#thoma

ALBEDO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AYATO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tensed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you didn’t correct him.”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

CHILDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Getting better," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You just told them we're together."

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

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

KAEYA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not scowling."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Kaeya.

LOHEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And it works," he interjected.

"And you get lucky," you corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THOMA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How can you tell?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him, waiting.

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

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

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

VENTI

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

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

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

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

"Yes," you lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thanks so much for reading!!

✦ Kaeya

He flirts with everyone, but the way he remembers the small things about you—your favorite fruit, that one story you told in passing—is how he truly shows affection.

Always has a spare coat or handkerchief ready. Not that he’ll admit he brought it for you. “You just looked cold, sunshine.”

He flirts with the whole damn tavern, but the second you’re alone in the alley out back, he proves just how little anyone else matters. You're barely able to catch your breath from the walk there before he’s got you pressed up against the cold wall, dress rucked up, panties shoved aside, and his cock buried deep. He holds your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your waist, his breath hot against your ear as he fucks you hard and fast from behind. The bar's music still thumps through the walls, but all you can hear is the wet slap of skin and your own breathy moans as he drives into you like he’s been waiting all night. You wanted his attention? Now you’ve got it—and he’s going to make sure you don’t forget who you belong to.

If someone dares upset you, they mysteriously have a very bad day soon after. He never confirms it, but his smug smile says enough.

He buys two drinks from Good Hunter—your order and his—without asking. Just slides it toward you while pretending it’s no big deal.

He walks on the outer side of the road, always between you and any danger. Never says why. Never will.

✦ Zhongli

He speaks poetically, but the love is in his constancy. He shows it in the way he listens to you—truly listens. No interruptions, no drifting attention.

Keeps you out of the rain with his umbrella—so subtly that you don’t notice until you’re dry and he’s half-soaked.

He’s slow, deliberate, reverent—your body worshipped like something ancient and sacred beneath him. In the soft golden light of your shared bedroom, he moves with purpose, hips rolling deep into you, slow enough to make you whine for more. He kisses every inch of your skin like a vow, hands firm on your thighs as he splits you open with such aching care. And when he finally presses a kiss just below your navel—right over your womb—you feel it in your soul. It’s not just sex with him, it’s devotion. He’s filling you with more than just his cock—he’s pouring every ounce of love, want, and need into you until you’re trembling beneath him, completely and utterly his.

He always remembers what flowers you like and places them in vases around your shared space without saying a word.

Brings you warm tea just when you're thinking about it. Every single time.

If you're anxious, he’ll place a grounding hand on your back or shoulder—no words, just silent strength.

✦ Childe (Tartaglia)

He’s loud and dramatic, but his true love comes through in his protectiveness. He’ll keep a casual arm around your waist when walking in public—not just for affection, but to keep you close.

Teaches you how to fight—not to make you a soldier, but because he wants you to be safe when he’s not there.

He’s loud, cocky, and loves to show off—but when he’s got you on your back with your legs over his shoulders, he gets real serious, real fast. After a long day of spoiling you and hauling your bags like the overprotective bastard he is, he ends it by fucking you like it’s a war he's winning. He slams into you with wild precision, rough enough to make the headboard crack against the wall, grinning every time you moan his name like a prayer. When you’re shaking and crying out, nails digging into his back, he leans down, sweat dripping off his jaw, and growls about how tight you are—how no one else will ever get you like this. Not when you're this full, this ruined, this his.

Whenever he travels, he brings back something small for you. A trinket, a snack, a funny story. “Saw this and thought of you. Weird, huh?”

You never carry heavy bags when he’s around. He snatches them from your hand with a scoff, “What kind of guy would I be if I let you do all the work?”

Late at night, when he thinks you’re asleep, he strokes your hair and murmurs how much you mean to him.

✦ Baizhu

He checks on your health constantly, but in soft, non-intrusive ways—subtle glances at your hands for signs of stress, casual questions about your sleep patterns.

