one step at a time.

He observes the way you stumble into the Favonius library half-asleep. The way your jokes start sounding hollow. The way your hands shake slightly when you gather your belongings.

He notices everything, but instead of confronting you outright, he watches and waits. Because if he says something too soon, you’ll deflect. He knows that look in your eyes. He’s worn it before.

2. He starts teasing you, but there’s a sharp edge to it.

“Working hard, or hardly living?” he asks as you pass each other in the courtyard.

He smirks, but his eyes linger a little too long. He’s not just being playful—he’s prodding. Testing. Waiting to see how far you’ll let this go.

When you respond with a tired laugh, he stops smiling the moment you turn away.

3. He starts interfering in subtle, Kaeya ways.

Suddenly, your paperwork gets rerouted. Your less urgent assignments are mysteriously taken care of by someone else. You suspect something, but no one owns up to it.

(Meanwhile, Kaeya just whistles to himself as he shuffles behind Jean’s desk, filing forms under other names.)

4. When you snap at him from exhaustion, he drops the charm.

You’re overwhelmed, frustrated, and barely holding it together. He makes one offhand comment—too well-timed—and you crack. You say something sharp, or maybe you just burst into tears.

He doesn’t joke this time. He walks over, places a hand on your shoulder, and quietly says, “Alright. That’s enough. Come with me.”

5. He drags you out—literally, if needed.

Whether it’s to a tavern booth, the fields overlooking the city, or his own cluttered office couch, he gets you somewhere quiet and safe.

He lets you vent. Or cry. Or sleep.

And when you finally go quiet, he murmurs, “You don’t need to break yourself just to prove something. Not to them, not to me, and definitely not to yourself.”

6. He opens up, not with drama, but honesty.

Kaeya doesn’t talk about himself easily. But when he sees you struggling with the weight of expectations, he lets his own mask slip just enough.

“You know, I’ve spent years pretending everything’s fine. Holding the city together with a smile and a glass of wine. It catches up to you, eventually.” He chuckles, bitter and soft. “You’re not weak for needing rest. You’re smart if you take it before exhaustion eats you alive.”

7. He uses charm as a shield, but his actions speak for him.

He’ll still flirt, still joke, still act like he’s just checking in for fun. But you’ll find a warm meal left on your desk. A blanket tossed over your shoulders. A carefully worded letter handed to your superior asking for a day off—“On urgent Cavalry Captain business,” of course.

8. When you finally give in and rest, he stays close.

Kaeya isn’t the type to hover, but when you’re asleep on his couch or passed out over your books, he lingers nearby. He nurses a drink, watches the fire, and speaks into the air, “Don’t become like me. Please.”

He never says it to your face. But he means it.

wanderer

1. He notices your burnout before you do, and it ticks him off.

You’re waking up with three hours of sleep, skipping meals, muttering about deadlines with ink-stained hands. Wanderer watches you rub your eyes raw and shuffle through your fifth task of the day, and his first reaction isn’t concern; it’s irritation.

“Are you seriously doing this to yourself again?”

Because you remind him too much of himself, throwing your whole existence at something because it makes you feel like you matter. And he hates it.

2. He gets angry not at you, but at what you’re doing to yourself.

At first it comes out as sarcasm. Sharp, cold words: “Oh? Burning the candle at both ends again? Don’t worry—if you collapse, I’m sure someone will scrape you off the floor.”

You bristle—of course you do—and that’s when he snaps.

“Why do you think this is okay? Why are you letting yourself fall apart like this?”

There’s hurt buried deep in his voice. He doesn’t even realize he’s yelling for himself, too.

3. He storms off, but he always comes back.

After blowing up, he disappears for a few hours. When he returns, he’s quieter. Still bitter, still defensive, but with a plate of food or a thermos of tea shoved toward you.

“Don’t read into it. You looked pathetic. Someone had to do something.”

4. He doesn’t understand why you’re doing this, and that terrifies him.

“You’re not a machine. Not a tool. So why are you treating yourself like one?”

It slips out in a moment of vulnerability. You look at him—really look—and he hates the way your eyes mirror exhaustion he knows too well.

“You’re not a puppet like me. You don’t have to be.”

5. He starts interrupting your routine on purpose.

He’ll close your book mid-sentence. Physically turn off your lamp. Pull you away from your work, grumbling the whole time.

“No one’s asking you to kill yourself over this.”

And if you push back? He’ll say it again, sharper this time: “No one is asking this of you. So why are you acting like it’s the only way you’ll be worth something?”

6. Eventually, he admits why it bothers him so much.

One night, you’re too tired to argue, and he finally speaks without venom.

“I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t stop. Not because anyone told me to, but because I thought if I just kept moving, I wouldn’t feel anything. If I was useful enough, maybe…it would matter that I existed.” He laughs, bitter and hollow. “It didn’t work.”

After a long moment, he adds, “Don’t be like me.”

7. When you finally rest, he’s more protective than he wants to admit.

You fall asleep with your head on your desk. He doesn’t wake you. He just sighs, pulls off his cloak, and drapes it over your shoulders. Then he sits beside you with his arms crossed, glaring at anyone who so much as glances your way.

