#protective behaviour

“Good job, March,” you teased fondly. “You really nailed those shots.”

She beamed under the attention, leaning in for more.

What you didn’t notice — or rather, didn’t expect — was the faint shadow that fell across the room. Dan Heng was leaning against the doorway, book in hand, though his eyes were nowhere near the pages. His gaze lingered on your hand resting on March’s head far longer than it should have.

When March scampered off to fetch another stack of photos, Dan Heng approached silently, stopping in front of you.

“…You’re generous with your affection today,” he said evenly, though there was a subtle tightness in his voice.

You blinked. “Uh… I guess? March was just—”

Without warning, he sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest frown pulling at his lips.

“If you’re going to give out headpats,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that your breath caught, “I’d prefer to be the one receiving them.”

Your face warmed instantly. “Dan Heng—?”

He didn’t wait for you to recover. One of his hands lightly caught yours, guiding it up to rest on his head. The movement was subtle but purposeful, his eyes closing as if committing the moment to memory.

“You… mean a lot to me,” he said quietly. “More than a friend should. I don’t want to share this with anyone else.”

The steady beat of your heart drowned out the train’s rhythm. You couldn’t tell if you were more flustered by his closeness or the blunt confession — maybe both.

When you hesitated, he opened his eyes, expression still calm but tinged with something vulnerable. “…Please. Just me.”

You laughed as you reached up to ruffle Himeko’s hair. “There. Now you’re even more perfect.”

Himeko chuckled, raising a brow at you. “Careful, Caelus might get jealous.”

“Jea—?” you started, but before you could finish, the man in question stepped into the lounge with a strangely serious look.

His usual calm presence felt… different. He crossed the space in a few strides, stopping right beside you, his silver hair catching the warm light. Without a word, he bent slightly so his head was within reach, his eyes meeting yours.

“…I didn’t get one,” he said softly.

“One what?” you asked, heat already creeping up your neck.

“A headpat.” The simplicity of the answer nearly knocked the breath out of you. “If you’re giving them out, I want mine first. Always.”

Before you could reply, his gloved hand found yours, gently but firmly tugging it toward him. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the leather as he pressed your palm to his head, closing his eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You laughed nervously. “You’re really—”

“—Serious,” he finished, opening his eyes. The sincerity there was almost overwhelming. “I love you. I don’t want to just watch from the side while you give your affection to everyone else. Let me have it. All of it.”

The firmness in his tone was softened by the faint blush dusting his cheeks. You didn’t think Caelus could be clingy until now, but the way he stayed close — refusing to let go of your hand — told you he wasn’t about to back down.

It started innocently. You and Topaz were talking in the corner, and she’d made a joke so perfectly ridiculous that you reached out and patted her head with a grin. “You’re unbelievable.”

She laughed, clearly pleased, but the sharp click of shoes approaching cut through your amusement.

“Well, well,” Aventurine drawled, stepping into view with that ever-present smile. “Handouts today, are we?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Handouts?”

“Affection,” he said smoothly, his eyes glinting. “And here I thought I was your favorite investment.”

Before you could fire back, he was already at your side, an arm sliding around your shoulders like it belonged there. The faint scent of his cologne was dizzying, and the closeness made your pulse stutter.

“If you’re giving out headpats,” he continued, tilting his head so the light caught in his glasses, “I’d like my returns immediately. With interest.”

You laughed, flustered. “Aventurine, it’s not—”

“—It is,” he interrupted, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Because I love you, sweetheart. And I’m not in the mood to share. Not with her, not with anyone.”

His words were teasing on the surface, but the steel in his gaze made your breath hitch. He caught your wrist and guided your hand to his hair with almost theatrical flourish, leaning in just enough that his hat nearly brushed your forehead.

“There,” he murmured. “Now, we’re even… though I’ll be expecting regular deposits.”

His smile widened when you tried to look away, clearly enjoying every second of your fluster.

Thranduil finally accepted that he had a problem a few days after it happened. He woke earlier than necessary, stood motionless in front of the tall windows of his bedroom, hands clasped behind his back, his mind elsewhere. He reread reports without seeing them. He grew irritated over insignificant details. And above all — above all — he thought about Bard. He thought about the way Bard had lowered his eyes right after the kiss, about that brutal silence, that almost panicked flight. It wasn’t the kiss itself that troubled him. Well — perhaps a little. He knew what desire was, attraction, impulse. But he had never believed he would experience it from the mouth of another man. What obsessed him was the aftermath: Bard’s expression, that mix of need, shame, and fear.

Thranduil hated leaving things unresolved. He despised ambiguity. And yet, for several days now, he had been drowning in it. He could have waited, pretended nothing had happened, resumed his distant, polite, perfectly controlled role. But every time he thought about it, a dull irritation tightened in his chest. He had to do something. He didn’t know what — but he had to.