Slips herbal sweets or calming tea into your bag without telling you. Just in case.

He handles you like a fragile prescription—careful, methodical, but with a knowing touch that always lands exactly where you need it. You come to him aching, worn down, and he insists on giving you a "full-body remedy." He spreads your legs on his clinic table like he’s preparing for an exam, fingers slow and deep inside you, stroking places that make your back arch. He talks you through every pulse and tremble, voice low and clinical, even as you're gasping for more. And when his cock finally slides in, it’s a slow, thorough treatment—his hips grinding deep as he murmurs about how good you're taking it, how your body’s responding perfectly. It’s filthy and tender all at once—Baizhu doesn’t just fuck you, he treats you, and you leave that table ruined in all the right ways.

Always has a warm cloth ready if your hands are cold. Holds them gently like he’s diagnosing the soul.

If you mention a minor ache or issue, the next day there’s a custom remedy made “for a patient” that just happens to be perfect for you.

Doesn’t always say “I love you,” but he adjusts his schedule to make time for you—something he does for no one else.

✦ Ayato

A master of keeping feelings hidden, so his love shows in how he makes space for you in his world—in his schedule, in his home, in his heart.

Silently ensures your favorite dessert is served at every gathering he hosts. Even if you say you don’t want anything, it’s there.

He’s polished, composed, always one step ahead—but when the doors are locked and your knees are on the edge of his expensive desk, he fucks you like you’re the only thing that ever made him lose control. He doesn't rush—no, Ayato devours you with finesse, hips grinding in deep, slow circles that leave you trembling. Your cries echo off lacquered walls, but he doesn’t care. He slides a hand into your hair, tilts your head back, and keeps going until your legs shake and you’re clenching around him like you’ll break. He’ll go right back to attending meetings with his usual calm after, but the bruises on your hips and the mess on his pristine shirt say otherwise—because you are his favorite secret to indulge in.

He’s always busy, yet if you text him late at night, he replies instantly—even if it’s just an emoji or a single-word response, it means you come first.

You’ll never see him panic, but when you’re upset, he’ll appear by your side with your favorite book, a cup of tea, and a quiet smile.

He doesn’t talk about you publicly, but his subordinates know: if it involves you, it matters.

✦ Thoma

The king of quiet caretaking. You’ll never have to do chores around him—he’ll cook, clean, and hum while doing it all, smiling softly when you offer to help.

If you’re having a bad day, he doesn’t ask what’s wrong—he just makes your comfort food, lights a candle, and sits beside you with patience.

He’s the kindest man you know, always cleaning up after you, doting like it’s second nature—but when he gets you alone, he’s dangerously sweet. He has you bent over the kitchen counter he just wiped clean, fucking you from behind with a low groan in your ear, your apron still half-on and your moans muffled by your own forearm. He grips your waist like he’s holding you together, thrusts steady and deep, muttering soft praises about how good you feel, how perfect you are for him. And when you start to fall apart, he wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you upright like the good boy he is—always taking care of you, even when he’s fucking the life out of you.

Keeps a list of all your likes and dislikes in his head and plans around them. The weather’s cold? He already packed your scarf.

Always brings back something small from his errands—flowers, snacks, a shiny rock he thought you’d find cool.

He says “take care” like he means “please don’t get hurt, I’m begging you.”

✦ Itto

He’s loud, chaotic, and messy—but his love is in his loyalty and pride in you. You’re his favorite topic. If someone asks about his gang, he ends up bragging about you instead.

Will fight anyone who so much as jokes about you in a weird tone. Immediately. Doesn’t care who it is.

He’s all bark and biceps until he’s got you pinned under him, rutting into you like he’s got something to prove—and he does. You’re his, and he’s gonna fuck you like he wants the whole neighborhood to know. The bed creaks, the headboard bangs, and you’re gripping the sheets like your life depends on it while he keeps pounding into you with wild, relentless thrusts. He moans loud, praises you louder, and when you start crying from the stretch and the pressure, he just grins, wipes your tears with his thumb, and keeps going. “Look at you, takin’ all of me like a champ,” he’d say if he wasn’t too busy making you scream his name into the damn mattress.

