from the bandits to blink away the sting. From the corner of your eye you notice the vision pinned to Wanderer’s chest is glowing brightly.

“You’re a brave kid, I’ll give you that,” the leader taunts. “I’m feeling generous today so I’ll make you a deal: We will let you go home in one piece if you give us everything in your bags—”

His eyes slide past Wanderer and on to you.

Your stomach drops.

“—and a few rounds with your little girlfriend.”

The trio burst into another round of laughter but your attention is drawn by Wanderer who speaks to you without looking.

“Take five steps back,” he orders calmly. “Turn around and close your eyes.”

You follow obediently, moving before your brain even processes his words. You take five shaky steps back then slowly turn around.

The last thing you see before you turn is the curve of Wanderer’s shoulders as he summons Tulaytullah’s Remembrance.

You squeeze your eyes shut and listen to the deafening howl of wind.

Then comes the screams, the cries, the pleading as bones pop and snap.

To his relief, you are neither sleeping nor sobbing and there is not an overdue bill in sight. Instead, you are happily humming to yourself, setting a metal tray full of fluffy brown cakes onto the counter. The sweet scent of chocolate wafts over him just as you look up.

“Kinich,” you greet cheerfully.

He tries very hard not to focus on how quickly his heart races at your voice.

“Perfect timing, I just finished a new recipe I need someone to test out. You like grainfruit, right?”

Kinich pauses, just the name alone conjuring up a sickening aftertaste in his mouth. He absolutely does not like grainfruit. But—his eyes linger on the sweet curve of your lips—he doesn’t want to disappoint you. You are relying on him to test your new recipe so maybe he can suck it up just this once and—

“Just kidding,” you singsong before bursting into a fit of laughter. “You should have seen your face—ahaha—no worries, Malipo, no grainfruit here!”

His shoulders relax from a tension he did not realize he was carrying and a smile tugs at his own lips as you come over with a cake on a porcelain plate.

“This is Volcano Cake. It is quite challenging to make since the inside and outside have to be completely different consistencies at the same temperature, but I think it will be quite popular in the cooler months—well, assuming it actually tastes good of course.”

You stab into the cake with a small fork, tearing a piece apart to reveal a molten chocolate center that immediately begins to overflow and drip down the sides in distinct tracks like lava.

His eyes follow the piece of cake at the end of your fork until it stops, hovering just centimeters from his lips. When he looks up he is met with your expectant gaze, face close enough to count your lashes. Close enough to lean forward and—

His breath hitches.

Without breaking eye contact, Kinich leans forward to take the bite obediently, the tip of your fork sliding between his lips.

He watches as your gaze flickers down to his lips with the movement. You stare for a moment, dazed, as he slowly chews the piece. It melts on his tongue, sweet with the distinct bitter aftertaste of cacahuati.

It is delicious. He would tell you as much but he gets the sense that neither of you are truly interested in cake at the moment. Your eyelashes momentarily flutter before you look back up. The eye contact ignites a heat deep in his gut.

“How is it?”

Your words are barely above a whisper but something in your tone feels dangerous. His fingers twitch at his sides, muscles flexing with the need for action.

You have always been like this haven’t you? Teasing him. Testing his limits. Pushing him to the very edge of a cliff and daring him to jump.

Well, Kinich has always been a thrill-seeker.

Any hopes of receiving a proper answer from him are dashed when he grabs at your elbows and pulls you in closer, uncaring of the dish that falls from your grip and clatters on the ground.

His lips pressed against yours are more hungry and desperate than sweet but you reciprocate all the same. You redirect your hands to his hair, gripping at his messy locks on just the edge of too tight but he could care less. As long as you were like this, bodies melded together so tightly he can hardly tell where he ends and you begin, nothing else matters.

It is purely by instinct that he nips at your bottom lip—but then your lips part for him and he is suddenly introduced to a new possibility. His tongue presses toward, sliding wet and hot against your own. You let out a soft sound in his mouth and he thinks he has never wanted anything as desperately as he wants you to continue making those pretty sounds for him. The head in his gut earlier has intensified, burning red hot as it urges him to do things with your body he has only imagined in moments of weakness.

Everything about you is enticing–that is something he had known since the beginning despite his best efforts to ignore it. But now the false pretexes are gone and his hands move across your soft body with an eagerness to feel everything hiding beneath the layers of clothing he had imagined removing more times than he would ever admit.

Despite your valiant attempts to return his intensity and stay upright, his strength dwarves your own so he slips his hands to the back of your thighs just under ths curve of your ass and lifts.

“Kinich—!”

Your hands fly up to grip at his shoulders for support as you’re suddenly hoisted up and pivoted to be plopped unceremoniously on top of the counter. However, any complaints you might have had are abruptly cut off as Kinich presses his mouth right back onto yours. You wrap your legs around his waist and roll your hips into his in way that has him seeing stars and an embarrassingly pitchy moan escapes his lips. You back from the kiss with a smirk but his eyes catch on the thin strand of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his own.

“You look pretty worked up,” you tease as if your own face isn’t hot to the touch and your own shoulders aren’t heaving with your labored breaths.

“I want you,” Kinich says, straight to the point as always. “Please.”

Your teasing look cracks apart into something more desperate as you quickly nod in agreement and allow him to pick you up again while you direct him towards your private room in the back of the bakery.

Clothing and accessories are discarded carelessly, tugged off in the brief moments between kisses. Without his gloves, Kinich gropes at what he can, already addicted to the soft squish of your flesh beneath his calloused hands. The swell of your breasts, the planes of your stomach, the curve of your ass—he commits himself to mapping them all without bias. He wonders at how someone can be so soft in this world filled with monsters, both human and not. But that was his duty as a hero, wasn't it? Protecting vulnerable treasures.

Kinich gently drops you onto the plush of your mattress but you quickly sit up to tug at the fabric around his hips pointedly. The thick material of his insulated jumpsuit is one of the last few pieces of clothing separating the two of you, your own dress and his black undershirt discarded somewhere between the kitchen and bed. Kinich obeys your silent request without hesitation, unbuckling the belt and pushing the layers of fabric down in one fluid move.

The moment his bare flesh is revealed you freeze, gaping at his hardened length.

Kinich pauses.

He is somewhat aware of his size, having seen his fair share of illustrative literature and visited more than a few public bath houses. He assumed himself to be average in most circumstances, at least when he doesn’t have the physical effects of a beautiful woman bare before him. Seeing himself before you now, you staring at his erection with genuine shock, he begins to second guess his previous assessments.

“Is it…” Kinich pauses to find a word, “sufficient for this task?”

His voice finally draws your gaze away from his crotch, eyes still wide as saucers.

“You’re huge, Kinich, how—” you cut yourself off abruptly and your look morphs something mischevious that already has him dreading what you might say next.

“I should have expected no less from the Great Malipo Kinich.”

Archons, not that again.

At his irritated expression you burst into a peel of giggles. The sound makes his heart throb nearly as much as his erection and Kinich decides it is entirely too overwhelming to be both horny and endeared so he settles with focusing on the former.

Kinich silently prompts you to lie down flat on your back as he busies himself with peppering soft kisses down your neck. He takes his time moving down, down, down until he reaches the curve of your bare hips. You’re squirming now, growing impatient in a way that tempts him to tease you as payback for all the times you’ve teased him–but he won’t.