So that evening, Thranduil left his estate. Legolas was home again but barely spoke to him. He drove without really thinking, following a route he now knew all too well. The address of Bard had been an obsession for him, without even knowing why, really. Or more…. He wouldn’t acknowledge it. First time he got there was out of simple curiosity. And then, sometimes, then more and more often, he had driven there while leaving the school, before work, or after it, until he had the feeling the car would drive itself alone there.

When he parked his car in front of Bard’s building, he remained still for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. Ridiculous, he thought. He had no obligation to be there. He was not responsible for what a grown man had felt or done. And yet… he had come.

He climbed the stairs, his nose wrinkling at the smells of fish, grime, and filth. Finally, he reached Bard’s door and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if Bard had been standing right behind it, hesitating as well. They looked at each other without speaking. Bard looked tired. More than usual. An oversized sweater, messy hair, eyes slightly averted.

“…Good evening,” he finally said.

“Good evening.”

Silence. Then Bard stepped aside.

“Come in.”

The interior was simple, warm, though very poorly furnished and tiny. Thranduil had, fleetingly, the strange sensation that this place felt more like a home than his immense estate.

“Bain isn’t here,” Bard added, as if already apologizing. “Sleepover at a friend’s.”

Thranduil nodded.

“I didn’t come for him.”

Bard froze for a fraction of a second. They sat down on the couch, at a cautious distance. Too far to be comfortable. Too close to pretend.

“Are you all right?” Thranduil asked.

Bard opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again, shrugging.

“And you?” he asked in return.

Thranduil was less evasive.

“No,” he replied after a brief moment. “And that is precisely why I am here.”

Bard looked at him, surprised, then nodded softly.

“All right.”

Thranduil took a slow breath.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about what happened. About that kiss.” He paused. “Not that I regret it.”

Bard’s eyes snapped up.

“Oh.”

“But to understand it.”

Bard ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“I… I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t—”

“Bard.” Thranduil turned toward him. “I did not come here to receive apologies. I came because I do not like letting someone believe they crossed a line alone,” he continued more quietly, “when I was perfectly aware of what was happening.”

Bard swallowed.

“I thought you… that you would be angry with me.”

“I mostly wondered why I let you.”

A small, nervous laugh escaped Bard.

“And did you find the answer?”

Thranduil held his gaze for a long moment.

“Yes.”

Bard held his breath.

“Because I wanted it. And I liked your kiss.”

The words hung between them. Bard looked away, shaken.

“I… I… um… I’ll get something to drink…”

Before Thranduil could react, Bard had jumped up from the couch as if burned. He crossed the room in a few hurried steps and ended up in the cramped kitchen, breathless. He leaned against the sink, both hands gripping the edge, head lowered. His heart was pounding far too fast. Stupid reaction. Completely stupid. He inhaled deeply… then again. The air felt too warm, too thick. He ran a hand over his face, as if to ground himself, as if he could erase what he had just heard. He liked it. He liked your kiss.

“Fuck…” he muttered to himself.

He closed his eyes for a second, swallowed hard. It wasn’t panic — not entirely. It was a dangerous mix of pride, desire, and a dull fear of wanting something he had no right to want. He finally straightened up, opened a cupboard almost mechanically. The glasses were simple, mismatched. He took two. Then he opened the small refrigerator and stared for a moment at its meager contents: water, apple juice, a half-finished bottle of red wine he kept for nights when sleep became impossible. He hesitated. Then grabbed the bottle. His hands were still trembling slightly as he poured the wine, knowing he would need it to calm himself. When he returned to the living room, he handed a glass to Thranduil without quite daring to look at him.

“Sorry…” he said a little too quickly. “I don’t have much. It’s wine.”

He kept the other glass for himself and sat back down, this time a little farther away — as if trying to recreate a distance that no longer truly existed. He took a sip. The liquid burned slightly down his throat.

“I…” Bard stopped, shook his head, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I think I just needed… two seconds.”

He finally lifted his eyes toward Thranduil. Thranduil had barely dipped his lips into the red liquid before his expression shifted immediately.

“Thank you for telling me the truth. Even if it… unsettles me a bit.”

He lowered his gaze again to his glass, slowly turning it between his fingers.

“A lot, actually.”

Thranduil stared at his glass with an expression of intense disgust.

“Is something wrong?” Bard asked, already convinced he had ruined everything.

“You refrigerate red wine?”

Sacrilege.

“Uh…” Bard nodded quickly.

Thranduil set his nearly untouched glass aside.

“Well. Clearly, I have things to teach you. Now, come here.”

Bard stared at him, confused, as Thranduil erased the distance between them in a single movement, sliding closer on the couch in an almost surreal way. His knee brushed Bard’s without pulling away.

“You’ve kissed a man before, haven’t you? I could tell. You didn’t seem inexperienced… just… rusty.”

“I… um… yes…” Bard saw no point in lying.

