#nsfw-dango

You stare at the text with your thumb between your teeth, wondering why it fills you with a strange sense of dread. To anyone else, it would have been strange to see you visibly panicking over a message sent by your “Uber Driver”, which was why you had immediately darted to a secluded corner of the dressing room to open it.

“Bye, (Y/N),” one of the senior ballerinas says to you as they pass, their sports bag slung over their shoulder. “You sure you can’t make it later?”

Your eyes flicker up from your phone and smile apologetically. “Sorry, something came up at the last minute.”

“You mean someone came up at the last minute,” another friend teases, prodding you playfully with their water bottle. “Darling (Y/N) has a boyfriend.”

“No way, really?”

“I’m so jealous!”

You laugh and wave them off, pocketing your phone before packing the rest of your equipment into your bag. You can’t swallow the lump that had risen in your throat as soon as your phone buzzed with the notification, nor were you able to shake off the tension in your shoulders all throughout class.

It was unsettling, really, how you could never read the enigmatic Albedo—even with the nature of your…relationship.

You down the rest of your sports drink before leaving the room, saying goodbye to the receptionist as you pass her by in the lobby. With practiced ease, you throw your hood on, making sure your face is completely obscured by the fabric, before hopping into a cab.

The key is exactly where you know it would be, and you swiftly unlock the front door of the studio before disappearing inside. It’s only when you turn the lock again that you let yourself relax; you’ve learned never to let your guard down until you’ve safely hidden behind the studio door.

Something brushes against your ankles. You place your bag down on the floor and crouch, letting your fingers run through the cat’s midnight black fur. “Hello, Durin,” you whisper.

Durin trills and flops onto his belly, only to bat at your hand when it gets too close.

You straighten after a while, scanning the studio for any sign of Albedo. The backdrop was the same one he’d used last time, so you assume that he hadn’t been around since then.

“Albedo?” you call.

“In here,” he responds, and your eyes and ears trace his voice to the door leading to the darkroom. You make your way towards it, tapping lightly before letting yourself in.

You hadn’t known many academics before meeting Albedo, and so your initial impression of their group were people who devoted every waking hour immersing themselves in information regarding their field of study. It had obviously come as a surprise to you when Albedo first brought you to his studio, and told you about his ventures into painting and photography.

When you’d confessed all this, Albedo had burst into laughter.

(“What do you think we are, robots?”)

Even after years of knowing him, seeing his photos still takes your breath away. Landscape photography was his thing; disappearing for months on end in the deepest forests or in the coldest mountains seemed to be right up his alley. When you’d voiced your concerns about his work potentially being left unfinished, he only smiled, and asked why you thought his work would ever be unfinished.

But it wasn’t until he’d met you and until you two fell into this…arrangement, that he shifted to portraits and candid photography—or so he tells you. He’s been known to snap photos of his colleagues in the laboratory he spearheads, and it’s not unusual to see Polaroids of kids eating ice cream on the street scattered all over his floor.

Even less unusual were the photos he’d taken of you, his self-professed muse. You’d pour over them together on the floor, picking out shots that stood out and laughing over those that captured weird expressions and awkward photo-bombers.

Piqués and grand jetés, forever frozen in time, litter the walls of his shabby studio, and hang from meticulously placed clotheslines in the darkroom you now stand in. But they’re not what your eyes were drawn to at the moment; they went straight to the figure standing a few meters away, hunched over a tray.

You surmise that Albedo came straight from the laboratory, if the white long-sleeved polo and khaki pants meant anything. You knock lightly on the door again, and he glances over his shoulder briefly before gesturing for you to come in.

“Did you run into any trouble on your way here?” he asks.

“I nearly slipped on the stairs when Mrs. Fray called out to me,” you say sheepishly. “She told me to ask you if you wanted cookies, she accidentally made too much.”

Albedo laughs quietly. “That would be nice. But nothing else?”

“No.” Your footsteps sounded like entire mountains crashing together in the small space. You could never really shake off the feeling that Albedo’s landlady could tell exactly what you were here for.

When you finally brush up against Albedo’s side, he shifts a little to wrap his arm around your waist. You spot a glass of whiskey placed by the corner of the table, looking more like water than alcohol.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Albedo presses his lips to your temple, and fisting the ends of your jacket is all you can do to keep yourself from keeling over. “Sucrose thought she was onto something with her thesis, but she eventually hit a dead end after a couple of weeks. Then there was Timaeus and his journal club…I’m not too keen on boring you with the details.”

“Oh no, please tell me,” you say playfully, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. “You know how much I enjoy hearing about what new ideas Timaeus comes up with.”

Albedo only chuckles. The silence that follows is broken only by water dripping from the photos that he’d presumably hung up just recently, as well as the quiet hum of the space’s air conditioning.

“My mother was in town last week, too,” Albedo says, his voice low and taut as a bowstring.

Albedo’s mother—whose name you couldn’t pronounce to save your life—was a prominent figure in the international chemistry community, who’d taught Albedo her craft and essentially raised him to be the star chemist he was today.

You’d never actually met her, given that she was either always sitting at some scientific conference in an obscure part of the world, or hosting one with her colleagues (whom Albedo jokingly referred to as a coven more than once).

But from what you knew, she was a bit of an absentee mother, judging from the cracks her work had driven between Albedo and his siblings. This was a touchy subject for him to talk about, which was why he almost always strayed from it whenever it was brought up in conversation. There was no doubting, though, that Albedo was the favorite—the firstborn, the best, and the brightest. Otherwise, his mother wouldn’t have poured so much effort into helping him set up the laboratory he now runs.

Albedo lets his arm drop from your side, only to bring your hand to his lips. “How does takeout sound to you?”

“It sounds like the best thing in the world right now,” you answer truthfully, and Albedo flashes you one of his crooked smiles. You couldn’t help but sense a tinge of sadness behind his expression—but how could you ever know, really?

You later take refuge on the floor of the main studio, sitting with a bottle of wine on one of the spare backdrops stashed in the corner of the room. You’re already a couple of drinks in when Albedo finally gets up to meet the delivery person, and you admire the toned expanse of his back while the world spins around you.

“So why did you call me out here?” you ask as he hands you the kitchen towels. “Your text was so incredibly cryptic, I thought you were going to confess to a murder or something.”

He doesn’t answer, and for a minute you watch as he busies himself with refilling your glasses. There’s a tension in the air that you’d mildly felt as soon as you walked into the darkroom, dispelled only during your conversation earlier. Now, it seems to have fallen on the two of you once again, making your heart crawl into your throat.

“I just wanted to see you,” he finally says, with the nonchalance that you’ve grown so accustomed to. “Do I need any other reason to call you out here?”

“No, but…” You chew on your bottom lip. “Just…well…”

“How was class?” Albedo interrupts. “How’s the preparation for the production going?”

You blink, momentarily stunned by the change in topic before answering. “It’s doing well, I guess. I’ve given up on vying for the senior roles; I’ve just not been myself lately.”

“It’s just a momentary lapse,” Albedo reassures you. “I have them all the time. Better to sit and ride it out.”

You wonder how to tell him that your mind had been so consumed by the thought of him these days, intensified only by his previous absence and the invisible weight bearing on your shoulders at this very moment.

You’d known that your relationship with Albedo was far from conventional. Back then, you were fairly certain that you were just some girl who’d caught his eye, a ballerina who’d done more than entertain at an acquaintance’s birthday party. You’d thought that you existed only to fill up the pages in his albums, another passion project that would end as soon as the exhibit does—until one day, when he looked at you a certain way that lit all of your senses on fire.