Not tonight, at least.

He grips the fat of your thighs to spread your legs wide open, eyes mapping the newly revealed skin in equal measures of greed and analysis. You’re puffy and dripping, wetness smeared between your inner thighs and matting the tufts of hair around your entrance. The view is nothing short of inspirational to Kinich’s assessing gaze. His mind races with the possibilities, the many things he could do to you—most of which he hopes you would quite enjoy—but he recognized the significance of making a good impression tonight. He needs to provide exceptional service so that you will give him this privilege again and again.

His thoughts are interrupted by your attempt to squirm beneath his firm grip. You whine out a complaint about how his staring is embarrassing but Kinich tunes it out to focus. Seventy percent of one’s energy should go to investigating, he thinks. Ten percent to making a final decision, he ducks down, and the remainder for execution—

A sharp mewl escapes your lips as Kinich slides his tongue deeply between your folds, curling upwards until the tip catches against your clit. He tongues around the swollen nub, savoring the silkiness of your flesh, before diving back below to repeat the motion all over again.

When he finally releases his grip on your thighs they immediately close around the sides of his head, nearly trapping him, but he has a better use for his hands.

He uses his thumbs to pull the outer lips of your cunt open, exposing more of the slippery inner folds to his tongue. When he dips down again the tip of his tongue catches on the rim of your leaking hole, prompting your back to arch and one hand to fly to hair, gripping a fistful.

Kinich prods at the entrance, teasing it, before moving back up to instead rapidly flick his tongue against your throbbing nub. You cry out some mix of frustration and pleasure that has his lips curling into a smirk against you. He decides to show you some mercy in the form of pressing his blunt middle finger against your hole and pushing in deep. Your hips jerk in surprise but he continues to press forward, not stopping until the last knuckle. His lips close around your clit to suck at the same time he pulls his finger back before pushing it back in and setting a rhythm. If you were wet before you’re sopping now, the mix of your juices and his saliva making his movements frictionless and it isn’t long before he’s pushing his ring finger in alongside the first.

The sounds escaping you are sinful, both the breathy keens coming from your throat and the illicit squelches of your pussy. It has him leaking, cock desperate to experience the pulsating warmth wrapped around his fingers. But he ignores his body's urges to focus on pleasuring you, your heady taste on his tongue Kinich suddenly pushes a third finger in and you pull at his hair hard enough to rip out a few strands, hips bucking into him while his tongue swirls around your clit. He doesn’t relent until you’re seizing around him, walls spasming while your thighs squeeze tight against his skull and stutter out incoherent variations of his name. Kinich helps you ride through your orgasm, lapping up at the increased wetness while his fingers massage your inner walls.

When your muscles finally begin to relax he moves his fingers, pressing a final polite peck to your sensitive clit before sitting up.

The bottom half of his face is sticky with your juices—he suspects that is why you are avoiding eye contact right now–but it doesn’t deter him from leaning over to kiss you, drowning out your surprised squeak with hot presses of his mouth. He only pulls away when you are breathless, eyes half lidded and pupils blown as you gaze up at him with desire. His breath catches.

“Can I put it inside?”

You glance down briefly, his erection swollen and leaky as he patiently waits for your permission, before you let out a breathy yes.

Kinich moves quickly, slotting his hips between your thighs with one hand on the inside of your knee while the other grips at himself, guiding the tip to your entrance.

Seeing them right next to each other like this, Kinich begins to understand your previous shock. The size difference between the fat head of his cock and your tiny hole is nearly obscene. His mind betrays him with indecent thoughts, vivid images of folding you into a much more creative position. The idea of testing your body's limits makes him throb but he bookmarks those thoughts for later. Tonight is about proving himself as an adequate lover, he can make you scream another time.

Your hands fist at the sheets and you softly whine for him to hurry up already and so he does.

Kinich pushes in, blunt head pressing into your entrance and applying relentless pressure until it breaches. You gasp and he reaches up to grab one of your hands on instinct, fingers tightly interlocking as he continues to press forward. His attention flickers between watching your cute expressions twist with each centimeter and watching your cute hole being stretched open and forced to accept his cock. By the time he bottoms out your eyes are squeezed tightly shut and Kinich has to take a steady breath to calm himself down. He is certain that ejaculating immediately after entering you is within the top five worst things that could possibly happen to him right now.

Kinich leans down to pepper kisses against your cheeks and the corner of your mouth, distracting himself from the searing heat of your walls wrapped so tightly around him. You reciprocate sweetly, giggling and releasing the sheets to card your fingers through his dark hair gently. After a few moments, when he feels more composed. he leans back to adjust his hold. The hand pressing on the inside of your knee shifts to grip under it and he raises your leg a little higher so that the top of your thigh presses into the curve of your stomach. His other hand remains next to your head, pinning your hand down as you squeeze his fingers in anticipation.

When his hips begin to draw back you tighten up around him, like your body is begging him not to leave. The thought makes him a little light-headed but he manages to pull out to the tip before using his strength to thrust back to the hilt. You cry out his name and the sound sends goosebumps down his arms. He falters for a moment before repeating the motion, pulling out only to thrust back in, beginning to seat a steady pace punctuated by your stuttered moans and his own soft grunts.

Your pleased sounds, the searing warmth of you sucking him in on every movement, the sticky plap, plap, plap of his hips meeting yours—it is nearly overwhelming every one of his senses. It makes his heart race faster than standing at the peak of any towering cliffs or facing any pack of snarling saurians at close combat ever has. The sensations are completely foreign yet the primality of it activates the instincts he didn't know he had. The need to please you drives him to tilt his hips to catch on a part inside of you that makes you moan fuck, r-right there and squeeze around him so deliciously that he does it again and again and again—

“T-talk to me,” you gasp against his ear.

The request completely throws him off and his movements come to an abrupt halt while his brain scrambles to focus on anything that isn’t how good you feel long enough to decode what you just said.

“...about what?”

There is a brief pause before you are suddenly bursting into laughter and Kinich feels his face heat up. You laughing in his face might also be in the top five worst things to be happening right now. Luckily, the toothy grin you shoot him is cute enough to distract him from his sudden desire to jump off a cliff.

“I mean like,” you explain between giggles, “tell me how you feel. I want to hear you feel good."

The innocence of your words makes his chest throb again and he silently nods before resuming his previous rhythm.

He considers the request in earnest. Kinich has never been much of a talker but—you release a sharp cry when he accidentally hits a particularly sensitive spot inside of you and his stomach clenches—he certainly understood the appeal of a partner's voice. And he if it is something that will please you, Kinich will do anything.

He swallows thickly.

“You feel good,” he murmurs hesitantly, “very tight.”

He thrusts in with a particularly loud squelch. “—and wet.”

They are simply observations but the way you react, whimpering while your walls squeezing around him so tightly he can barely move--you must like it. He lets go of your hand and readjusts his position to drive more force behind every thrusts and the salacious cry that escapes you makes his hips stutter. His control is rapidly slipping and he ducks down to kiss you in a feeble attempt to ground himself. Your arms wrap around his sturdy shoulders, chests sliding against each other as he continues to lose himself to an animalistic pace inside of you.