“Then first lesson: one never puts red wine in a refrigerator. It’s heresy. Second lesson — it’s your turn to teach me something.”

Bard stared at him, utterly confused. Thranduil was so close he could smell his fruity breath, see the curve of his lips. Bard didn’t move, so Thranduil decided to set the tone himself. He closed his lips very gently, almost timidly, against Bard’s lower lip, giving him every chance to respond — or push him away. He did neither. Neither of them did.

“I…” Bard lowered his head, ashamed. “Not here. I lived here with my wife. I can’t.”

Thranduil stiffened. He hadn’t expected that.

“I understand,” he said, colder than he meant. He was deeply disappointed. He had been certain Bard was just as attracted to him. He stood, determined not to let the awkwardness linger. Bard caught his hand, stopping him.

“I want to. Just not here. At your place — would that be possible?”

“Legolas is home.”

“Oh…” Bard’s mind raced. “A hotel?” he suggested without really thinking.

Thranduil looked down at him from his full height, took a moment to weigh the pros and cons, then nodded, pulling out his phone. Bard listened as he called a hotel — he was clearly familiar, very familiar, with the staff, calling them by name. Bard heard him book a suite while pulling on his coat. Bard glanced at himself in the mirror, wondering if he shouldn’t cancel everything. There was no spontaneity, no surprise. It was strange, intimidating, and absolutely not romantic. Everything Bard disliked. He sighed, trying to focus on the positive, and straightened his posture as he felt Thranduil’s gaze on him. He had already hung up, and Bard hadn’t even noticed. Thranduil approached him with that unreadable look — a look Bard couldn’t decipher as either heated desire or barely restrained violence. His hand settled at Bard’s throat, squeezed gently, guiding his body to turn toward him.

“Teach me,” he murmured.

Bard felt as though his heart and guts might explode. He kissed him. All hesitation, all uncertainty on Thranduil’s part vanished: he demanded it, with his entire being. Bard plunged in like into an ocean of pleasure and relief. Thranduil’s tongue set the rhythm, his lips guided him, and Thranduil proved to be an excellent student — to Bard’s complete lack of surprise. Hadn’t he once heard, in the school corridors, that whatever other races did, Elves did better?

When their mouths finally parted, and Bard’s knees trembled so badly he felt himself blush up to his ears, all tenderness had vanished from Thranduil’s expression. He placed a hand on Bard’s lower back; his gaze, his body burned. Bard was going to get some.

“Let’s go.”

Bard let himself be led to the car, remaining silent during the drive to the hotel. Thranduil didn’t speak either, but his fingers clenched repeatedly around the steering wheel, his jaw tightening often. He parked the car in front of the hotel, far from Bard’s shabby apartment. Bard didn’t understand at first, then realized a valet would take care of it. It was quite a hotel — he couldn’t deny that.

He followed Thranduil into the lobby, watched him joke with the staff as they handed him the key card, and then followed him to the elevator. When the doors opened, and Thranduil stepped inside as if it were his own home, looking at Bard with an intensity that completely caught him off guard, Bard took a deep breath and followed, closing the door behind him.

It was a dark, stormy night in Dunwall. The city was in ruins, which seemed to be the status quo. You were scavenging a ruined building, close to the royal district. You could hear music and party coming from inside. You envied them, a lot. As a child you always imagined being in the royal district, living the life of a noble person. Emily was a kind and wise ruler then, after Corvo had silently and mercifully changed the course of history, Dunwall grew brighter every day.

Then a usurper almost killed Emily, and something within Corvo broke. He ruthlessly killed everyone, civilian or enemy alike, on his way back to the throne. He didn’t even free Emily, saying that, at least when she was in stone, he could always protect her. Almost losing everything for a second time really changes a person, you guessed. He became the new emperor of Dunwall and a dark age settled upon the land. The city was falling down around him, with brute force and dark power replacing the subtle and wise ways of Emily.

He was renowned for retaking the throne for Emily after her mother’s death with not a drop of blood spilled on either side. In retaking the throne a second time, it appeared as if he was trying to make up for lost time, the blood of civilians, guards, and nobles, all spilt through the land. It wasn’t even that bad in Dunwall, Karnaca had been thrown into disarray and was essentially a ghost town.

You realised it was probably late, and decided to just walk home, leaving the shell of the house to wither away another day. The storm raged as you walked home, staring up at the walls to the throne room. You failed to notice the man staring down at you.

---

The next morning, you awoke to your slum-like apartment. With Corvo in charge, the nobles were all thrown out, so basically everyone was living in cold, dreary, apartments. The sense of karma from seeing nobles starve to death did little to help your disposition though. You moved around the apartment, eating a meagre breakfast, before closing the window that blew open during the storm while you were sleeping. Emerging onto the damp street, you walked to the market stalls, hoping to sell or barter the stolen goods you collected the previous night.