Anyone in their right mind would have called it a romantic relationship and left it at that, but the situation wasn’t exactly that simple. One look at Albedo and his high standing in the chemistry community, the privileged family he will forever be tied to, and the future expected of him, and you were well aware of your place.

And for a while, you were content. Content to have a wonderful conversation partner to brighten up the driest of days, content to bask in the presence of a true genius…content to keep his bed warm and sweeten up his lonely days.

You give up on trying to explain and sigh, dusting off the crumbs from your lap and washing everything down with the rest of your drink. With the way your cheeks were warming and the way your head was spinning, you were certain that you’d feel one hell of a hangover tomorrow—but if it keeps your jitters down to just an occasional jolt, you’d take it.

The studio is once again filled with nothing but some old-timey music playing from the phonograph in the corner, which you understood was a gift from a family friend. Durin was enjoying his own dinner next to the couch, where he would later jump up on and fall asleep as soon as his bowl was clean.

“Right. I also wanted to ask you.” Albedo grabs a couple of kitchen towels. “Are you still looking for an apartment to rent?”

“I…yes, I am,” you reply. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

Albedo looks mildly offended. “I have a rather good memory, you know.”

“Yes, but…” You stop as soon as you realize you were about to fall into the same loop again, and shake your head to snap yourself out of it. “Why do you ask?”

Albedo gestures all around him. “You can have this if you want.”

“This piece of crap? Looks like it’s been rotting from the inside out since before the Second World War.”

“I assure you, it has a lot of personality.”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny, Albedo.”

Albedo looks at you again, and it takes you a while to process it. The realization hits you like a wall of bricks.

“Albedo,” you whisper in shock. “You love this studio.”

“You just called it a piece of crap.”

“Yes, but that’s exactly how you like it!” You sit up a little straighter, ignoring how Albedo seems to triple in your vision. “You said you were never going to give it up, no matter how busy your work would get or how difficult your mother would be! Is she the reason why you’re giving it up?”

“She is,” Albedo replies. “And I didn’t agree without a bargain.”

“What could have possibly incentivized you to give all of this away?”

Once again, Albedo’s response is cool and collected. “You.”

That shuts you up.

He waves his hand, gesturing all around the room. “I bought this studio.”

He points to the right wall. “And the apartments next to it.”

Then to the floor. “And all the apartments below it.”

He leans back on his hands, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You’re right, this building needs some work. But it’s in an ideal location; a shopping center nearby, offices just down the block, a café just within walking distance. Even if the repair costs are going to be hefty, I’d be willing to bet you’d turn a profit in no time as long as you market it correctly. Of course, I wouldn’t be opposed to chipping in until you’ve got the money wheels turning.”

Albedo finally looks at you, and it astounds you yet again that he was acting as if he hadn’t just dropped the biggest bombshell in your life. He even has the nerve to chuckle. “I like that expression. Have I surprised you?”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” you stumble over your words. “Your mother…you…why?”

Albedo reaches for your hand, but says nothing in reply as he toys with your fingers. You don’t realize that you were holding your breath when, after a while, he presses his lips to your digits, and you let out a shaky exhale.

You can’t hold it back anymore.

“Albedo, what’s wrong?” You swallow thickly. “Why did you call me out today…and why are you abandoning the studio? What did your mother say to you?”

He takes a sudden interest in the empty pizza box in front of him, and his prolonged silence is starting to irk you. Couldn’t he see how much the tension was crushing you? Couldn’t he tell that it was taking all that you had to not break right then and there, or how much you’re holding back, out of fear of misreading the situation?

When he finally looks up, he offers you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll tell you later, okay?” he says, and his voice sounds strained, in pain, even. “I’ll tell you if you indulge me with something.”

You tilt your head in confusion when Albedo gets up and disappears into a different room, coming back with a camera in his hands. You recognize it immediately as one of his favorites: a vintage film camera gifted to him by the child he occasionally minds. Despite the fact that very few shops in the city were able to develop the photos he took with it, Albedo’s love for all things antique surpassed the inconveniences that came with them.

Yet another entry on the long list of things you would never come to understand about him—why someone like him, whose profession relied on bright and shiny new equipment, would take a liking to items that looked like they might disintegrate at any second.

Still, at the mere sight of the camera, you know what he’s asking for. You sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that your suffering was not quite over yet, and head over to where he was standing.

“My portfolio’s not quite complete yet,” Albedo murmurs, as he fiddles around with the lights around the backdrop. “If you would…and as a way to say goodbye to this little studio…”

“Albedo,” you whisper.

He tucks the camera away in favor of pulling you to his chest, and letting his lips ghost just centimeters over yours. You’re rendered immobile by the proximity alone, by the feeling of his breath dancing against your tender skin. When he pulls away, he does so only to press his lips against your pounding jugular, sending tendrils of lightning down your spine.

Once he’s done marking the smooth expanse of your neck, he leaves a lingering kiss on your collarbone before making his way to your cheek, nestling his mouth just near your ear.

“Dance for me,” he breathes.

Your eyes flutter close, and you feel like buckling. Oh, how easy it would be to fall in love with him. Some part deep inside of you weeps, grieves for the person that you were before you’d met him—knowing that you’d never be truly the same afterwards. Who would you be after his touch, his scent, his kisses?

But with the way he gently pats your ass to get you moving, and the borderline arrogant smirk that appears on his face as you whine at the touch, could you really blame yourself?

With practiced ease, you make your way over to the small set-up. The lights aren’t at all different from the ones you’re used to on stage, and if you concentrate hard enough, you could hear the crackling of rosin under pointe shoes, as well as the murmuring of the crowd. Although you were performing for an audience of one this time, it doesn’t make you any less nervous.

Picking up on the beat of the faint tune emanating from the nearby phonograph, you move with a fluidness that would put rivers to shame. In the glare of the studio lights, your dress spins as you do, fabric whipping around like tongues of fire.

As the minutes pass, and you continue to dance, you feel the tension that was weighing heavily on your shoulders marginally ease, allowing you to lose yourself in your movements. That was one of the many reasons why your love of dance has persisted despite the arduous classes and injuries you’d sustained; it calms you right down. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that had drawn Albedo to you—the way he loves photography is not at all different from how you love dance.

That being said, you wonder why you don’t hear the familiar clicking of the camera, which would have normally overpowered the violin. Its absence continues for a couple more minutes, until you break your concentration to see just what Albedo was doing.

Albedo had all but abandoned his camera, letting it sit idly on his lap as he leaned back in his revolving chair. His eyes never leave you even for a minute, and they follow the movement of your limbs almost hungrily.

But what makes your skin prickle is the sight of his erection straining against his slacks, and the fact that he makes no effort to hide it. He instead sits with his legs spread, almost as if he was beckoning you over. You swallow, feeling yourself grow wetter and wetter by the second, but you persevere.

Your efforts are later rewarded when Albedo finally stands, walking over to point the camera at you. He snaps away, but you continue your movements, trusting his skills in capturing you in motion.

Albedo continues to take pictures, knowing exactly which angles suited you best. You bat your eyelashes and occasionally make expressions that make you seem too over-the-top, which earns you annoyed glances, much to your own amusement.

When you turn to face the backdrop, you immediately feel him behind you, yanking out the pins out of your hair with the desperation of a man starved. He captures the way the strands fall around your face, and the way they sweep over your skin as you extend your arms.