Shares his food with you, even if it’s his last dango milk. That’s a big deal.

Tries (and fails) to do things like write you poems or make handmade gifts. They’re usually bad—but endearing in the way he gets so excited to show you.

He’s the kind of guy to carry you on his shoulders just because. To him, it’s not about showing off—it’s about holding you up where you belong: “at the top of the world, babe.”

✦ Alhaitham

He’s not showy about his feelings, but his love is in his consistency and attention to detail. He’ll remember exactly how you like your tea, your preferred seat in a library, the book you were curious about three weeks ago.

If you're walking beside him and the sun is too harsh, he’ll casually tilt his book to shade you instead.

He’s all quiet control and precision until you catch him alone in his study, the world muted except for the slick slide of his fingers undressing you. No grand gestures—just slow, calculated exploration of every inch, tongue tracing lines like he’s memorizing your body’s secrets. When he finally sinks into you, it’s measured but deep, hips pushing forward with deliberate pressure that makes you gasp, then shiver. His dark eyes lock with yours, calm and intense, as he leans close to press a whispered curse against your collarbone, dragging you deeper into the kind of silence where only breath and moans exist. You’re not just his partner—you’re his obsession, and he’ll make sure you feel every damn second of it.

Doesn't say "I miss you." Instead, he leaves sticky notes with neutral reminders on them that end with: You’d better come back safe.

He listens—even when it looks like he’s ignoring you. Later, he’ll reference something small you said during a rant. "You were worried about this, weren’t you? I took care of it."

He offers his headphones to you. That’s his version of an intimate gesture. Quiet, shared peace. Just vibes and closeness.

✦ Kaveh

He shows love by romanticizing every little thing you do. You pick a flower? He compares you to a Renaissance painting. You trip? He calls it a "graceful stumble of a poetic soul."

He decorates your shared space with warm lights and cozy throw pillows, always claiming it’s for ambience, but it’s really for you.

He’s all softness and warmth until the moment he pins you gently to the couch with a sigh, lips trailing hot kisses down your neck as his hands roam possessively over your curves. His voice drops low, full of poetry and promise, murmuring filthy words that make your skin crawl and your pulse race. When he slides inside you, it’s slow and tender but with an edge of desperation, fingers threading through your hair as he presses you closer, whispering about how you’re his perfect masterpiece—flaws and all. You’re tangled in his arms, drowning in the sweet ache of his touch, every kiss a brushstroke painting you as his ultimate muse, craving and claiming you in every lingering thrust.

He always walks you home, no matter how tired or late it is. And he sings—just softly enough that you almost miss it.

Gives you handmade gifts, even if he’s broke. A framed drawing, a handcrafted pendant, a poem he accidentally left on your pillow.

If you’re sad, he tries to cheer you up by distracting you with a passionate monologue about something ridiculous. Works every time.

✦ Neuvillette

Reserved but deeply observant, he notices when your mood shifts by the slightest margin. He doesn’t press—you just suddenly find time clearing on his calendar so he can spend it with you.

Carries a handkerchief for you at all times. He’ll wordlessly pass it to you during emotional moments, his hand gently brushing yours.

He’s calm and reserved until he’s got you backed against a bookshelf in his private study, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your most sensitive places. His tongue follows the path of his fingers, teasing you with maddening precision—pressing just enough to make you whimper, then sliding deeper where you need it most. His touch is confident, almost clinical, but there’s heat in every stroke, every flick, building you up until your legs tremble and your breath hitches. When he finally parts you with his fingers and slips inside, it’s slow, intense, and unrelenting, as if marking you not just with pleasure but ownership, leaving no doubt that you’re his to cherish and unravel.