The marketplace was busy, even the now passed storm hadn’t dissuaded many people from coming. Then someone called out to you. A man wearing an almost skull like mechanical mask walked up to you. It seemed familiar but you couldn’t place a finger on it.

“You have a gold pendant? Stole it from that blue apartment near the royal district, 3rd floor, bedroom, red jewel in the centre? 10pm yesterday?” he said, bluntly

“So what if I do?” you responded, cautious of anyone who knew your exact movements. He was correct of course, but you didn’t need him knowing that.

“200 gold”

You gasped, 200 gold was more than you expected, you could eat well for weeks with that much. Safety be damned, you needed that money!

“Deal, thank you so much! You have no idea what this means to me”

“Oh, I think I do, my little jewel” he said handing you the money, his hand lingering in yours before he stepped back into the madness of the street, gone from your sight.

With the rather rich creep gone, you bought a few rations from the stalls then walked home. Fingers on the money in your pocket constantly, determined to not lose it.

---

The window was open again. That was the first thing you noticed as you walked in. You put the money in your safe, then walked over, cautious to inspect it. The lock was forced open, that much was clear, there were signs of someone trying to get in.

You froze, the window was open, if someone was trying to get in, then they HAD gotten-

Suddenly, two hands grabbed you from behind, and as if aided by magic, you passed out almost instantly.

---

You awoke to chains around your ankles and wrists. A noble room, with a roaring fire across from the room. It seemed to have a double bed, with a large window behind it. It was night, and there were large shadows being cast by the fire. Crawling as far as you could to the window, you looked outside. There was a new storm raging outside, so visibility was low. You were high up however, very high up.

“Hello! Is anyone there? Help!” you shouted

No one replied. You walked as far as your chains allowed. Which wasn’t very far, there wasn’t anything within your reach. Above the fire was a very large painting of Corvo Attano. Honestly, you hated him at this rate. If he didn’t go on that bloody rampage in Karnaca, things could’ve been so much better for Dunwall. If Emily was queen again things would be so much better

“Fucking bastard…” you say to the painting.

“Now that’s not a nice way to speak to your kind host, is it?”

Your blood ran cold. That reply could only mean one thing, you weren’t an idiot. You turned to the shadowy corner where Corvo Attano stood, seemingly invisible unless you knew he was there, like you unfortunately did.

He stepped out of the corner and walked over to you.

“What do you want with me?!”

“Oh a lot of things, all of them good. Right now just one thing, your hand in marriage” he said, like it wasn’t the weirdest request imaginable

“What?! No? Of course not! Are you an idiot?” you screamed in response, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

“Oh, it wasn’t really a question, more a statement. You see, since I am the emperor, the abbey will basically do whatever I like, including allowing the forced marriage of two people…” he trailed off.

“If it makes you feel better, my sweet jewel, you’ll have the best life. The nicest things in the empire, every whim catered to, people will have to obey you”, he continued sweetly, “otherwise they’d have to answer to me, and not many people stand up to me and live” he said with a sudden change in tone, the threat in the air apparent as all hell.

“Why me?”

“Well, your fine looks are part of your charm, of course. But your kindness is the main reason. When I was on the run, helping Emily to retake the throne, I got trapped by those guards near the estate district. You helped me, remember? You looked at me hiding, about to be found by the guards, then ran up and told them you saw a weeper attacking one of their hounds. They ran off, determined to save the bloodthirsty hound. You saved me, and at the time, I was merely grateful, it was just another reason of why I should save and protect this accursed city.”

“You see, the empress was always so kind, it was the reason I fell in love with her. And one of the many reasons I tried to encourage the trait in Emily. I was so naïve then, thinking kindness and compassion could win out. Then Delilah Copperspoon happened, and I had to face reality”. He paused and looked away.

“Everyone I love would be ripped away from me. It was just a fact. My kindness only let others kill those I loved. My desire for a less chaotic world forced me away from the empress for the six months that led to her being killed. And then Emily…”

He starts choking up a bit, and you’re taken aback. The evil emperor Corvo has a heart…well a twisted one admittedly. You ARE currently being kidnapped, and he’s done horrible things to the empire. It’s not really an excuse.

“Emily was still so…. I had to leave her in the stone, it was the only way I could protect her, by becoming as ruthless as I needed to”

You prod a bit. “Couldn’t you free her from the stone, it's not like she’s gone forever. Things can still go back to normal, right?”

His fist slams into the wall as he stares at you with fire in his eyes.

“NO! Things can never go back to normal! The world is cruel and unkind, and it will only keep taking from those who find themselves caught in its sights! This is the only way I can protect her!”

You back yourself into a corner, huddling and hoping he doesn’t hurt you.