“I want to do this… all the t-time,” he confesses hotly into your mouth. You moan your approval, drool escaping the sides of your lips as you press up into him.

“I want to—ah—make you f-feel good and…” his hands are gripping the sheets next to your head so tight his knuckles turn white, arms lightly trembling with strain as he relentlessly slams his hips against your own.

“Want to c-come home—fuck—have you spread out like this e-every night…f'me…only me—"

“Me too,” you gasp against his ear sweetly, hugging him close as he ruins you, “K-Kinich—ahh—I...I like you so much!”

The coil in his gut snaps and he releases inside of you with a strangled sound. He has just enough cognizance to slip one hand down and rub against the bundle of nerves above your entrance, desperate for you to finish with him and you do. You cum on his cock with an unrestrained moan of his name that he will undoubtedly be replaying in his head over and over for the rest of his life.

The minutes following are calm. His ears are still slightly ringing but his pounding heartbeat has finally begun to slow down when he finally gathers the mental strength to lift himself off of you. When he looks down you're a mess, sweaty and panting with unfocused eyes various fluids smeared against your flushed skin. His eyes dip down to place where he had just been and the sight of your battered cunt drooling with thick globs of his essence feels like a punch to the gut, reigniting the flame of his hunger.

"Ajaw was right," you announce.

The mere utterance of that name effectively quells any semblance of arousal and Kinich shoots you a pointed glare. You immediately grin.

"You are a total sap, Malipo. Cumming as soon as I say I like you, ha!"

Kinich does not reward you with a reply, instead reaching over for one of the earlier discarded clothing items—his black undershirt it seems—to gently wipe the mess from your thighs before it dries. He avoids the areas that make you twitch with sensitivity and cleans you to the best of his abilities before tossing the item back to the floor.

Laundry will be hell tomorrow, he distantly notes, but likely no worse than the typical stains of saurian viscera and his own blood. Your inquisitive gaze remains pinned to his face, watching as he untangles the several layers of sheets and thick comforter around you to pull them over your body instead.

He is considering asking why on Teyvat you have so many layers on your bed in the dead of Natlan summer when your soft voice cuts the silence first. gles the layers of sheets and thick comforter around you to pull them over your body instead. He is considering asking why on Teyvat you have so many layers on your bed in the dead of Natlan summer when your soft voice cuts the silence first.

"Do you like me?"

The question makes him freeze, eyes snapping to your own to try and read your expression. Your tone was curious and genuine—something that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably.

You must know, he thinks, you're always reading him so well, certain of his feelings without him ever saying a word. You must have read it in the way he inexplicably spends so many hours at the bakery each week, the way he talks to you more than he has ever spoken to anyone, the way he just reached the pinnacle of human connection with you just now—

Kinich pauses as your request from earlier flashes in his mind.

Maybe you just want him to say it aloud... he could certainly do that. Maybe he can finally muster up the courage to give you that emerald necklace that has been waiting in the bottom of his back pocket for days. He could just open his mouth and tell you right now that he likes you but—

Kinich's expression must change in a way you can't read because you tilt your head with furrowed brow in that cute way you always do when you don't quite understand something.

"I'm in love with you," he blurts.

Pause.

"...I think."

Kinich is nothing if not honest—maybe to a fault. But love is not something he can remember fondly. His experiences with love start with the heavy hands of his father and end at the bottom of a cliff. And, as painful as it was, it was still the only way he knew love, ugly and twisted but still peppered with laughter and smiles and the bittersweet taste of chocolate. He thinks you are something a little different, more akin to the warmth and comfort of his mother—but she left.

And he really hopes you won't leave.

Your face breaks into a wide grin and Kinich is releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down on top of you and under the inferno of your ten billion unnecessary blankets but he doesn't utter a word of complaint. His arms wrap around your waist, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

Within a few days he has binge watched every single one of your videos, even the "lost media" low quality shit you had deleted from your page once you started blowing up

Lohen has notifications turned on for every Twitter fan page, every subreddit, every Instagram account—if your username is in the bio, he is there

Even his coworkers feel like they know more about you than they should just from how often Lohen rambles

Sometimes Lohen will burst into a fit of giggles out of nowhere in the middle of an overnight shift, nearly giving the other security guards a heart attack

When someone finally mustered up the courage to ask why Lohen was laughing, he told them you “said something funny in his head”

...no one ever asked again

Mika once found Lohen’s wallet he had forgotten at his desk and saw a printed photo of you tucked in there like you were his wife and he had gone off to war

When he returned the wallet Lohen had immediately looked for the photo, seeming more relieved to have that back than his credit cards

Varka has told Lohen his behavior is “concerning”

Kaeya just calls him parasocial

Lohen doesn’t care at all and has started leaving work saying he is going to “hang out” with you on the days he watches your live streams

During your streams Lohen surprisingly never comments

He prefers to dedicate all his attention to watching you, barely even blinking while you recount some mundane moments of your day

In a tweet you announce that you are accepting submissions for fanmail to open on stream next month and post a picture of an address

Lohen doesn’t need to look up the address to know it’s not your actual house address–he already had that memorized months ago

He vocally agonizes over what to send you for weeks, wanting to make sure his gift stands out but is also valuable, something you can’t easily buy for yourself

Varka made it a point to remind Lohen that a vial of poison is not an appropriate gift

“Pfft,” Lohen scoffs, “of course I’m not going to mail her poison. The chemicals would destabilize during the shipping process.” 

Varka doesn’t sleep that night

Inspiration strikes Lohen while he is in the middle of listening to a 3 hour compilation of you getting ragebaited on Fortnite—he’ll send you a knife, one custom made using his own materials

Lohen spends hours upon hours forging the knife for you, the blade inscribed with your username and the handle formed from the polished bones of one of his past hunts

A few weeks and white lies to the post office staff later, Lohen is sitting in his dark room in front of his computer screen, knees pulled to his chest in anticipation as he watches you open letters and gifts

Most of the gifts are squishmallows and figures of your favorite characters, a few cheeky rabbit ear headbands and thigh high stockings slip in as well

When you finally pick up the flat box wrapped in mint green paper Lohen is practically vibrating with excitement

“I wonder what this is going to be, I don't recognize this name as a frequent chatter—whoa. Look guys, it’s a knife!”

Lohen’s heart is beating so fast he thinks he might die—you're holding his gift, the one he made just for you, and smiling like an angel

The stream comments are much less enthusiastic

chai_tea: is that…bone?

suzubunny: its not from a human is it 0_0

lupus.majoris: well, at least it’s not poison

chai_tea: ???

But you seem to enjoy the gift, testing the weight of it in your hands and admiring the craftsmanship 

“This is so cool—ouch…okay, also very sharp. Thank you so much, Lohen!”

Your voice saying his name for the first time completely rewires his brain and he already plans to clip that and listen to it every night before bed for the rest of his life—Lohen giggles aloud at the thought, spinning around in his computer chair like a child

When the chair slows to a stop, his eyes catch on a bright pink sticky note pasted to the corner of his desk, a series of numbers and street name sloppily inked on it

Or… maybe he could hear it in person?

Kinich pays in exact change and leaves with his paper bag of buns with little fanfare. Only after Kinich has left the boundaries of the Scions of the Canopy, Ajaw decides it is finally late enough in the morning to make his presence known. 