And when you peer into the lens through your lashes, not bothering to hide the pure need behind them, he finally cracks.

Wrapping a hand around your throat, he pulls you backwards into his chest once more, claiming your lips. His tongue slips past them, and engages in a dance of its own with yours. You pull his hand away from your neck so you could face him fully, and you shudder at the sheer lust in Albedo’s eyes before he kisses you again.

Your fingers work at his polo, popping the buttons until you could slide the fabric off him, marveling at the feeling of his bare skin against your hands. He gently pushes your shoulders down, and you oblige, thinking he wanted you on your knees.

But he follows you, all the way down to the floor, letting his hands slide into yours over your head. The intensity of his kisses suddenly begin to wane, going from desperate to something that almost felt romantic.

Of course, that could have just been you.

His warm breath fans against the skin right above your heaving chest. You can’t help but fidget in anticipation, but your movements are limited by the hold his hands have on yours.

“No one,” he murmurs, so quietly you barely catch it. “No one understands me like you.”

Albedo looks at you, and this time, you see the lust in his eyes had diminished slightly. To your surprise, it’s been replaced by a mix of affection and longing…

…and something else. Something you couldn’t quite read.

He leans down to kiss you, long and deep, and it snatches the air out of your lungs. He lets go of your hands, and you let them run through his hair. He kisses you as if his life depended on it, and judging by his grip on your waist, he was holding you with the same desperation, too.

“‘Bedo,” you mumble.

“I’ve got you,” he assures you, just as his hand travels up your dress. You hear a quiet laugh when his fingers brush against the damp spot on your underwear, but you’re much too lost in the feeling to tell him off for it.

You don’t put it past Albedo to be a tease, but this night seemed to be full of surprises; he pushes your underwear aside to plunge two of his fingers into your soaking core. Your back arches at the sudden intrusion, a moan falling from your lips at the same time.

Your nails raise red streaks down his back, and the hiss he lets out is one of pleasure as he quickens the pace of his fingers in retaliation. His lips find the spot behind your ear again, forcing you to bite down on your lip to keep your moans down.

“God,” he groans. “You’re squeezin’ around my fingers. Don’t wanna let me go, hmm? Is that it?”

Yes, yes, yes, you want to cry out. In more ways than one, yes.

He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes you see stars with expert accuracy. He props himself up with his free hand and knees, cooing at the sight of you writhing underneath him. When you force your eyes open—not wanting to miss a single opportunity to see his face—you’re greeted with an expression so fond, you nearly shy away.

Albedo pulls his fingers out, but keeps his eyes on you, holding your gaze as he brings them up to his mouth and sucks. They linger there, as if he’s savoring the taste of you, while his free hand works at his pants. You smile at him, reaching behind you to unzip your dress, until you’re completely bare on the floor of his studio.

He suddenly stops just as he pops the button of his pants.

“‘Bedo?” you murmur questioningly.

Albedo touches your face, tracing the gentle slope of your Cupid’s bow before letting his fingers drag down your swollen lips. They continue downward, past your marked neck, until they brush against one of your nipples.

He seems entranced, in awe, almost, as if it was the first time he’d ever seen your naked body (which certainly wasn’t the case). He touches you with a reverence reserved for statues of deities, blissfully unaware of the goosebumps his fingers left in their wake. You think he says something, but it’s lost under the ringing in your ears.

In the midst of your pleasure, the question of what exactly Albedo’s mother had told him still wriggles around in the back of your mind. Whatever it was, it was enough to get him to sell the studio, and enough to unearth this side of him that you hadn’t seen before.

You’re momentarily broken out of your thoughts when the lens hovers just inches away from your face. While you were busy mulling things over, Albedo had grabbed the camera he’d set aside, and was now waving it in front of you.

“It won’t be for the portfolio, of course,” he assures you. “Just…for my personal use.”

“Pervert.”

Albedo takes your teasing as approval, and breaks into a smile. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this beautiful, completely topless with your hair spread all around you, in the middle of fucking the most gorgeous man on the planet.

He keeps his eye glued to the eyepiece, but his other hand moves to free his cock out of his pants, stroking it as he continues to take pictures. After a while, you sit up, knocking his hand out of the way to replace it with yours.

“That’s it. That’s it…God,” he moans out the last word as you wrap your lips around the tip. Still, he keeps his composure, leaning backwards to get a better angle of you sucking him off. You throw the camera a wink as his free hand comes down to the back of your head, guiding you as you work up a rhythm.

“Pretty, pretty,” he whispers, and you see his fingers over the shutter tremble. “So pretty. My pretty little whore.”

You take him as far down as you can, letting your hand work on the areas you can’t reach. You feel like you could stay this way forever, letting him praise you and call you filthy names while you bring him closer and closer to the brink.

You’d let him use you forever, you think.

Albedo finally sets the camera down, his head falling back and gasps escaping his lips. His grip on the back of your head tightens marginally, barely letting you go back up to the tip.

“Can’t, can’t, can’t,” he whines.

You peer up at him in confusion, only to have him pull you back by the hair. “Lie back down,” he pants, the pink dusting the top of his nose and cheeks.

As soon as your back meets the floor, he kisses you, and links your hands together with his. The gesture is no longer an unspoken rule to keep them above your head, not with the way he squeezes them gently as he rocks his hips against yours.

He takes your lower lip in between his teeth, pulling back gently and releasing it just as his nose brushes against the tip of yours. You raise your head to kiss him again, and it’s slow. Deep. Passionate.

Oh, how easy it would be indeed to fall in love with him. How easy it would be to delude yourself into thinking he’d fallen in love with you too, and that was why he was acting so out of character today.

But you couldn’t, no. There was too much at stake. Your paths were always meant to diverge; it was a miracle you’d both known each other at all. You lie awake most nights, thinking about how that invitation to perform at his acquaintance’s birthday was meant for one of your seniors, not you—only, she’d caught the flu days before, and turned to you, the only one available on that date.

You think about how Albedo’s mother had his entire life planned out for him, and what deviating from her dreams of turning him into the most respected chemist in your community would mean for him. You think about one of Albedo’s brothers, whom she callously referred to as “a failed experiment”, and the life of hate and resentment he leads now.

So, no matter what you felt for him, you preferred not to stick any labels on what he and you shared. It wasn’t friendship, nor was it love. God, it couldn’t be. It was just…you and him.

And yet, when he kisses you like that…

“Ready?” he asks, after pulling your underwear off to line his cock up in front of your sopping entrance. You nod.

You wrap your legs around his waist as he slowly enters, and later bottoms out, letting out a whine at the same time he bites down on your shoulder. Raking your fingers through his hair, you pepper kisses down the side of his neck, silently letting him know it was okay to move.

The drag of his cock against your walls instantly makes you groan, while your fingers turn to fists in his hair. When he picks up the pace, your head lolls back, wanton moans escaping your lips. But Albedo keeps you from hitting the ground, supporting your head by pressing it against your shoulder, pushing you even closer together.

“Tight…so tight…” he hisses. “God, you’re so perfect. So beautiful.”

Stop, you want to tell him. If you do that…say things like that…

But your arms wrap around him, like you’re trying to meld the two of you together, and you feel the words you’ve always been dying to say bubble up to your lips. It doesn’t help that Albedo angles his hips until his cock brushes up against your G-spot again, and the music playing on phonograph is quickly replaced by the symphony of your moans.