“But when I saw you the other day, I was reminded of your act of kindness. I wanted to help you, to protect you. I broke into your house that night, while you slept to figure out how to best help you. I only meant to help you, that was all it was at first. As I stared at you while you slept, well, I couldn’t help but wonder if you could eventually warm up to me…”

“But then after I gave you that money, at the markets? That was me by the way. A man saw, and he tried to follow you with a knife… I stopped him, of course, his body now litters the sidewalk. But it showed me that you wouldn’t be safe out there, I couldn’t just help you by giving you gold and gifts. I HAD to protect you, to save you from the storm the world had become. And from there I think you can guess what happened.”

You stare at him, shocked at the events unfolding in front of you. You try to reason with him

“Please, I’ll give the money back, just let me go! I don’t want this!”

“Oh my sweet jewel, I don’t care what you think, really. I know how the world is, and I know I must protect you above everything else. When it comes down to it, my desire to protect you overrides your feelings about the matter. It is safe in here, where I can protect you. It is not safe out there, where I cannot protect you. It’s not that complicated of an idea.”

“But, surely the empress wouldn’t want you to kidnap-”

He suddenly appears by your side, a knife against your throat.

“If you value your life, you will never speak of her again. She was- is important to me, she did so much for me and the empire only for the empire to double-cross her. I made the mistake of being forgiving once, and after Emily, I vowed to never make that same mistake again. I have powers far beyond your comprehension, jewel, it would be unwise to cross me. I adore you, but that will only get you so far”

You try not to move, his sudden teleporting across the room was shocking. It was like he froze time.

“Okay, I won’t mention…her again, okay? Just, get that knife away from my neck, please?”

Not immediately.

His one visible eye swept over your towering new form, the corners of his lips twitching as though caught between a frown and the smirk he refused to let you see.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he finally said. “Absolutely absurd.”

Your head dipped slightly, an involuntary movement in this unfamiliar body.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he added sharply, stepping closer. “I’m not… sentimental about dromas.”

His tone was defensive—too quick. His hand hovered for a moment before brushing against your scaled neck, fingertips tracing a ridge like he was cataloging data.

“You’ve retained stability of gait,” he murmured, half to himself. “Stronger musculature, perfect balance. Yes, yes, yes… this is—” He stopped short, snapping his gaze back to yours. “…It’s tolerable. That’s all.”

When you nudged him gently, he stumbled a half-step, scowling. “Careful. You’ll crush me, and then who will be left to keep you from eating rocks? You’re still you, you know—still hopeless in your self-preservation.”

But when he turned to walk away, you caught the faintest upward curve at the corner of his mouth. His voice carried back over his shoulder:

“Come on, then. If you’re going to be my research subject, you might as well make yourself useful. I hear dromas can outrun temple guards… though I doubt you can.”

You landed softly on the worn steps of Castorice’s chamber, the muted flutter of your wings/thumping of your tail against the floor catching her attention. She froze in the doorway, lavender hair shifting with the wind, eyes widening for only an instant before a soft understanding settled over her features.

“…Oh.” Her voice was quiet, reverent. “It’s you.”

You padded toward her, but she stepped back, her gloved hand curling at her side. “I can’t,” she whispered. “You know I can’t. My touch…”

The distance between you felt heavier than stone. You tilted your head, making a small sound—part question, part reassurance.

“I wish I could,” she said, a faint tremor in her voice. “To hold you like this… without fear. But if I do, it might be the last time.”

Instead, she knelt, close enough for you to see the faint cracks in her composure. “Your colors are different, your shape changed… yet I can still read you. The way you shift your weight when you’re impatient. The way you tilt forward when you’re curious.”

Her gaze softened, like the snow-laden dawns of her homeland. “I’ll make you something—something you can carry. A piece of me, since I cannot carry you.”

And so she did—sewing charms and soft ribbons, never touching you, but always near. In the evenings, she would sit by the window, speaking poems into the air. You stayed by her side, and though she never once laid a hand on you, you had never felt more held.

The moment Phainon spotted you in the market square, he froze mid-step, disbelief flickering across his face before recognition broke through like sunlight.

“…No way.” He knelt quickly, arms out as if expecting you to leap into them. You did—and his laughter was immediate, warm, and a little choked.

“You’re… smaller,” he said, holding you carefully, “but still heavier than you look. Guess that’s one thing that didn’t change.”

Carrying you away from the bustling streets, he talked like nothing had happened—about the patrol route he’d just finished, about the stubborn blacksmith who still owed him repairs. But when the two of you reached a quiet overlook, his voice softened.

“I’ve lost too many people,” he admitted, stroking the air just beside your head before letting his fingers rest on your fur. “I don’t care what shape you take, I’m not letting you be one of them.”

You chirped—a small, bright sound—and he smiled in return. “See? That’s still you. And if you’ve got wings (or tail) now… well, I guess that means I’m gonna have to learn to keep up in the air (or land), too.”

He set you on the low stone wall beside him, eyes fixed on the horizon. “We’ve still got a dawn to see. You lead, I’ll follow. Always.”