“Ughh, Mini Asha Pockets again? Is that all you eat? Bread Girl was right, you gotta start trying more things—or at least things that aren’t old… Then again, maybe you’ll catch food poisoning and finally kill over, haha!”

Kinich does not deign to respond. He instead stuffs the last pastry into his mouth with one hand while crumpling up the bag with the other. He heads towards the meeting area of the day’s commission, mentally calculating how much he should charge for the travel fee.

“Shit—you really saved our skin, Malipo! We’d be seriously screwed without your help. We’ll double—no, triple your compensation as thanks…”

It has been a while since Kinich’s pockets have been so full. The mora is a heavy weight on his hip as he returns home through the Huitztlan market. He considers what he could spend the unexpected bonus mora on, drowning out Ajaw’s own ridiculous suggestions being shouted in his ear.

Perhaps Kinich should take a vacation. With this amount of mora he could afford to take several days off from hunting to rest or enjoy some cliff-diving, maybe even purchase some new climbing gear if the price is right.

As he frequently does when he finds himself with a decent amount of money, Kinich unwillingly remembers his father.

He remembers the “good” nights when his father stumbled through the door laughing, boisterous and flushed with alcohol as he offered a colorful box of chocolates to a young Kinich and a sweet-smelling bouquet of roses to his mother. 

Back then Kinich had been too naïve to understand why his mother would see those pretty flowers and immediately start to cry.

“—a fuckin’ steal! That’s like two week’s worth of bread for only a thousand mora!”

Kinich’s pace slows as he watches two middle-aged men exiting the tent just a few meters ahead, their arms carrying burlap bags stuffed full of baked goods. Even without a logo Kinich recognizes their origin. The cute, puffy shape gives away your iconic Mini Asha Pockets. The sight alone causes Kinich’s mouth to water, a convenient reminder that he has yet to eat dinner. 

“I can’t believe that story worked! You’re one hell of an actor.”

The two men erupt into laughter, shoulders knocking against each other as they all but skip down the street. Kinich stands frozen in place, eyes glued to the familiar shop sign ahead. 

“Oiii—are you even listening to me, lizard brain? How dare you disrespect your Almighty Demonlord, K’uhul Ajaw—ooh, is that the bakery? It smells good—hey, why don’t you put some of that shiny new coin to good use and feed me, you stingy bastard!”

To Kinich’s dismay, Ajaw was onto something. It seemed your bakery was having some sort of sale, a bag full of bread for only one thousand mora? That was a ninety percent discount, he would be a fool not to take advantage of such terms.

With that thought, Kinich enters your shop for the second time today while ignoring Ajaw’s animated celebration featuring confetti and a noisemaker he most certainly does not need.

Inside, Kinich half expects to see the shelves completely barren with brightly colored signs announcing some sort of clearance sale or everything must go. Thankfully, your stock is more or less how it usually is at this time in the early evening, limited but not bare, and there is no indication of an imminent permanent closure. 

As he reaches the back of the shop he spots you at the counter, handing a bag of colorful Saurus Crackers to a small child. The child hands you a few coins in exchange and even from a distance Kinich can tell the amount is insufficient. He expects you to point it out, perhaps make one of those clever jokes you seem so fond of that subtly clues the child in on the missing mora. Or perhaps you will opt for directness, something you tend to do with particularly new customers who may not understand your sense of humor yet, kindly pointing out that the payment is short so the child can rectify his mistake.

To Kinich’s disbelief, you do not even bother to count the mora in your hand. Your warm eyes remain on the young customer, bidding him a cheerful farewell as he returns your smile with a toothy grin of his own. Shouting out a cheerful “thank you, miss baker,” the child turns on his heel and runs out of the shop with excitement, clutching the bag of treats to his chest tightly.

Kinich watches, mildly appalled, as you simply put the unknown amount of mora in a glass jar and turn back to review some paperwork on your counter. 

“Heeey—are we getting some snacks or are you just gonna stare at Bread Girl all day? I’m starvin’ here!”

Ajaw’s voice—earsplintering as always—startles you into looking up. Your wide eyes flicker between the floating dragon and Kinich before flickering with recognition that has your shoulders visibly relaxing. 

“Hey, Ajaw,” you greet with a smile before shifting your attention to him. “Kinich.”

Your expression shifts into something still positive but slightly less sweet than what you had offered Ajaw. He has noticed it several times before but he is reminded yet again that you seem to regard him differently from your other customers. The distinction makes his chest twist in a way he can not quite identify. 

It tends to be easier to read your emotions than his own.

To his left, Ajaw has already started spouting some backhanded praise towards you for acknowledging his presence first, something he claims should be common sense, but neither of you pay him any mind. 

 “It’s pretty rare to see you in the afternoon,” you continue, “are you finally tired of eating day-old bread?” 

“I heard rumors of a sale,” Kinich explains, stretching the truth only slightly, “a bag full for only a thousand mora.”

Your brows furrow in confusion, head tilting as you seem to parse through his words. Kinich’s gaze flickers down as your lips move, seeming to form the beginning of a question before you pause. Something seems to click then because you are suddenly smiling again, eyes dancing with mirth. Privately, Kinich wonders at how effortlessly expressive you are, a direct contrast to his stolid tendencies.

“Oh, the two men from earlier?”

He nods and your expression changes yet again to something much softer, almost forlorn as you sigh.

“Those two—archons bless them—were recently injured on a dangerous commission. I just wanted to help them out a little while they're unable to work, no one should go to bed hungry.” 

Kinich recalls the two lively men in his recent memory, playfully jostling each other and chattering about which beer goes best with bread. They seemed to be far from recently injured and unable to work. He is beginning to have a sneaking suspicion…

“What about the one just now,” Kinich presses, “he conned you out of a few mora for those cookies.”

Your sympathetic expression melts back into more of the teasing amusement he is used to before you give him a brief lookover, hands raising to rest on your hips. The pose conjures up fuzzy memories of his mother, an exasperated but fond tone calling his name and lightly scolding him for staying out to play just a little too late. Kinich is not sure but he suspects that you and his mother would have gotten along.

“That was a child, Kinich. He didn’t con me, he probably just miscounted.”

For the first time since he has known you Kinich finds himself slightly irked in your presence. Your nonchalance towards something as important as mora is off-putting, conjuring up memories of people he would rather forget. The sneaking suspicion has become a full on red alert.

“But that means you’re short by several thousand mora today,” he attempts to explain patiently. “What if someone comes in tomorrow claiming that they are sick? Or that child tells all of his friends to come here for the same price?”

You simply wave him off, shaking your head with a smile like it’s nothing. It frustrates him more than he thinks it probably should.

“That’s fine,” you say, “mora isn’t everything, y’know?”

“Ha! Seeeee, Kinich? I've been tryin’ to tell this stingy bastard that for years—!”

Kinich has concluded that you are simply incapable of reading people. 