“Gonna come?” he grunts. “I’ll let you come, pretty baby. I’ll let you come all over my cock. How’s that?”

“‘Bedo,” you sob. “‘Bedo, I can’t!”

“You can,” he insists, and he seals his point by wrapping a hand around your throat. “You can and you will.”

Albedo claims your lips once more, tangling his tongue with yours, and giving your neck a quick squeeze. The combination makes you squeal and tighten around him, and he retaliates by slamming his hips against yours.

You’re close, and you know he feels it. He pushes himself up, letting your head rest gently against the floor so he can balance his weight on his forearms, all while never missing a beat.

“Look at me when you come,” he orders you. You want to tell him that he’s all you can see.

He’s all you want to see.

“‘Bedo…” you whimper.

He’s all you want.

His eyes bore into yours, and the cord snaps.

Your back arches as you cry out, and your body twitches like you’ve been possessed. It seems to go on forever, and it doesn’t help that Albedo’s rubbing at your clit to work you through your orgasm, nor does he stop moving his hips.

“Well done,” he tells you, and there’s genuine praise in his tone. “That’s my girl.”

He hovers over you as you come down from your high, pressing kisses to your collarbones. “I wanna come, pretty girl. Where do you want me?”

Your reply comes out garbled, and he laughs as he taps at your cheek to get your attention. “Where do you want me to come?”

“In..side…”

If you weren’t so fucked out, it would have been your turn to laugh at Albedo’s surprised expression. He’s never finished inside of you before; like the artist that he is, he was partial to doing so on your tits or on your stomach.

He leans over you, letting his nose brush against yours. You struggle to catch your breath, but you’re quickly caught under cerulean waves hidden behind lidded eyes. Albedo catches your bottom lip between his teeth, nipping gently to warn you that he was about to move again.

He grabs the fat behind your thighs and pushes them forward, and another sinful moan pours out of your lips as the angle drives his cock further upwards, nearly nudging against your cervix. Your eyes roll back just as the muscles in your jaw freeze up, and when Albedo starts pounding into you again, you vaguely feel drool trailing down your cheek.

“God.” You’re momentarily brought back to consciousness when you register a faint stinging on your cheek, and the sight of a flushed and sweaty Albedo slowly reveals itself in your line of sight. “You ask me to come inside you, then you make that face. It’s like you’re begging me to make you mine.”

“Yes, yes,” you babble, all coherent thoughts flying out the window with every thrust. “Wanna be yours, ‘Bedo, I—hngh—”

Albedo curses, then drops his head into the crook of your neck. You brace yourself for the sting, the indelible feeling of his teeth sinking into your skin, but it doesn’t come. All you hear are pants mixed with grunts, and what you think are small whines.

You think, until you feel something wet trickle down the side of your neck. Your eyes widen.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders in response, running a hand back into his disheveled hair. Albedo responds by picking up the pace, hissing as he finally tips over the edge. The unfamiliar, but not unwelcome feeling of him painting your walls white has your insides seizing up again, and it’s when he lazily snakes a hand between your legs and rubs at your clit that you come for the second time.

You stay like that for a while, with Albedo panting heavily on top of you and you trembling under him. He doesn’t remove himself from the crook of your neck, and the sheer wetness staining the skin there is starting to make you worry.

“Albedo,” you whisper hoarsely.

He sniffles, before taking a deep breath and pulling himself up. Sure enough, tears stain his wonderfully flushed cheeks, and a few more remain balanced on the edges of his eyelashes. He reaches down to cup one of your cheeks in his hand, staring at you like he’s trying to put his thoughts together.

You swallow, the old hopeful feeling rising up in your chest again. Why was he crying? Had he come to the same conclusion that you did earlier (months ago, really)? Was he thinking the same thing?

Could you finally say it?

“I’ll tell you now,” Albedo says.

Your spirits rise. Your heart hammers so loudly, you barely hear the record playing on the phonograph screech to a stop.

“Albedo, I lo—”

“(Y/N), I’m getting married soon.”

If anyone were to count the number of times a bolt of lightning struck, in the same spot, mere inches away from the Kamisato Estate, it would raise questions. But the act of looking the other way had been turned into an art form by the people of Inazuma, and for once, for that he was immensely grateful.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to gaze over your naked form, illuminated only when a streak of lightning tears through the sky. The beads of sweat on your chest had long dried; the only proof that he’d been with you was the slick between your thighs.

He could stay like this forever, he thinks, tracing shapes across your bare back, occasionally replacing his fingers with his lips as you both listen to the symphony of rain and thunder play outside.

Though he wants nothing more than to fall asleep like this—and to wake up with you still by his side in the morning—you wouldn’t stay that long. You couldn’t.

So, he keeps his eyes open.

“You could tell her that I proposed,” he offers.

You crack an eyelid open, peering over at him curiously before snorting quietly.

“I’m serious. “Chief Retainer of the Kamisato Clan” isn’t a title to scoff at, you know. Consider it a mark of friendship from the Yashiro Commission to the Almighty Shogun.”

He says the last two words in a mocking tone, which you giggle at. Thoma pulls your shoulder until you roll onto your back, so he could devour your smile (the one that he never passes up the opportunity to see) with his lips. He shamelessly moans in your mouth when you return the kiss with a passion that rivals the power of his own Vision, your fingers finding their home in his blonde locks.

When he pulls away, his eyes move from your swollen lips and trail down the graceful slope of your neck. They stop and narrow at the sight of the purple gem, nestled gently in the hollow of your throat, pinned to a red ribbon wrapped around your neck.

Despite being a firm advocate against the Vision Hunt Decree, he abhors the one you had been given. It was nothing but a reminder of who you belonged to, and the choker even matches the one on the figure you had been sworn forever to serve. He’s tried multiple times in vain to rip it off you, but the seemingly flimsy ribbon was stronger than it looked. Though he wants nothing more than to see it off you (occasionally replaced by his own hand), he has an uneasy feeling that that scenario was not something he would want to see.

So he lets all feelings of rage, resentment, and longing simmer in his gut—waiting for the blessed day that he can let all of them out.

Thoma is pulled out of his thoughts by your hand finding its way onto his face. You smile at him gently, rubbing your thumb across his cheek, and his heart lurches; he presses his lips to your palm in response.

“She would never agree to that,” you whisper regretfully, and Thoma groans quietly before nestling his head in the crook of your neck.

“How would you know?”

You kiss the top of his head, and his brain short-circuits. “Because I know her. Better than anyone else.”

Thoma’s brow furrows at your words. He stares at the skin of your neck, and he’s seized by the sudden urge to mark you as his. Though he already has—multiple times in the past, and tonight was no exception—he wants nothing more than to cover your throat, jaw, collarbones, everything, in shades of purple darker than your Vision. That was the way, he thinks, to prove to everyone who you really belonged to, that his lips were engraved in you deeper than whatever the Shogun gives you.

He wants you to be his. Wholly, truly his, and he wants the whole of Teyvat to know it. He wants your body on his every second of every day, wants your heart in his hands, wants your smile all to himself. He wants to fill you to the brim, until every single cell in your body is singing his praises; wants to breathe in your scent until he’s choking on your essence.

He wants nothing else, no one else. One look in your eyes, and he knows you feel the same.

“Then we’ll run.”

You hum questioningly.

Thoma lifts his head and props it on his hand. “We’ll run away, then we can be together.”

You smile. “Alright,” you say, clearly humoring him. “Where would we go?”