When you nudged his arm, he chuckled and tapped your forehead gently. “And don’t think this gets you out of training. Chimera or not, you’re still my partner.”

He sprawled around you like a dragon with its hoarded treasure, your warmth radiating into his chest as he draped a fur-lined coat over both of you. One leg tangled with yours, arm slung protectively across your torso, chin resting on your crown. He inhaled your scent like a drug, eyes fluttering shut as the heat melted away every sharp edge of his calculated mind.

“You’re absolutely swindling me,” he murmured with a sly smile, breath hot against your ear. “No one told me cuddling you would feel like winning the universe’s best space-heater in a poker game.”

You squirmed slightly beneath the weight of his limbs. “You’re hogging all the blankets.”

He chuckled, voice like velvet. “Darling, you are the blanket.”

Anaxa didn’t do well with comfort. Or softness. Or letting anyone close.

But you were different.

Now, under threadbare celestial sheets in a cold, crumbling observatory tucked into the edge of forgotten lore, Anaxa curled around your tiny frame with terrifying tenderness. His long coat draped over you like an eclipse. His eye narrowed slightly as he pressed his forehead to your back, savoring your warmth like it was truth itself.

“Didn’t think flesh could outmatch fire,” he whispered. “Yet here you are. A furnace in human form. What alchemy are you hiding?”

You mumbled sleepily, “It’s not magic. Just me.”

He hummed, arms tightening. “Then I will guard this ‘just you’ like scripture… and maybe steal your heat while I’m at it.”

He always spoke of you like a philosopher holding a miracle too fragile to name—but his grasp was firm. Never letting go.

Snow blanketed the hills outside, turning the world into a hush of white. But inside the knight’s quarters, it was all gold and crimson, warmth and breath—and you, nestled against Argenti’s chest, small as a songbird.

He had shed his breastplate to hold you better, his body curled almost reverently around yours, strong arms draped protectively. His crimson drape fell like a banner around your form, cocooning you in silk and devotion.

“Your warmth is divine,” he whispered into your hair, voice full of awe. “Like a star… no, like beauty itself made flesh.”

You giggled into his chest. “You’re being dramatic.”

Argenti smiled, eyes soft. “Beauty is always dramatic, my dear.”

He tilted your chin to kiss your forehead, fingers gloved and gentle. He’d fought beasts and tyrants without flinching—but when it came to you, his tiny sun, he crumbled like frost under fire.

Ratio prided himself on logic. He calculated odds, dismissed irrationality, and rarely indulged in romantic trivialities.

But today, huddled in bed with you—his fiery little heater—he allowed himself a rare luxury: softness.

His longer frame curved tightly around yours, legs looping around your smaller ones, arms forming a cage that was more sanctuary than trap. Your heat sank into him like a welcomed virus—warm, inevitable, and entirely beyond hypothesis.

“I’ve concluded,” he said into your shoulder, eyes half-lidded, “that you defy thermodynamics. You're simply… too warm for your size.”

You yawned, sleepy and cozy. “Maybe I just love you that much.”

He paused, then murmured: “...Noted. Reproducible results suggest I require daily exposure to test this further.”

He pulled you closer, hiding the rare flush in his cheeks against your back.

He sets the cup down gently.

"Ah… I see. You've taken the phrase 'small presence' rather literally today."

You squawk at him, trying to stand up with your arms flailing—only to slip on a porcelain groove and land on your back. He chuckles, but it's soft, careful not to startle you.

"Forgive me. That was unkind of me," Ayato says, extending his gloved hand with the grace of a practiced dancer. His fingers hover near you, palm open, waiting for your consent.

The moment you're nestled in his hand, he lifts you with a reverence most reserve for relics or flowers, eyes glittering with fascination.

"I’ll have Thoma check the estate for any mysterious substances or artifacts. Though… this might be your doing, hmm? Some kind of experiment gone adorably wrong?"

You pout, crossing your arms.

Ayato smiles. "Don't worry, little one. Until you're restored, you’ll be my most important guest. I’ll ensure you have all the luxury of a full-sized diplomat—miniature meals included."

And he does. From custom-made cushions to a teacup hot spring, Ayato turns your misfortune into a carefully crafted sanctuary. But sometimes, you catch him watching you with an unreadable look—half playful, half wistful—as if wondering how something so small could matter so much.

Sunday finds you when he’s alone in the Astral Express observatory, the golden glow of his halo faint as he reads an old book of dream symbols. A flicker of movement near his scarf draws his attention—and then his breath stills.

You're curled against the fabric, smaller than his palm.

For a full minute, he says nothing.

Only after confirming you're alive—your tiny chest rising and falling—does he speak. “A dream, then… no. You’re real. And small. How… curious.”

He cups you carefully in both gloved hands, his wings flicking in concern.

“This… wasn’t your intention, was it?” His voice is soft, but you hear the turbulence in it. Worry, guilt, perhaps even self-blame. “Another punishment for chasing paradise too eagerly? Or have I brought this upon you… again?”