It is ironic, really, considering you seem to have read him so well. While most tend to confuse his muted expressions and blunt dialogue for boredom or annoyance, you never seemed to have such premonitions. You have a knack for knowing when Kinich was in a particularly positive mood—those were the days you allowed the friendly banter to linger a little longer. Likewise, on the days that were darker, when the haunting memories and expectations seem to have finally caught up with him, you distract him from his thoughts. You could read Kinich—the man notoriously rumored to be cold-blooded and pragmatic to a fault—like an open book. And yet it seemed even the most obvious of liars could get over on you. 

Kinich has found himself in your bakery at random times nearly every day this week. Last week’s large payout has freed him from the usual time constraints of daily commissions, allowing Kinich to visit your shop during the much busier lunch and evening hours. On every visit he has seen you interact with various customers and each time you have gotten ripped off.

On Monday it was a small child, a little girl with curly pigtails and missing front teeth taking full advantage of her innocent face to ask if she could have some extra treats in her bag for her family’s “new puppy.”

You tossed several puffed grainfruit bars into the bag without hesitation.

On Wednesday it was an elderly woman who swindled you with a sob story about her grandchildren coming to visit for the first time. The grandmother droned on and on about how her children had all moved to other nations and started new lives, too busy to send more than a few letters a year and that she regrets missing the birth of her precious grandchildren.

Through teary eyes, you offered her a fifty-percent discount.

On Thursday it was a young couple. Newly engaged, they had said, constantly cuddling up against each other and stealing kisses in a nauseating display of affection. The wedding would be a small affair, only attended by their closest friends as neither family approved of the marriage.

You smiled sweetly and offered to make their wedding cake for free.

You listen to everyone without pretense, believe every impossible circumstance and unlikely scenario without batting an eye. He has never in his life met someone with so much disregard for common sense. 

Kinich does not understand it. Every time he has interacted with you, you seem to see right through him, eyeing him knowingly when his eye catches on the fresh batch of Mini Asha Pockets or insisting that he takes a few days of rest after a particularly challeging hunt. What about other customers made them so difficult for you to read? 

And even more concerning than your inability to read people is your inability to see the value in mora.

He knew your background—it was something you had shared with him on several of his visits. He knew that your family was well off and that they had sent you to the best mentors in Natlan to study maths and history. You spoke eloquently when you wanted to, he knew you were far from a fool. And yet you insist upon underselling your own goods at every turn.

“Mora isn’t everything, y’know?”

Except mora quite literally is everything. Mora is the water in the river, the meat filling your belly, the colorful box of chocolates that promise no more pain for tonight. Everything and everyone has a cost. How did you not understand that?

Kinich initially tried to let it go. The two of you were not exactly friends, barely even acquaintances, really. Despite how familiar and friendly you seemed to treat him you were simply the girl he buys his daily bread from and he was simply your customer. 

Then he found out about the papers.

It was not uncommon to find you hunched over a haphazard pile of papers during slow hours in the bakery. Kinich had not thought much of it—they were likely recipes or inventory order forms—standard fair for a business, he presumed.

But one morning he had approached the counter only to find you fast asleep. The sight was foreign, he had never seen you anything less than energetic even in the earliest hours. He had asked before—well, Ajaw had asked but really it was the same thing—how you managed to be so peppy working at the crack of dawn. You had replied with a smile so bright it made the whole bakery feel several degrees warmer.

“Making my customers happy gives me all the energy I need.”

Yet here you were, slumped over and completely vulnerable in a way that made his chest feel tight. 

Kinich mentally thanks the archons that Ajaw hates early mornings too much to appear right now. 

He should wake you up, he thinks. Anyone could come in at any moment. If a customer comes in and sees you asleep you might miss out on a potential sale.

Or if a thief comes in…

That trail of thought ends abruptly. He is here so you are protected, he is Malipo Kinich afterall.

His attention is drawn back to the present when you softly murmur in your sleep, nuzzling your cheek deeper into the stack of papers beneath you. A small line of drool leaks from the corner of your mouth, catching Kinich's sharp gaze as it drips down and smears a bit of ink.That is when he finally registers what is written at the top of each page.

PAST DUE INVOICE – FINAL NOTICE

Kinich freezes as you begin to stir awake, yawning loudly before you notice the presence of another person and jolt. Your wide eyes meet his own before glancing down at the bag of discount Mini Asha Pockets in his hand then back up to the first few rays of sunrise peaking behind him. 

“Oh archons—I am so sorry,” you fluster, nearly tripping over yourself to open the cash register, “I’ve never fallen asleep at the bakery before but I haven’t been sleeping as much lately with the new hours and—ugh, now I’m rambling—your total is three thousan—"

“New hours?”

You pause and suddenly turn sheepish, avoiding eye contact to Kinich’s frustration.

“Ah, yeah. The bakery hasn’t been doing so well lately so I’m trying to stay open later to hopefully increase sales during the summer months.”

Kinich opens his mouth, not entirely sure himself what he was planning to say when Ajaw appears, startling both of you. 

“The Almighty Dragonlord, K’uhul Ajaw, grows thirsty and demands a cup of the finest fruit juice!”

You process Kinich’s purchase quickly after that and he pays in exact change, as always. He manages to leave the bakery only a few minutes later than usual, still plenty of time to reach his destination. Ajaw is momentarily placated with the promise of ample quenepa berries prime for juicing along their route. The paper bag of Mini Asha Pockets in his hands look and taste the same as always and yet the sight of the little yellow “30% off” sticker causes his stomach to roll with something unpleasant.

A hero may adopt many different roles within a community.

At least, that is what Kinich tries to tell himself when he is threatening a pair of grown men over a pack of Puff Pops. He stands tall, quietly staring down the two men cowering on their knees as they beg for forgiveness from the Great Malipo Kinich and promise to only pay full price for goods from now on.

Truthfully, Kinich has not really done much in the way of violence. His reputation as an experienced hunter and Ancient Name bearer alone tend to set an air of unease amongst those he meets for the first time, only amplified by his utilitarian approach to business. It is actually Ajaw who seems to do most of the work for him in this case, the abrasive dragon more than happy to spew creative threats involving various forms of ancient torture. Kinich chooses to disregard that most of Ajaw’s threats seem to begin with: "Once Kinich finally kicks rocks and I take over his body..."

In Kinich’s defense, this confrontation had not been premeditated. Kinich had not set out this morning with the intentions of threatening the members of his own tribe but he just happened to once again be visiting your bakery in the late afternoon when he spotted the two “injured” men from a few weeks ago in the process of delivering yet another piss poor sob story to you. 

“It’s been a real tough past few days with the wife sick and the kids strugglin’ to make friends‐—would really mean a lot if we could bring home some extra treats for ‘em, y’know? But the guild has been really stingy with commissions and you know I still have that issue with my hip—” 

Kinich nearly rolls his eyes at the balding man attempting to mime a broken hip, his friend beside him pretending to help him balance. His bored gaze shifts over to look at you behind the counter only to see you clearly eating it up. You star at the two men with pitiful, watery eyes, nodding along sympathetically. You are so unbelievably gullible. 

It is when you begin reaching under the counter for a box of expensive imported chocolates that Kinich decides he needs to intervene. With three large steps, Kinich physically cuts into the conversation, grabbing each man by the back of the tunic and pulling them away with the excuse of needing to discuss the details of an upcoming commission.