“Mmm, anywhere. We could go to Fontaine, or to Liyue...” He traces your skin as he talks, brushing over a nipple and smirking as your breath stutters. “Ah, I know. Mondstadt.”

“Why Mondstadt?”

“For starters, it’s the City of Freedom.” He twirls a piece of your hair between his fingers. “It’s where they produce the finest wine—”

“Dandelion Wine, right?”

“Yeah, Dandelion Wine. And you know what the best thing is?”

“What?”

He leans down to brush his nose against yours. “It never rains there.”

“Oh,” you breathe. “Can you imagine?”

“What I’d give to see you in fair weather all the time.”

You pull his face down, and his lips connect with yours again, but it’s feather-light compared to the others he’d shared with you tonight. He finds it the most intoxicating, the most indicative of your true feelings for him, but he doesn’t kid himself. He knows what it means.

You confirm his hunch when you whisper that you have to go.

Thoma groans again and all but starfishes on top of you, keeping you from getting up. You let out a surprised oof as his full weight settles on you, followed by your breathless laughter.

“Thoma.”

“Mm?”

“Can’t breathe.”

“Mm.”

You call his name once more, and he responds by wrapping his arms around you tightly. You sigh and place a hand on his hair, patting down the tousled locks. The touch is strangely comforting to him, and it only fuels him to keep you down.

“Thoma, the storm’s lightening up.”

“I don’t care.”

“I have to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His voice almost breaks, and he knows you’ve noticed when he feels your heart race and when you halt your attempts to get him off you; for a second, he thinks he’s finally succeeded at getting you to stay.

“She’s going to wonder where I am.”

So cruel, he thinks. Whether it was directed towards you, for breaking his heart every single night; the Raiden Shogun, for claiming you as her own for her messed-up idea of eternity; or to the world, for cursing him to fall in love with someone he could never have—he still wasn’t sure.

You break his heart, every single time you come to him under a mourning sky. And like the fool that he is, he still lets you in.

Thoma finally rolls off you, and though you attempt to patch his wounded heart by leaving a lingering kiss on his lips, the damage has already been dealt. His eyes rake over you longingly as you slip into the clothes you arrived in, before doing the same with his own. You dress in silence, the magic of the night dissipating along with the same clouds that had brought you to him.

He finishes before you do, and he walks over to help fasten the belt around your waist. He doesn’t miss the opportunity to place gentle kisses on the back of your neck, and revels in the contented sighs that he pulls from you with every touch.

One of your hands slips into his, and the other finds its way back into his hair as your eyes lock with his. He hopes you see it—the love, adoration, and longing—in his eyes, mirroring yours. He presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, feeling your breath fan against his lips.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he replies. “More than you know.”

Thoma gives you one last searing kiss, and regretfully steps back to watch you disappear in a bolt of lightning.

To some in Inazuma, your position as the Raiden Shogun’s Hand was a blessing. You were one of the privileged few to be gifted an Electro Vision during the Vision Hunt Decree. You had access to classified information, contacts with high-profile people, and the ear of the supreme ruler of the Nation of Eternity.

To you, it was all horseshit.

“Your Excellency,” you murmur in greeting as you slide the door open.

“(Y/N),” the Raiden Shogun responds. “Close the door behind you.”

You oblige, bowing deeply before making your way over to her. She sits at her desk, scrolls upon scrolls taking up the entire table, presumably detailing reports of Vision hunts all over the country. On another table were documents needing her approval—documents that she let you (and nobody else) handle.

“Where were you last night?” the Shogun asks, just as you take your seat in front of your designated pile.

“I took a walk through Nazuchi Beach, my lady,” you say, your practiced lie rolling smoothly off your tongue. “I was looking for some Dendrobiums to adorn your suite.”

“At night?”

“I have been told they bloom best at night, yes.”

The Raiden Shogun clicks her tongue. “I forbid you from going there from now on. The Sangonomiya Resistance frequents that area. If you wish to pick some flowers, have the Shogunate do it for you.”

“Yes, my lady.” You cross out the Nazuchi Beach from your mental list of excuses.

A servant knocks on the door, announcing tea, and you take the liberty of carrying it to the Shogun’s desk. She keeps her eyes on her papers as you work silently and efficiently, the scent of jasmine wafting through the room as you pour the tea into two cups. The Shogun normally took her tea with cream and sugar, but the jasmine smells fresh, and you decide that it was best left alone.

She seems to agree with you, accepting her cup with a wordless nod, the hand lingering longer than normal on yours being the closest thing to “thank you” you would ever hear from her. Sometimes you wonder if the Shogun really does favor you; the Vision was one thing, but her general demeanor was confusing to many—even you. It really was like walking through an open field during a thunderstorm, not knowing when and where lightning will strike.

Fortunately or unfortunately for you, you never have to doubt long. You’ve known the Raiden Shogun for most of your life, ever since your mother had traded you off for the chance to keep her Vision. You remember how the Shogun had given you a quick once-over, before agreeing to take you into her household, and taking your mother’s Vision anyway.

You knew there was something wrong with the Electro Archon within weeks of your stay at her palace. The abrupt switching of moods, the lack of luster in her eyes, the ruthless enforcement of the Vision Hunt Decree...it was enough for anyone to deduce that she clearly had some screws loose (though they daren’t even think it, under pain of death).

Your survival instincts kicked in then, and you immediately molded yourself to the Shogun’s expectations of you. You had always been a rather observant person, and it didn’t take long for you to decide that what she needed the most (at least, what you wanted her to think she needed from you to keep you from getting punted to the ends of the earth), which was someone who could comfort her. Who could serve as her anchor, her tether to this world, while she switched between her delusions of grandeur and the painful truth of reality.

You were right, as you almost always were. The first night that she found you in her bed, offering to let her forget everything for a while, she agreed almost immediately. Soon after, it was always your words she wanted to hear, your arms she craved, your fingers inside her...all to escape from the ghosts of her war-torn past.

What you didn’t expect was her developing something deeper, almost darker, for you. When she started to ban you from going to certain places without her, forcing you to stay in her room while she entertained officials in the palace, and fastening the Vision around your neck, something told you that you had walked into a trap. That you hadn’t been the one controlling her—in some unexpected twist of fate, you had been outsmarted. A fly that managed to evade the web, but flew straight into the spider’s arms.

You belonged to her, and not the other way around.

“Shall I have breakfast brought to you here, my lady?” you ask, once she puts down her cup.

“No,” was her curt response.

You nod quietly, before excusing yourself to walk over the desk and the stack of scrolls awaiting your review. You pick the one on the top, which piques your interest due to the fact that it was sealed, unlike the others. You break it, stopping just at the heading, in case it was for the Shogun’s eyes only.

You hold back a resigned sigh, before rolling it back up and walking back to her. “The details for the 100th Vision Hunt Decree Ceremony, my lady.”

“Oh.” The Shogun purses her lips as she unrolls the scroll fully, and you take advantage of her brief lapse of attention on you to check the name of the next unfortunate soul.

Your breath hitches in your throat, and your body suddenly feels like it’s been dunked in ice-cold water.

“Hmm. Interesting,” the Shogun murmurs, but her voice rings in your ears. You pray you don’t topple over from the sheer horror that had seized your system and rendered you immobile, lest you give her even an inkling of how you were connected to the person written on the paper.

“That’s…” you fight to keep your voice steady, your mind racing at a million miles an hour. “That won’t sit well with the Yashiro Commission.”