He walks at your pace, even if it means slowing down by half. Always on your left, always watching the crowd for trouble.

Will place your favorite snack on your desk during long days—officially “from the court’s hospitality,” but you know it was him.

When you're overwhelmed, he lets you rest your head on his shoulder and quietly reads to you from his favorite books. His voice alone feels like safety.

✦ Wriothesley

Tough exterior, heart of warm, guarded affection. His way of showing love? Protecting your peace like a guard dog with manners.

Keeps a second pair of gloves just for you in case your hands get cold. Doesn’t say anything—just offers them casually like it’s no big deal.

He’s all controlled strength until he presses you hard against a cold wall, hips snapping into yours with rough, rhythmic force, fingers sliding underneath your clothing to wrap around your pearl-tight heat. His grip tightens with every thrust, his breaths sharp against your neck as he fucks you like he’s got something to prove—something only you can unlock. He doesn’t say much—just curses under his breath, low and urgent, as his hand teases and toys at your most sensitive spots, making your body shudder and your moans spill over. Every hard slap of skin, every calloused finger pressing deep, says plainly: you’re his, and he’s taking what’s his without mercy or apology.

Gives you his coat when you’re cold. Always. No matter how freezing he ends up.

He watches you when you talk—not in a creepy way, but with a sort of awe, like he can’t believe you’re real.

If you're upset, he won’t make you talk about it. He’ll invite you to box with him or cook with him instead, letting you work it out your way. He’s not good at emotions—but he’s always there.

✦ Ororon

His love is in the little things: the way he always makes sure your weapons are clean and ready, even if you never asked.

When you’re tired, he insists on carrying your gear, grumbling under his breath but secretly loving the excuse to help.

Ororon’s quiet strength turns feral behind closed doors. When he pins you against a wall after a long day, his hands grip firm but possessive, sliding beneath your clothes with urgent intent. He doesn’t need to whisper sweet nothings—his actions speak loud enough as his mouth trails down your neck, teeth grazing skin, tongue flicking over bruises he plans to leave. His pace is relentless, a fierce storm of need and control, driving you wild until you’re gasping and trembling under him. No words—just raw, fierce devotion marked by every hard thrust and rough touch.

He’s the kind of guy who shows affection through playful teasing but softens when he thinks no one is looking — a quick brush of his fingers against your hand or a lingering gaze.

If you get hurt, he’s the first to patch you up, his touch careful and surprisingly gentle for someone so fierce.

He shares stories from his travels just to see you smile and hear your laugh.

✦ Ifa

Ifa is more outgoing and sociable than people expect, showing his love through easy conversation, teasing, and warmth mixed with his natural calmness.

He expresses care by listening actively and offering thoughtful advice, always ready to engage deeply with you about ideas or feelings.

Ifa’s playful charm turns deliciously wicked when he’s got you alone. Between teasing kisses and whispered jabs, his fingers find your most sensitive places with practiced ease, drawing moans that make him grin. He loves to push your limits, tracing lazy circles with his tongue where you least expect, making you squirm and beg for more. When he finally slides inside, it’s with a mix of gentle warmth and mischievous hunger, his hands never still, exploring, claiming. His low chuckles and soft curses fill the room as he takes you in waves, making sure pleasure and laughter are tangled together—his signature way of loving you hard.

Enjoys playful banter and sometimes uses humor to lighten tense moments, showing affection through shared laughter and connection.

He remembers little details about your preferences and surprises you with small, considerate gifts like plants or trinkets that reflect your interests.

His love is a balance of extroverted warmth and grounded steadiness—he makes space for you while keeping things lively and genuine.

(Guys I'm so sorry if Ifa and Ororon's parts are off character I haven't even gotten to the Fontaine archon quest and like I've seen them and like never fully interacted with them so like yeah I'm just going off of looks and edits I've seen on TikTok TwT)

✦ Capitano

His love is in his protective presence—always a little too close for comfort, but never crossing boundaries.