Following a stern reminder not to swindle anymore bake shops, punctuated with some very vivid threats courtesy of Ajaw, Kinich returns to your bakery with the pair of men looking unnaturally pale right behind him. You welcome the men back warmly but they suddenly seem disinterested in conversation and pointedly avoid eye contact as they quickly complete their purchases at full price with a generous tip. Once the men have left–practically tripping over each other in their haste to leave–you shoot Kinich a suspicious look to which he innocently shrugs.

The next few weeks progress similarly. 

Kinich finds himself feeling more and more like a security guard, silently keeping tabs on customers and “encouraging” any who attempt to take advantage of your bleeding heart for a discount. You seem oblivious to it all, cheerfully remarking that profits are higher than usual this month followed immediately by gratitude towards the archons for their blessings. Kinich merely nods along, taking his time to look through each item in your bestsellers section. 

That is perhaps the most obvious change. Kinich finds himself gravitating towards the slightly more expensive fresh pastries, much to your delight.

“You’ve finally had enough of the stale leftovers?”

“...something like that.”

“Haha, well since you’re my dear friend I’ll give you a discount—”

Kinich assumes all is resolved. Your profits are at an all-time high, the store has returned to its usual hours, and even his daily bread tastes better now that it is fresh.

“That won’t be necessary.”

That all takes a turn one Friday afternoon. 

Kinich is negotiating a deal for a rare Nagadus emerald necklace with a foreign merchant insistent on overcharging. He is calmly arguing, something about the abundance of emeralds in Natlan, when he happens to spot you exiting your shop out of the corner of his eyes. You’re holding a tote bag full of packaged pastries and happen to look in his direction. Once you spot him you shoot him a dazzling smile and enthusiastic wave. He watches as you make your way towards a group of small children playing in the dirt. You offer a loaf of bread and within moments the children all swarm around you in a circle, jumping up and down in excitement as you pass out pastries and rolls and cookies to each one. Kinich doesn’t realize he has stopped talking mid-sentence until the merchant chuckles, turning to look at you as well.

“That yer girlfriend? She’s a cute one ain’t she.”

Kinich bristles, shoulders tensing at the comment. He opens his mouth to say something—a correction or a threat, he isn’t sure himself—but before he can the man is already speaking again. 

“Kind girl, too. She’s always givin’ to those in need–saved my skin a few times when sales weren’t doin’ too well.”

Kind or foolish? A month ago the answer was simple to Kinich. Everything has a cost, from the meat that fills your belly to the canopy above your head. To willingly deprive yourself of things was insanity.

And yet as he watches you hand an Asha Pocket to a scrawny child who looks up at you with starry eyes, Kinich sees himself. Only six years old but already an adventurer, tanned skin littered in bruises and scrapes. He remembers his stomach would always hurt back then. On the nights father came home angry and drunk he would go to bed hungry, the aches in his stomach matching the throbbing in his swollen cheek. On the nights father came home happy with arms full of succulent boar and potatoes and pita bread Kinich would eat and eat, stuffing himself so full his stomach ached because he could not be sure when his next meal would come. 

If he had met someone like you he wonders how differently things might have been. 

“Tell ya what,” the merchant suddenly says, startling Kinich as he drops the necklace right into his hands, “I’ll give it to ya—ayni wawqi—today for you, tomorrow for me. In exchange, I want ya t’ thank ya girl for me.”

The merchant nods before turning to leave Kinich to stare in mild shock at the necklace in his hand.

“What a deal,” Ajaw cheers, flickering in to examine the green gem more closely, “this is a glorious gem worthy of even the Almighty Dragonlord, K’uhul A–hey, where are we going!?”

Your tote bag is half empty by the time Kinich reaches your side, Ajaw unwillingly dragged alongside him. Wordlessly, Kinich takes the bag from your hands and begins distributing treats to the remaining children. You nearly gawk at him but he pretends not to notice, focusing instead on handing a pack Mini Asha Pockets to a little girl. The girl receives the package with both hands, nearly reverent as she thanks him with starry eyes. Kinich stiffly nods and the girl runs off towards the other children who have already begun sharing their spoils amongst each other. 

“Well, well,” you begin with a teasing lilt to your voice, “never thought I’d see the day the stingy Malipo Kinich offers anything for free.”

Kinich spares you a glance, saurian eyes catching on the curve of your smile.

“It’s not free.”

Your smile falls and you blink at him with confusion.

“Huh?”

“It’s not free,” he repeats, fishing out another pastry from the bag, “these children…one day they will become the scholars and hunters and heroes of our tribe. They pay us by growing up and building a stronger Natlan.”

The explanation is very pragmatic, very Kinich. Your eyes crease as laughter bubbles from your lips, amused and touched all at the same time. He feels his own cheeks pull into a smile as he watches you, warmer and more dazzling than the desert sun. As he thought, everything has a cost…

But perhaps not all costs must be paid in mora. 

“Bleeegh, since when did lizard brain become such a sap!?”

Although, as he watches you now, crumpled into yourself as stiffled sobs wrack your body, Wanderer considers that perhaps the memories of his own anguished cries were not so unfortunate afterall. For it is through experience that he knows to quietly draws nearer, acting out what he remembers desiring most when he sat alone in that old wooden house all those centuries ago. He wraps his arms around you, swaddling you not unlike a newborn babe as you dampen the thin material of his haori with tears.

Wanderer does not whisper empty words of apology or hush your cries. He does not ask you to talk about it or attempt to distract you from your thoughts. He merely sits there, pressing you to his chest as he offers himself to you like a doll to use as you see fit.

Your sobs do not soften in his arms. Grief escapes your lungs in wails, ugly sounds that rattle your whole body between each desperate, gasping inhale. Throughout it all, Wanderer does not utter a word. One hand strokes the back of your head, cold fingers threading through your locks matted with sweat. His other hand remains firm against the small of your back, pressing your chest and thunderous heartbeat against the silent plane of his own.

The pain does not go away.

The emptiness inside you does not disappear.

No. 

No. 

Rin refuses.

Nothing is worth texting him, not even you…

…

Rin sighs and pulls up the contact, ignoring how the previous message exchange is dated to over a year ago.

Rin: I need help. Skincare stuff.

Sae: ?

Rin can so clearly imagine the arrogant expression on his brother’s face from the mere character alone and it pisses him off. Sae is the last person he would choose to have a conversation with, let alone ask advice from.

But Sae is also the only person Rin knows, other than you, who follows a strict 10-step nighttime routine. Sae has gone so far as to accept sponsorships modeling for luxury skin creams that Rin has had the misfortune of seeing advertised on various billboards and magazines.

Rin hesitates over his next message. It feels more personal and vulnerable that he would typically like to be in front of his brother but he was getting desperate. 

Rin: It’s for my girlfriend. She likes skincare stuff but idk what to buy. Something Korean, maybe. 

Sae: Ur an idiot.

Rin sucks his teeth, fingers already poised to write up a scathing response full of slurs that would make Isagi proud but Sae’s next message cuts him off.

Sae: Here are some popular brands. Look at the reviews and compare. Don’t buy anything with parabens. Tell y/n I said hi. 

The next message is the link to a website Rin doesn’t recognize captioned “Top K-beauty Products, Ranked by Estheticians.” 

It turns out his brother can be helpful when he wants to be. Maybe Sae isn’t the worst brother ever.