“The Yashiro Commission is part of the Tri-Commission. Even though they are not actively involved in the Vision Hunt Decree, they know orders are orders.” She signs the bottom of the scroll, which to you looked more and more like a death warrant.

Before she puts the scroll back onto the pile of finished material, you reach your hand out towards it. The Shogun looks at you questioningly.

“I—we must inform the Yashiro Commission, at least,” you suggest.

“Why?”

“My lady, the Yashiro Commission is looked upon favorably by the people. If you take their...their Chief Retainer’s Vision, that would stir up some trouble.”

The Shogun shrugs. Her nonchalance when it came to opposition had always been frightening to you; her unwavering determination in the pursuit of eternity seemed to trump what others thought of her. “We can send out more of the guards to quell unrest.”

“Unrest that can be taken advantage of by the Resistance,” you reason, trying to keep the desperation out of your voice. “If we could inform the Yashiro Commission ahead of time, they could make it look like...like they agree with you. It would serve as further proof that the Tri-Commission is strong, oriented only towards your vision of eternity.”

The Shogun seems to ponder your words carefully, and you can see in her eyes that she’s beginning to turn. “It could also stop some people from joining the Resistance,” you offer.

She says nothing more in reply, and you take it as an opportunity to press further. "I'll take this to the Yashiro Commission, then. When I come back, I—"

"No."

"...my lady?"

"Have someone else do it." She turns her attention to the next scroll, unfurling it as she talks. "It is unbecoming, having the Raiden Shogun's Hand run around like some servant. You will stay here."

You swallow thickly. Like some well-tuned machine, you shift immediately to your next course of action. It was the best way—tried and tested—for you to get what you want, though it was the method you liked the least.

Ever since the memory of Thoma's hands had seared itself into your skin, branding you as his and his alone.

"As you wish, my lady," you say, setting the scroll aside. "You are very kind to worry about me."

The Shogun hums in response. Your hands drift towards her shoulders, and she jolts slightly when you finally make contact.

"Your shoulders are tense," you tell her, in the closest thing to a lover's whisper you could muster. "You've been up late again."

"Many things require my attention," she quips.

"Nightmares?"

Her writing stops, and you sense the air for any signs of her displeasure. When you find none, you sigh—to you, it was of relief; to her, you know it sounds exasperated.

"I should have been there," you murmur, stooping ever so slightly to level your mouth with her ear, watching as she shivers when your breath dances over her skin. "I shouldn't have left you last night. I'm sorry."

"You...I…"

You say her name, her real name, and she nearly keens in response. But, ever the consummate fighter, she struggles to keep her composure.

"Let me take over today," you urge. "Get some sleep. You know how it pains me to see you suffer."

"I'm quite alright," she huffs, but you see right through her as she picks up her pen shakily.

You press your lips against the side of her neck, a spot that you've discovered after years of practice was a switch of sorts. It takes one kiss to turn the mighty Raiden Shogun into putty in your hands, and it's evident by the way she drops her pen again and shakily raises her hands to thread through your hair.

You close your eyes as you continue your ministrations up and down her neck. It was a simple, handy trick, to distract you from the pain of being in someone else's arms, instead of the ones you craved the most. Though the scent and the taste were different—for a moment, at least—you could pretend it was Thoma.

Thoma…

You were painfully aware that he would eventually face the Vision Decree one of these days. But you hadn't expected it to be now; now, of all days, when all he had been doing was filling your head with visions of the future, your future with him, in lands far away, where it never rains.

Thoma, who had caught your eye on one of the blessed days you were allowed out on your own. Thoma, whose kindred soul shone brighter than what was allowed in Inazuma. Thoma, the only one who had broken through the invisible wall that the Raiden Shogun had built around you, just to see your face.

You couldn't lose him.

You would not lose him.

"My lady," you whisper. In your mind, you were saying his name. "My sweet lady."

You drag one of your hands down from her shoulders to her breasts, pushing the corset down to fondle her already hard nipples, and listening intently to the moans you pull from her.

Your other hand goes down even further.

"Wait," the Shogun says. "Wait, someone could see—ah—"

"Let them see," you whisper, letting your tongue drag across her bare shoulder as your fingers pull up her skirt, and find its way to her soaking cunt with practiced ease.

The Shogun squirms in her seat, and her head tips back as wanton moans spill from her open mouth. A small part of you found it endearing, and prior to knowing Thoma, you thought that there was no noise sweeter than the Shogun's singing as your fingers scissor her pussy mercilessly. But that had been quickly replaced by the sound of Thoma's laughter, and the sound of his strangled moans whenever he pushed inside you.

When you feel her tighten around your fingers, you pull them out, turning away from her so she doesn't see you wiping it on your hip. "Well, I'll be off to the library—"

"W-wait."

You smile.

“My lady,” the attendant at the door of the Yashiro Commission greets you, bowing as low as if you had been the Raiden Shogun herself. “What can I do for you today?”

“Is Lord Ayato or Lady Ayaka around? I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

“Lord Ayato is currently in a meeting, which he mentioned would take precedence over everything else. Lady Ayaka should be resting in her study, but I could have the Chief Retainer relay everything to them…”

You briefly consider going to Thoma directly. The chain of command still follows even with him in the picture, and the target was him after all. But you were terrified; his presence alone would make you lose track of time and all sense of control, both essential if you want to get him out in one piece.

“Someone call my name?”

Your head whips around, and you nearly drop the scroll you’d meticulously written all your plans on, intended only for the sympathetic eyes of the Kamisato siblings. Thoma stands there, his easy smile a beacon of light in the darkest night. Your mind, clouded with misery over the possibility of losing the first person who had dared to even touch your hand, stutters to a stop when he shoots you a look that you dare describe as a look of love and adoration.

You have half a mind to drop everything, grab his hand, and go as far away from this godforsaken place as you could.

“What a nice surprise, my lady,” Thoma says, taking your hand in his and pressing it to his lips. He peers up at you through his lashes and winks, and your head spins. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Thoma, the Almighty Shogun’s Hand has information to pass to the Kamisato heads,” the attendant answers for you.

“Is that so?” He keeps his voice light, though you don’t miss the way his eyes narrow at the mention of your title. “I’d be happy to relay it to them for you. Can’t have the Almighty Shogun’s darling going through all that trouble, hmm?”

You frown, and he only laughs, walking past you towards the doors. “I’m just joking. At least stay for some tea?”

“We can have it brought to the sitting room,” the attendant offers.

“No,” you say, and Thoma looks back at you in surprise. “I...this is a private conversation, so…”

You hope your eyes convey the gravity of the situation; thankfully, Thoma gets it. “We can speak in the room in the east wing,” he decides. “Please give us some privacy, as the lady has requested.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Thoma gestures for you to go on before him, and you oblige. You feel his hand—as if you had your own force of gravity—drift towards your waist, and you slow just long enough for his fingers to brush against your side.

Servants bow as you pass, but you barely spare them a glance as you pick up the pace, your knowledge of the estate’s layout guiding you through the seemingly endless corridors. Thoma follows closely, silent as the grave; you were sure that there were a million questions running in that gorgeous head of his. He was as smart as you, after all.

You practically run into the room he’d mentioned earlier, and he nearly slams the door shut behind him. You drop the scroll you’d cradled so carefully to your person, and, letting out a small sob, you run straight into his arms.

He catches you with a surprised grunt, the confusion in his beautiful face only spurring you on to cover it in kisses.