Brags about you loudly to his crew, making sure everyone knows you’re his priority.

He’s all sharp angles and rough edges when he corners you against the ship’s bulkhead, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life—and maybe he is. His breath is hot against your ear as he mutters curses and promises you only feel when he’s grinding into you hard and fast, claiming every inch with the precision of a captain taking command. His fingers dig into your waist, nails teasing bruises as his tongue finds yours, rough and demanding. When he fucks you against the cold metal, it’s fierce, protective, and utterly relentless—like he’s marking you as his, no questions asked.

He fixes things for you—broken doors, leaky faucets, or a torn jacket—without being asked.

When he’s nervous about you, he fidgets or tries to distract himself with loud jokes, but his eyes always find you.

Offers his coat or armor to shield you from rain or danger, like a living shield.

✦ Dottore

His love is weird but real: he shows it through thoughtful (if bizarre) experiments designed to improve your life.

Surprises you with strange gadgets or potions that somehow end up making things easier—or at least more interesting.

His love shows in strange ways, but when he pulls you into his cluttered lab, the intensity shifts. Fingers slick with something cold and unfamiliar, he teases your skin, exploring with scientific precision that somehow feels impossibly intimate. His tongue flicks with curious hunger, tasting, testing, driving you wild with the slow build of his calculated touch. When he finally takes you, it’s experimental—alternating between delicate care and rough urgency—his whispered calculations drowned out by your gasps and moans. Even in chaos, his obsession with you is clear: you’re his greatest experiment, and he’s determined to perfect every sensation.

Listens intensely when you talk, occasionally taking notes, then later shows up with solutions or improvements.

Despite his eccentricity, he always remembers your favorite things and makes sure they’re nearby.

When you’re upset, he offers a quiet presence, tinkering beside you, proving that love can be shown in many unconventional ways.

✦ Pantalone

Love, to him, is control and provision. You’ll never go without—not when he exists. He ensures it.

Buys out entire boutiques just because you once admired a coat in the window. He won’t tell you—he’ll just gesture toward the wardrobe and say, “Take your pick.”

Behind closed doors, his need to control takes on a more primal edge. He pins you with that same quiet power, fingers trailing possessively over your skin as he claims every inch without words. His touch is both reverent and demanding, guiding you exactly how he wants—slow, deliberate, and with an iron will beneath the silk. When he whispers curses in your ear during the heat of the moment, they’re promises masked as threats, his tongue tracing patterns that leave you trembling. Control isn’t just a word for him—it’s how he shows he owns you, body and soul, in the most intimate of ways.

He never says “I care about you.” Instead, it’s: “I've already handled the problem. You won’t hear from them again.”

Holds your hand only in private—softly, reverently, like he’s touching the one thing he cannot own.

He gives you an untraceable bank account and says, “Just in case you ever need to disappear.” You know what he really means is “I want you safe. Always.”

✦ Dainsleif

He doesn’t speak of love—he speaks of duty and fate. But his gaze softens when it lands on you, as if you’re the one thing he’d defy destiny for.

You’ll never see him rest, but he’ll stay awake through the night just to keep watch while you sleep.

His duty-bound exterior melts away when it’s just the two of you. He’s dark and intense, hands rough but gentle as they explore the delicate places he guards fiercely. His lips brush your skin like a vow, every kiss weighted with silent promises and battles fought for you alone. When he takes you, it’s with a fierce urgency—like he’s defying fate itself with every thrust, every whispered curse. The shadows around you deepen, but under his touch, you feel utterly seen, protected, and claimed—like you’re the only light worth fighting for in his relentless night.

Fixes your cloak when it tears. Wraps your wounds even when you insist you’re fine. He never says anything—just works in silence, his hands careful, like you’re something fragile in a world that breaks everything.

Always walks behind you. Not because he distrusts you, but because he’s made to shield, not to shine.