Armed with a page of recommendations, Rin diligently begins searching for items on the list and placing them in his basket.

When the door to your apartment opens you barely acknowledge it. You’re too busy clacking away at your laptop, eyes burning from spending the past six hours staring at a Word Doc. The paragraphs have long since become a blurred mess of gibberish to your overworked brain but you’re fairly certain you’re reaching some form of a conclusion. What type of monster sets an assignment deadline on a weekend, anyway? 

“You’re still working on that paper?”

Rin stands behind your chair, peering at your laptop over your shoulder. You groan your affirmation, turning around to vent about how stupid this assignment is when you notice something in his hands.

A bag. A bright orange bag.

You gasp, eyes sparkling as you look up to meet his gaze. 

“You went to Ulta!?”

Rin nods shyly, opening the bag as you greedily reach inside. Each item you pull out excites you more than the last. Some are limited editions from brands you regularly use and others are brands you have heard good things about but have yet to try. All of them conjure up images of clear skin and a relaxing night in.

“Holy shit, Rinnie, this brand is expensive, how did you even know about this? Why did you get all of these?”

Your boyfriend shrugs casually before immediately dropping some of the cutest words he has ever told you.

“You’ve been working too hard. Wanted to get you something to make you feel better and… you like this stuff right?” 

Your heart swells, the way he awkwardly avoids eye contact tugging on your heart strings and you don’t hesitate to spring up, pulling him into a tight hug. 

Rin returns your embrace suspiciously quickly, as if he was waiting for it, and you pepper affectionate kisses against his warming cheeks. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—wait, oh my god!” you pull back to look at him and he freezes up, already recognizing that the excited twinkle in your eye typically spells trouble for him.

“We have to test these out together—come on!”

Rin grumbles his protests but obediently allows you to pull him into the bathroom where you force him into a fuzzy Sanrio headband that matches your own and proceed to explain what each product does as you lather it on his skin.  

Later that night, when the two of you lounge side by side in bed with sheet masks on and you’re submitting your completed essay, your phone pings with a message. You check it, frowning with confusion before turning the screen towards your boyfriend.

“Hey, why did Sae just text me ‘tell Rin I said you’re welcome’?”

No, Rin was wrong earlier. His brother is actually the worst. 

˙⋆✮ Bachira Meguru // body-ody-ody care

Early on in your relationship you had expressed your distaste for your own body hair, saying you preferred the silkiness of freshly shaved legs between sheets.

He had not thought much of it up until that point, hair was just hair. But he admittedly grew to love how you would grin at him from the bathroom doorway, body still flushed and damp from the bath as you excitedly exclaim, “Megu, come feel how smooth my legs are!”

But lately you have been so busy that you haven’t had any time for your beloved “everything showers” and your usual collection of tiny sleep shorts and spaghetti-strapped camisoles seem to be on an indefinite hiatus.

One too many off-handed comments of, “ugh, I look like a werewolf” had been the spark to send Bachira on an hour-long YouTube rabbithole followed by another half hour at the store, a very specific plan in mind.

The moment you stepped foot in your apartment you sighed in relief. The past week at work had been a never-ending hell of projects and team meetings followed but finally it was Friday night and you intended to spend the full weekend in bed not lifting a muscle. 

Toeing off your shoes, you softly call out for your boyfriend, knowing he should be back from soccer practice by this time. If you’re lucky, you might be able to convince him to ditch his strict athlete diet and indulge you in your craving for greasy delivery food tonight.

“In the bathroom!”

You pause, Bachira’s voice sounding way too excited to belong to someone taking a shit. 

Curiously, you shuffle past the bedroom and peek around the open door of the bathroom. Bachira is in the center of the small room, squatting over a bucket of steaming water and meticulously organizing a set of colorful razors on a white towel. He looks up once he senses your presence, giggling at your puzzled expression before he’s ushering you in and telling you to sit, sit!! on the edge of the bathtub. 

Before you can even properly make contact with the porcelain edge of the tub, Bachira is tugging at leggings, nearly ripping them in his eagerness. 

“Whoa—Megu, if you wanted to have sex we can do it in the bed—”

“I’m not trying to have sex, silly! Or at least not yet—” 

You squeal as your leggings are finally removed, tossed to the side with minimal care.

“I’m going to shave you!”

You give Bachira the blanket stare of your life.

“Don’t give me that look—I watched tons of videos and practiced on myself so I’m basically an expert. I promise I won’t nick you!”

Glancing down you realize Bachira wasn’t exaggerating, the usual thin, pale hairs lining his legs are missing beneath his basketball shorts without a single cut or bandaid in sight. Before you can protest any further, Bachira is lifting one of your legs into his lap and slathering a thick layer of honey scented shaving cream on. 

True to his word, Bachira handles you with surprising care. 

You can’t help but to watch his face, enjoying the cute way he pokes the tip of his tongue out in concentration as he slides the metal blade over your skin. He moves the blade in careful, slow motions from ankle to knee before dipping the razor in the bucket of warm water and repeating over a new strip of skin. 

Gradually, the unblemished expanse of skin you haven’t seen in early a month is revealed. Once he’s finished with your first leg, he dries it off with a fluffy white towel, humming a soft tune while he admires his work.

As he picks up your other leg, you finally break the comfortable silence. 

“Why did you decide to do this? Did my hairy legs gross you out that much? You couldn’t just told me, I would’ve—”

“Nah,” Bachira cuts you off easily, eyes still glued to your leg, “I don’t care. But you do, right? You were too busy to do it yourself so I did it for you.”

Bachira offers you a grin, oblivious to the way his simple words have your heart stuttering in your chest as he urges you to hurry up and feel the finished result. 

Obediently, you run your hands along your freshly shaven legs. 

You grin, delighted at the familiar smoothness. Legs kicking excitedly, you savor the soft breeze the motion provides against your bare skin. 

“I’m so smooth!”

Bachira beams, warm hands joining your own in admiring your softness.

“Ehehe, you feel like a baby seal! Oh—one more thing!”

Before you can ask, Bachira is gathering you into his arms, effortlessly picking you up and walking you out of the bathroom. You don’t bother resisting–more than used to Bachira’s impulsive actions by now–you just hold on tight and pray he doesn’t accidentally drop you like that one time.

A cheerful “brace for impact!” is the only warning you receive before you’re tossed onto the bed. You scramble to raise to your elbows, breath nearly knocked out of you.

By the time you’ve gathered your bearings Bachira is already hovering at your side with a plastic bottle in hand. You recognize it as scented oil, one of the expensive brands you typically only wear on special occasions. You typically put it on in the bathroom, right after shaving.

“And now for the final step: moisturizing!” 

Bachira pops open the plastic cap and tilts the bottle towards his other hand.

“Meguru, wait, you shouldn’t—”

With a noisy squirt a copious amount of oil splatters onto Bachira’s open palm, slipping between his spread fingers and dripping onto your bedsheets. You both watch as a dark stain begins to spread on the bed. 

“Ehehe oops!”

You sigh, shaking your head at Bachira’s sheepish look. He recovers quickly, carefully placing the bottle back on the nightstand and thoughtfully taking a moment to rub his palms together to warm up the oil. He takes your right calf in his hands, working the oil into your skin with firm motions. It feels nice, his massage easing some of the tension that had accumulated from hours of standing up at work. His technique has no doubt been honed from years of massaging his own muscles after strenuous soccer practices.