You squeak, shaking your head—trying to assure him it’s not his fault. He watches you for a long time, eyes glinting with sorrow and awe.

“You're even more fragile like this,” Sunday murmurs, brushing a single silver-blue strand from his brow. “And yet… you trust me. Still.”

He builds you a safe nest of fabric and memory foam, using one of his scarves as a canopy. At night, you sometimes wake to find him watching you, whispering fragments of old lullabies in Halovian tongue, as though protecting you from nightmares.

Yet in moments of quiet, he also speaks to you—not as protector, but as man.

“You remind me of what’s worth saving,” he admits once, when he thinks you’re asleep. “Even in a world that’s too large. Too cruel.”

And you know, then, you’re not just a burden. You’re a tether—to hope, to healing, to the parts of Sunday that still dare to believe in dreams.

When Kaeya opens his drawer expecting reports and finds you—tiny, flustered, and clearly panicking—he almost drops the stack of papers.

“Oh. Well. I didn't expect you to be this small... but you're still just as cute.”

You're too stunned to react, and he’s already gently scooping you up with one hand, holding you up to eye level with a lazy grin.

“Did Albedo do this to you? A. experiment gone wrong? Or perhaps you're just trying to get out of sparring duty,” he teases, thumb brushing lightly across your back.

You kick at him—not that it does anything. “Kaeya!”

He chuckles, warm and amused. “Okay, okay. Sorry, tiny terror.”

But you can see it—just a flicker—in his eye. That concern buried beneath the charm.

“I’ll get you help. But until then…” He places you inside his coat pocket, the warm fur lining becoming your snug haven. “You’ll be safe with me. Promise.”

And so you spend your days nestled against Kaeya’s chest, enduring endless teasing and affectionate pokes. He offers you crumbs of cake like feasts, lets you sleep in his scarf, and even tries (badly) to sing you lullabies.

But sometimes, when he thinks you're dozing, he whispers things he’d never say otherwise.

“I know I joke a lot… but seeing you like this?” His voice lowers, suddenly serious. “Makes me realize just how much I want to protect you. No matter the size.”

You stir, and he smooths a finger gently over your head.

“Don’t worry, snowflake. We’ll fix this. But, uh… don’t grow back until I finish building your miniature wine glass. I think you’ll love it.”

A familiar, honeyed voice slid into your ear.

“Darling, you’re walking like you’ve just lost the house in a bad hand.”

You turn to see Aventurine, all peacock-feather poise and infuriating ease. Even in the swelter, not a single strand of his sandy-blond hair seemed out of place. His rose-tinted glasses glinted as he looked you over, gaze sharp enough to cut through your daze.

“I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice feels scratchy in your throat.

“Mmh. And I’m a philanthropist who’s never conned a soul,” he drawled. His magenta and cyan eyes narrow. “You’re flushed, swaying, and your lips are practically cracking. Tell me, what part of that says ‘fine’?

You try to wave him off, but he’s already stepping closer, his coat’s fur trim brushing your arm. “Let me guess… no hat, no shade, no water?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a thread of steel underneath.

“I forgot,” you mutter.

“Forgot,” he repeats, lips curling. “You’ve forgotten three times this week alone. At this point, I’m beginning to think you enjoy collapsing dramatically in public.”

Before you can protest, he presses a chilled metal flask into your hand. You blink at it. “Where did you—”

“Trade secret,” he cuts in with a wink. “Drink. And not just a dainty sip. All of it.”

You take a cautious mouthful, the cool water reviving you instantly. He watches you closely, leaning in just enough that his voice drops low. “You’re no good to me if you pass out halfway through a stroll. Bad odds.”

Your brows furrow. “Bad odds?”

“Exactly. If you’re betting your health against the sun without so much as a decent ante, the house always wins.” He tilts his head. “And I’m the house, sweetheart. I intend to win — which means you don’t get to lose.”

The firmness in his tone catches you off guard. You’ve seen Aventurine banter, bluff, manipulate — but this is different. This is him staking a claim, a line he won’t let you cross.

You drain the flask, and he takes it back, satisfied. Without asking, he slides his own wide-brimmed hat off his head and settles it on yours. “Looks better on you,” he says smoothly, though you catch the faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Won’t you need it?” you ask.

He shrugs, already steering you toward the shade of a nearby colonnade. “I’ll manage. Unlike you, I can remember the basics of survival in warm weather.”

You roll your eyes, but the shadow feels like a blessing. Aventurine’s hand stays light on your back, guiding without pushing. “Next time,” he says, “you’ll wear the hat, you’ll carry water, and you’ll stay in the shade.”

“Or what?” you challenge.

“Or,” he says with a slow grin, “I’ll have to escort you personally everywhere you go. And trust me, darling — that’s a gamble you won’t win.”