"Slow down, my darling," he laughs breathlessly. "I know I'm irresistible, but slow down."

Once you had calmed down enough for your breathing to become steady, you wipe your tears away. Thoma cradles your chin and tilts it upwards to meet his gaze. His eyes hold so much warmth, love, and comfort; you weren't sure what you'd do without them.

"What, sweet girl?"

"You…" Your lip trembles violently. "The 100th Vision Hunt Decree Ceremony…"

You've become so accustomed to his every gesture, every expression, that you know the exact moment when he connects the dots just by looking at his face. His brow furrows, and his lips part slightly before he sighs, dropping his hand from your face to grasp sections of your skirt in his hands. "When?"

"A fortnight from today," you whisper.

He nods to the scroll you'd tossed aside. "What's that?"

"We need to get you out of here. Far, far away. Back to Mondstadt, where you belong."

Thoma laughs, and you almost want to hit him from how lightly he's taking all of this. "And how do we do that? The Sakoku Decree is in force, you know."

"I'll take you there," you say, and his smile drops completely. "With my current abilities, I can only teleport short places at a time. And I can't...teleport us to a location that I don't know visually, so there's bound to be some hiccups, but...I'll be willing to try."

"And who are the guards going to arrest once the ceremony begins?"

You pull away from him slightly to pick up the scroll, waving it in his face. "We can come up with something. You came down with a deadly fever and you never recovered. You were mobbed by some samurai and you never returned. They'll take Lord Ayato and Lady Ayaka's word for it, which is why I—"

"No."

Your yammering comes to an abrupt stop, and you stare at Thoma, who barely spares the scroll in your hand a glance.

"What do you mea—"

"I can't ask the Kamisato Clan to do that for me." He shakes his head. "Taking in an outlander...if they had been anyone else, they would have been punished severely. I'm risking their reputation by even being here."

"That's not true," you say in disbelief, grabbing his hands. "You've got a network of people that most native highborn Inazumans can only dream of having. You've helped so many people, so many outlanders...isn't that what the Kamisato clan does best?"

Thoma sighs. "But asking them to lie for me, to help me escape...what happens if I get caught? If the Shogun even gets a whiff of information that I'm still alive...who's going to pay the price?"

"They are the Yashiro Commission," you stress. "No one’s going to question them for fear of irking the people’s wrath. If you're not going to talk to them, I will. I am not losing you too."

You push past him, and he brings you back with a murmur of your name and a hand around your wrist. You don't trust yourself to look back at him; Archons know just what your pitiful heart might do.

He seems to hear your unspoken prayer, and in the true spirit of a defiant child of freedom, he denies it swiftly by spinning you around.

He holds your face in his hands gently, and suddenly, his entire presence is suffocating. But it's not in the way you feel when you're in a similar position with the Raiden Shogun. This one does not feel choking, dominating; this was enveloping, warm. This was a drop of water in a scorching desert, a single musical note echoing in a silent room.

You were so overwhelmed by your love for this man, that the mere thought of losing any part of him would crush you beyond belief. Thoma was your home, your eternity.

"It's going to be okay," he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips.

"It's not," you protest. "Thoma, you know what'll happen if you lose your Vision. You've seen what it does to people. And I can't—I don't—"

"But what'll happen to you?" Thoma asks. "It's no secret to anyone that the Raiden Shogun...well...if something were to happen to you…"

"I've planned for that, too," you say. "We can arrange for you to hide somewhere, and while she's consumed with the thought of finding you...I'll get to you first."

You press your lips to his palm shakily. "Then we can go to Mondstadt, see? You can show me where you grew up, where they serve Dandelion Wine, celebrate the Windboom Festival…"

Thoma smirks. "The Windblume Festival."

"Right," you laugh, feeling the tears well up again. "Then it will never rain again."

Thoma studies your face carefully, before pressing a kiss to your forehead and wrapping you in his arms. You bury your face into his chest.

"I love you," he says, and you feel the weight of the words through the rumbling of his chest. "So, so much. Archons, I do."

You peer up at him again, and it wraps your heart in a vice to see tears of his own adorning the edges of his lashes.

"But I can't."

Your mouth goes dry.

He shakes his head and looks up, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I knew what I was getting myself into, falling in love with the Raiden Shogun's Hand. I knew loving you would come back to bite us in the ass someday, and that day is today, it seems."

He looks down at you again, brushing strands of hair away from your face. "But I snuck past the guards and grabbed your hand anyway."

The tears—both his and yours—begin to fall in earnest as he leans down to kiss you. The two of you stand there for what seemed like an eternity, and for a minute, you understand what the Shogun feels, when he finally pulls away.

"You need to go back," he tells you.

"I'm not going to let her take you from me."

Thoma laughs, almost incredulously. "Funny you should say that, my love. I've been wishing that ever since I've met you. But this is how it's going to play out."

He steps back, but keeps sections of your skirt in his hands. "You're going to go back to the Shogun," he begins. "You're safer there. She's not going to let anyone hurt you, let alone touch you."

"But don't you understand?!" You yank yourself away from him, the frustration that had been bubbling up earlier making a reappearance. "She's not going to let you touch me either! I'm not going back there, I'm not going anywhere without you!"

"It's better than the life you'd have with me. Would you want that? Being constantly on the run? Never having a single place to call home, having the fugitive label on your back wherever we go? Having the Raiden Shogun's fury follow you everywhere?'

"She can burn this whole world to the ground. I don't care. As long as I'm with you."

Thoma continues, unperturbed by your response. "You're going to go back to her, and maybe in the future she's going to get pressured to marry you off to some highborn to maintain order. And you're going to have a family, riches beyond your imagination, and most importantly, safety. You don't know what it's like out there."

You shake your head in disbelief. "I can't believe this. And what about you?"

"Me?" He seems momentarily surprised at the thought of you considering him. "Well...Vision or no Vision, I think I can still work as Chief Retainer. I've got mean sweeping skills, you know."

"I mean," you grit your teeth. "Are you okay with all of that? Me going back to the Shogun, getting married to some guy I probably don't even know, having children that aren't yours?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but you beat him to it. "And what I want doesn't matter, either? Do you think I want to go back to her? I see it in your eyes, every night we're together. You hate it. You hate that she gets to touch me whenever she likes, hate that she's on my skin, hate that she wants what's always been yours."

"You know as well as I do what she can do when you pull away." He caresses your cheek, and pulls you into his arms once more. "Just as you are bound to the Raiden Shogun, I am bound to the Kamisato Clan. I can't risk dishonoring them by asking them to lie about me to the people they serve. That's going to pass down to their children, and their children's children. Multiple generations of treachery."

"So...that's it?" you whimper. "Thoma, you could forget everything. Everyone."

"Not true." He sways you gently. "I could never forget a face like yours. Ambition...anyone can want anything, and I'm always going to want you. And even if I lose my memory a million times, I'd still fall in love with you every single time."

It was unfair to you, the way he casually declared his love. You wanted nothing more than to scream it back, that you loved him as much as he loved you, maybe even more. You wanted to sear it into his skin, shake his system to its core, until all he knows is just how much you'd be willing to die for him.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about me," Thomas murmurs into your hair. "I'll be fine."

You look up at him then, breaking the embrace. You try to imagine the warmth in his eyes dissipating along with the influence of his Vision. You try to imagine a listless, hollow shell of a man walking around with no objective in life, much like the victims of the Vision Hunt Decree. Much like your mother.