He diligently works his way down, gently rolling your ankle between his hands before kneading the soles of your feet with his strong thumbs. His thin fingers slide between your toes, bending them back into a light stretch that has you groaning in relief. 

Bachira looks up at your sound, practically glowing in self-satisfaction.

“Does it feel goooood?”

“Mhmm…”

“Ehehe, good,” Bachira grins, “I always want to make you feel good.” 

The simple honesty makes your chest feel warm and you press your free foot against him in something of a love tap. Bachira presses a soft kiss against the top of the foot in his hands–you laugh when he sputters at the taste of the oil–before picking up your other leg and repeating the process. 

By the time Bachira finishes you’re fully moisturized and relaxed, feeling more like yourself than you had in weeks. You sit up just enough to reach Bachira and pull him down on top of you, muffling his laughter into your chest. You squeeze him tightly enough to hurt but he only squeezes you back with equal enthusiasm, laughing even harder at the sound of your spine popping in protest. 

“Thank you, baby, I love you,” you coo. 

“How much?”

“Soooo much.”

Bachira pulls back only far enough to shoot you a mischievous look. 

“Then can we do the thing you said earlier? Hmm? Can we, pleeease?”

Your brows furrow, struggling to remember what you said earlier when you suddenly feel it: the hardness pressed against your hip. Your mouth falls open in a small ‘o’ and Bachira chuckles, rocking his hips into you with clear intention.

“We’re in the bed now, y’know.”

And so your weekend kicks off tangled between the sheets with slippery smooth legs and an athletic boyfriend who is more than eager to please you. 

˙⋆✮ Chigiri Hyoma // hair care

You hair has always been nothing short of a hassle. 

While strangers and friends alike praise your thick, curly locks and lament that their thin hair was so boring and had no volume, they never seemed to consider just how much work goes into maintaining hair like yours.

Between detanglers, styling creams, curl mousses, and scalp oils, your haircare routine consisted of enough products to stock a professional salon. And the actual work was even worse: battling in the mirror with a wide-toothed comb and spray bottle leaves your arms sore for days.

The one saving grace is that you do not need to wash you hair as frequently as others—but that’s not to say you can go too long without a decent co-wash. If you neglect your luscious locks for more than a week they quickly become a tangled, greasy mess. 

Unfortunately, your hair is currently in such a state.

Sick coworkers have resulted in you picking up extra shifts in the midst of an already busy exam season. When you finally do get a few hours to yourself before bed, the last thing you want to do is spend the next three hours wrestling with your mane.

As a result, time slipped between your fingers and you haven’t washed your hair in weeks. You’ve opted to familiarize yourself with some silk scrunchies, throwing everything into a messy bun and hoping it's giving cute, “clumsy protagonist of a romcom” and not “messy rat girl who hasn’t touched a bottle of shampoo in three weeks.” 

Based on the disappointed look your boyfriend is giving you right now, you suspect it's the latter.

“Heeeey, Hyoma, my love, long time no see—”

“Whens the last time you washed your hair?”

Yikes. Straight to the point, huh?

Your sheepish grin is enough of an answer and Chigiri pulls you into his apartment with a huff. He leads you straight to the bathroom, turning on the shower and ordering you to strip while he goes to retrieve some things. 

While you had expected your first time seeing your boyfriend in two weeks to end up with the both of you nude, you hadn’t expected the setting to be inside his cramped shower. 

Nor did you expect the diligent way he steps in behind you. He tells you to lift your chin so water doesn’t drip into your eyes while he dutifully wets your hair. Once its thoroughly wet to the scalp, Chigiri turns you around to face forward while he lathers the locks in a thick liquid. 

You don’t recognize the scent as anything specific, like a flower or fruit, but it still smells good and expensive. 

You know how seriously your boyfriend takes his own hair routine, threatening bodily harm to anyone who even jokes about touching his long red locks. 

You have no doubts whatever he’s using costs more than half your paycheck. 

Chigiri works quickly but gently, fingers expertly loosening knots with minimal tugging. 

He seems focused, only speaking in brief instructions to tilt your head this way or that. 

You don’t mind the lack of conversation. At some point your eyes slip closed in relaxation as he rinses out the last bits of conditioner. 

After he finishes with your hair, he steps out to let you wash your body yourself while he goes to get some clothes for you both. Reaching for what looks the most like body wash, you laugh out loud when you recognize the cheap drugstore brand. Well, you suppose, if he’s going to splurge on fancy hair products he has to save money somewhere.

Finished with your shower you already feel a thousand times better, exiting the bathroom in the oversized T-shirt and Snoopy pajamas pants Chigiri had left on the counter. Your hair is rolled up in a big fluffy towel, the same way you would do at home, and you’re asking about dinner when Chigiri looks up at you and immediately frowns.

“You can not use a regular towel on your hair, it causes breakage—are you stupid? Come here, I have some microfiber towels in the closet.”

And thus you once again fall victim to his fussing. You end up seated in his lap, munching on some of your favorite snacks Chigiri happened to have in the pantry with a damp microfiber towel around your shoulders. Chigiri is holding a Dyson hair dryer in one hand and a comb in the other, gently drying your hair section by section. 

When your hair is no longer dripping but still damp, Chigiri picks up a bottle of something creamy and floral to squirt a generous amount in his hand. He uses his fingers to comb it through your hair, thoroughly saturating every strand. 

“What’s that,” you ask between chews.

“It’s a leave-in mask. It’s like a conditioner but with more curl definition.”

You raise a brow at that, turning your head back to look at Chigiri’s own silky very straight locks. 

“You use curly hair products?” 

To your surprise, the question seems to fluster Chigiri. You catch the way his cheeks flush before he’s very intentionally grabbing your head to make you look forward so he can finish the back.

“No but… when we started dating I did some research.”

“And you bought it? Just waiting for a day to do my hair?”

Chigiri doesn’t reply but his uncomfortable silence is answer enough. You immediately break into teasing banter, exaggerating how obsessed your boyfriend must be about you. He retaliates by calling you annoying and implying he may need to get out the poison to kill off the wild animals that may have been hiding in your rat’s nest. How rude!

Half an hour later you sit cuddled together on the bed, the scent of the same shampoo clinging to you both as you eat chips and critique a poorly made drama playing on Chigiri’s laptop screen. 

Chigiri has not stopped playing with your hair for a single minute since he finished styling it. He twirls a few locks near your nape, curling and uncurling them  around his fingers over and over. You find it a bit distracting, but not in a bad way. 

“You really like curly hair, huh?”

Chigiri doesn’t meet your gaze, seeming fully invested in the protagonist's poor acting as she confesses her undying love on the screen. 

“Hm…not particularly. I just like your hair...”

You grin at that, feeling oddly satisfied as the drama cuts to a commercial break and you nuzzle into him affectionately–only to yelp when he tugs particularly harshly. Looking up you see him looking down at you with a judgemental look. 

“...when you take care of it. If you ever go that long without washing it again I’ll kick your ass. If you’re really that busy just come over and let me wash it. You can’t just neglect your hair like that!”