The marketplace was stifling — not because of its crowd, but because the midday heat radiated off every surface. You’d been browsing aimlessly, half-aware of the dizziness creeping in, when a voice cut through the haze.

“You’re dehydrated,” Ratio said flatly, appearing beside you like a verdict.

You startle. “What—?”

“Your skin tone is warmer than usual, your gait is uneven, and your pupils are sluggish. The diagnosis isn’t difficult.” His eyes hold you still as if daring you to deny it.

“I’m fine,” you say weakly.

His gaze sharpens. “You’re not. And before you attempt some feeble argument — yes, I noticed you’ve been out here for hours without water, shade, or any reasonable head covering. Again.”

You wince under the precision of his words. Ratio doesn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his logic is more than enough.

“Why does it matter?” you mumble.

“It matters,” he says, “because watching someone disregard such basic preventative measures offends me on two levels — intellectual and personal.” He pulls a small, capped bottle from a satchel slung over his shoulder and places it firmly into your palm.

“I can get my own water—”

“You had three hours to do so. You didn’t.” His tone is clipped, efficient. “Drink. Slowly. Otherwise you’ll shock your system.”

You obey, sipping while his gaze lingers on you — not impatient, but assessing. “You have a pattern,” he continues. “You underestimate the consequences of heat. You forget hydration. And when the predictable symptoms manifest, you brush them aside.”

You stare down at the bottle. “…It’s not like I do it on purpose.”

“I never said you did. But willful neglect and habitual oversight lead to the same result.” His bluntness should sting, but there’s an undercurrent there — a genuine frustration born of concern.

Once you finish the water, Ratio takes the empty bottle and tucks it away. “If you can’t remember, I’ll remember for you,” he says simply. “From now on, if you leave without adequate hydration or sun protection, I’ll be there.”

You blink. “…Like a chaperone?”

“A preventative measure,” he corrects. “I’d rather expend my time ensuring your well-being than waste it reviving you after a collapse.”

Despite the matter-of-fact delivery, you catch the faintest curve of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile, but it softens the edges of his precision. “Besides,” he adds, “the logic is sound — I am the more heat-tolerant of us, and you are… impulsive.”

You snort. “That’s your polite way of saying I’m reckless, isn’t it?”

“I don’t believe in politeness when accuracy will do.” He starts walking toward a shaded side street. “Come. We’ll discuss better strategies for future excursions. And you will listen, because unlike your current approach, mine will not end with you unconscious in a public square.”

The summer breeze was nowhere to be found. Instead, Mondstadt’s plaza baked under a glaring sun, the cobblestones shimmering. You sat on the fountain’s edge, fanning yourself half-heartedly, head light and thoughts sluggish.

A shadow fell across you. “Well, well… the sun claims another victim,” a lilting voice teased.

You look up to see Venti, smiling down at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief — and something softer. “What are you doing out here, windblume? You look ready to melt into the stones.”

“I was… walking,” you say, though the word feels like an overstatement.

“In this heat? With no hat? No water?” He tuts, perching beside you. “Tsk tsk, you’re making it far too easy for the sun to win.”

“It’s not that bad—”

He leans in close, his braids brushing your arm. “You’re flushed, swaying, and your lips are dry. That’s bad enough to make even a carefree bard worry.” His tone is still playful, but the concern is real.

From somewhere under his cape, he produces a skin of cool water and presses it into your hands. “Drink, my dear. Before you faint and I have to compose a dramatic rescue ballad — though I admit, that could be fun.”

You take a long drink, the coolness a relief. Venti watches, humming a cheerful tune under his breath. When you finish, he plucks his hat from his head and sets it on yours. It droops a little over your eyes.

“There,” he says brightly. “Now you’re dressed for survival! And fashion. Two birds, one stone.”

You smile faintly. “Won’t you get too hot without it?”

He shakes his head, the wind catching the ends of his hair. “The wind and I are old friends — it looks after me. You, however, seem to forget to look after yourself.”

“I don’t mean to,” you murmur.

“I know.” He leans back on his hands, gazing up at the sky. “That’s why you have friends like me. I’ll be the breeze at your back, nudging you toward the shade, the water, the little things that keep you standing.”

There’s a softness in his voice now, a note beneath the melody. You glance at him, catching the faraway look in his eyes — the kind that comes when he remembers things older than the city itself.

He catches your gaze and grins again, the moment folding back into lightness. “So, deal? I keep you from boiling under the sun, and you promise not to give me inspiration for a tragic heatstroke ballad?”

You laugh, nodding. “Deal.”

“Good!” He hops up and offers his hand. “Come on, windblume. Let’s find some shade — I know a spot with the best breeze in all Mondstadt.”

When you take his hand, his grip is warm but steady, and the moment you step into the cool shadow of the cathedral’s archway, you feel your head clear. Venti hums again, as if already weaving this into a song — not of tragedy, but of gentle rescue.