You try to imagine a life without him, and it fuels you with a quiet, unbridled rage.

"I don't believe you," you whisper, and you turn on your heels, feeling your skirt slip away from his grasp as you leave him behind.

If not now, when?

You had whispered it to yourself, over and over again  in the mirror, on the morning of the 100th Vision Hunt Decree Ceremony. It was one of your moments of quiet defiance, knowing that you were actively plotting what could be the biggest betrayal to the Raiden Shogun in centuries while she slept in your bed.

The wind whips the hood of your cloak around your face as you stand in front of the statue of the Thousand-Eyed God. You peer up at a sky covered in dark clouds, but you grow nervous when you don't sense a storm coming. There would be no cover for you; no way to disguise your movement as simple lightning strikes, like how you used to sneak out to see Thoma.

Thoma…

The guards had brought him to the area of the ceremony ten minutes ago. Bile had risen in your throat when you saw him tied up and forced to the ground, but to your relief, he was otherwise unharmed. You keep your eyes lowered, as you had been trained to do, your figure mimicking the statue that was just next to you.

The Raiden Shogun crosses your vision, and you bow as she moves towards the statue, gazing upon its face and the Visions that adorn its wings. Your heart begins hammering in your chest when she finally turns around, her arm outstretched and electricity crackled around her fingertips.

You know what part comes next, having seen it many times over, and you know that you had mere seconds to move. There would be a small window of time where confusion would keep everyone rooted in their places, and as long as you concentrated, you would be out of there as planned.

You finally look up, and the wind blows your hood back. Your eyes meet Thoma's, just as the Vision from his belt flies towards the Shogun.

You keep your eyes trained on his Vision and crouch, feeling your elemental magic crawl from your toes up to your head like it had many times before.

But you never get there.

A flash of blonde and a purple light similar to your own crosses your path, and Thoma's Vision is no longer in front of you.

Gasps and murmurs echo from the crowd when a mysterious figure falls to the ground in a combat stance, the Vision in their hand and a strange fairy flying over to their side.

They have no Vision. You couldn't sense any on their person, though they were infused with what was undoubtedly Electro energy. So this was the mysterious Traveler that everyone was talking about; the Honorary Knight of Mondstadt, an honored guest of the Liyue Qixing, who'd fought off an ancient god.

The Shogun looked confused herself, and you watch as the guards run from Thoma towards the Traveler. They strike the three down with bolts of concentrated Electro energy, before dashing over to Thoma to undo his binds.

Your spirits rise, but they are crushed just as quickly as the Shogun zaps their hands away.

"Capable of using elemental magic without a Vision…" she muses, coming down from the statue. "You are an exception, it seems."

There is no mistaking the rage that emanates from the Raiden Shogun—a rage, manifested in the electricity that surrounds her entire figure, that you know is enough to slay gods and tear the heavens asunder.

"Exceptions...the enemy of Eternity."

She stretches her arms, and everyone in the vicinity gets blown back from the sheer force of her power, including you. Through the small window between your arms, you see her retrieve the weapon that she keeps in her soul, triggering another wave of power that is too much for even you to handle.

"You will be inlaid upon this statue," she booms, and just like that, she and the Traveler were gone.

Once you had gotten your footing back, you waste no time, teleporting yourself to where Thoma was.

"What are you doing?" he hisses.

"She's going to administer judgement," you say quickly, tugging at Thoma's restraints.

"Judgement?!" the Traveler's companion squeaked. "You mean...like Kazuha's friend…?"

"I don't know who Kazuha is," you answer. "But once you've challenged the Raiden Shogun, she will deliver judgement."

"Will they make it?"

"Hard to say." You click your tongue in annoyance when you sense that the ropes were imbued with some sort of magic; most likely to keep Thoma's Pyro Vision from burning it off easily. You grab one of the Shogunate's polearms and try to saw the ropes off.

You hear Thoma chuckle as you work. "You're mad," he says breathlessly.

"I've arranged for a temporary hiding spot near Nazuchi Beach," you tell him. "But first we'll go to Komore Teahouse to regroup."

"But, the Traveler…!"

"This is Paimon, by the way," Thoma adds, aiding you by moving his hands in the opposite direction of the blade.

"Paimon, it's going to be okay," you comfort the fairy. "I'll wait for them to come back, then we'll go."

"But how?!" Paimon wails.

“You grab the Traveler, I’ll focus on getting us out of here,” you instruct Thoma. “I’ve never transported more than two at a time, so you need to help me.”

"You idiot, she'll see you!" Thoma snaps. "You need to go now or—"

"If you tell me to go one more time, I will teleport and drop you into the Musoujin Gorge," you growl. "I am not leaving you. Never."

Before Thoma could respond, lightning strikes the ground in front of you, and all the hairs on your body stand up.

The air shimmers and seemingly dissolves, revealing the Raiden Shogun meters away, with the Traveler on the ground closer to you, unconscious. Paimon screams and flies over to them, her little hands grasping their clothes and her distraught voice begging them to wake up.

"Damn!" The rope was nowhere near half cut, and you pick up the pace, knowing your time was running out.

You feel a pair of eyes on you, and you trace them back to the Raiden Shogun.

For the first time, you don't know what expression is on her face. Hurt? Anger? Betrayal? Was there even emotion on her face? You didn't know. It terrified you that you didn't know.

Your eyes lock with hers as you continue to work on Thoma's binds, wondering if she was able to understand them the way he always did. They were telling her—despite everything you had been through with her—that there was some part of you, no matter how miniscule, was telling her one thing: I'm sorry.

She continues walking towards the Traveler, her entire body still flickering with energy.

"Shit," you curse, finally knowing what was happening to the Shogun, turning your attention back to the ropes.

"Come on, come on," Thoma grunts, moving his hands faster.

"Paimon, move!" you scream out to the fairy. To your horror, neither her nor the Shogun listen, confirming your fear that the latter had slipped back into a state where she could not tell between friend or foe—her most war-like state, the one you’d desperately tried to lock away all these years.

"Almost...almost…"

You hear Paimon's squeak of terror, and you look up to see the Shogun motion for her to move away using her weapon.

The rope snags on the blade, and falls to the ground. You don't think.

You grab Thoma's arm and disappear, teleporting mere inches away from the Traveler and Paimon. Just as the Shogun brings her weapon down, Thoma sweeps the Traveler into his arms, and you grab Paimon's leg, before escaping into the heavens in a flash of lightning.

The last thing Thoma hears is a clap of thunder before he crashes to the ground, coughing as the smell of burning fills his nostrils. The Traveler (who had somehow managed to gain consciousness) had tumbled out of his arms and onto the sand, which he realizes is the garden next to the Komore Teahouse.

Relief fills his system when he hears Ayaka's panicked shouts, along with Taroumaru's barking. He decides he isn't a big fan of your teleportation (though being able to disappear and reappear again somewhere in a bolt of lightning was rather cool, he supposes).

He leaves Paimon to fuss over the now-awake and slightly delirious Traveler, and turns to look for you. He finds you face down on the ground, your crumpled form lying meters away from where he had landed.

"Hey," he calls, running over to you. "Hey, we're here. You did it."

Thoma leans down to brush your hair away and press a kiss to your nape, but his heart drops.

A perfectly vertical cut runs down the back of your neck, oozing blood and occasional sparks of electricity. Your Vision is missing, along with the ribbon tied around your neck.

You aren't waking up.