“Sleep. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

8. Slowly, you learn to rest. Not just because he makes you, but because you want to.

You nap beside him while he reads. You share meals without thinking about the time. You let him be your excuse when someone asks too much of you. (“Sorry, Wanderer threatened to throw me in a lake if I skipped dinner.”)

And when you finally finish a project without burning yourself out, you find him leaning against the wall, arms folded, looking smug.

“See? Turns out you’re not hopeless after all.”

But the way he ruffles your hair on the way out tells a different story.

neuvillette

1. He notices. Of course he does.

You’ve been skipping meals. Staying at your desk too long. Reading until your eyes burn. He doesn’t ask what the work is—school? career? research?—because that isn’t the part that matters. What matters is the slump of your shoulders. The tremor in your hands. And the fact that you’re mortal.

“You do not have centuries,” he murmurs once, watching you scribble past sunset.

You don’t catch it. Or maybe you pretend not to.

2. He doesn’t confront you, not at first.

Neuvillette believes in autonomy, in understanding silence, in not overstepping. So at first, he simply adjusts his rhythm to yours: he brings water when you forget, opens the window when the air gets stale, and pauses by your shoulder and gently suggests, “Perhaps you could rest your eyes.”

You smile faintly and say, “Soon.” 

But “soon” becomes never. 

And when you fall asleep at your desk for the third night in a row, he says nothing. But the rain taps against the windowpane that night—just enough to mist the glass. 

3. The turning point is distinctly him.

One evening, you stir awake from a nap you hadn’t meant to take. Your blanket has been tucked around you neatly. A warm drink rests on your desk, still steaming. And beside it, in his careful, slanted handwriting, Please do not burn out for a future you haven’t been given yet.

You touch the letter. And only then do you realize how closely he’s been watching—not just your habits, but your mortality.

4. He begins setting an example for both of you.

Neuvillette has never been good at rest. But when he sees you trying to pull another all-nighter, he quietly closes his law books and says, “I’ve taken the liberty of canceling my meetings tomorrow. We will both be resting.”

You blink. “Both?"

“...Yes. I find myself in need of it as well.”

That’s when it hits you: he’s not just doing this for you. He’s learning how to stop drowning himself in duty because he wants to be around for you. 

You ask him why, once, and he tilts his head, rain-soft eyes meeting yours. “Because you are burning the candle at both ends, and I am the only one here who does not run out of wax.” 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing. But you put your work down, and you sit beside him.

5. The rain falls when he thinks of what he cannot protect.

You collapse—not dramatically, not with a cry, just a quiet folding into yourself one night after working too long. He catches you, barely. The moment your weight leans into him, the first drop hits the roof. By the time he lays you on the couch and presses a hand to your brow, the rain is a steady, gentle sorrow.

“This is not a burden I asked you to bear,” he says softly.

But your fingers twitch for his; even unconscious, you reach for him. And the rain lightens.

6. Eventually, he says what he means.

You’re recovering, sleeping more, and eating better. You’ve made small changes, but you still feel the pressure to use your time well. One night, you apologize for being a “burden,” and that’s when he finally breaks his silence.

“No,” he says, with a quiet finality that makes the air still. “You are not a burden. You are a flame. You are days and decades and wonder compressed into something finite. And I—” He pauses. “I am someone who will remain long after your light fades. So allow me, while you are here, to help you burn brighter. Not faster.”

You stare at him. 

The rain does not fall.

And for once, you see the weight he carries: the guilt of longevity. The fear of outliving everything that matters.

7. He doesn’t stop being the Iudex, but for you, he makes space.

He invites you to sit in his office sometimes—not to work, but to rest, to read, to share the same air. He walks you home when you stay late and waits for you at the Court steps when you forget the time. 

And sometimes, he doesn’t say anything at all; he merely takes your hand, brings it to his lips, and closes his eyes like he’s memorizing your pulse because you will not last forever, but you are here now. And that, to him, is sacred.

kazuha

1. He notices your imbalance like a change in the air.

It’s not just how tired you look. It’s how often you say “just a bit more,” how your tea goes cold beside you, and how you haven’t watched a single sunset with him in over a week. He doesn’t say anything at first, but his concern is quiet and steady, lingering like mist.

2. He stays close, even when you say you’re fine.

You insist you’re just busy. He nods but keeps showing up anyway. Sometimes he brings dinner and eats with you on the floor while you work. Other times, he silently reorganizes your scattered papers just so you can find what you need more easily.

He doesn’t pry. He just makes sure you’re not alone in it.

3. He doesn’t romanticize your suffering.

Kazuha understands the weight of obligation, the desire to hold everything together by yourself. He’s been there. But when he sees you start skipping meals, sleeping in short bursts, and barely reacting when he enters the room, he puts his foot down.

“You’re running yourself into the ground. This isn’t sustainable, and it’s not fair to you.”

4. He uses everyday moments to pull you back.

One afternoon, he brings you out into the garden without giving you time to argue. “Ten minutes. Just breathe with me. You can go back to it after.”

The sun is warm. The breeze is soft. You don’t make it back inside for another hour. 

And somehow, everything hurts a little less.

5. When you finally break, he’s there.

It’s late. You’re shaking, frustrated, exhausted, ashamed. You whisper that you’re not doing enough—if you stop, everything will fall apart.

Kazuha wraps you in his arms, gentle but firm. He doesn’t hush you. He doesn’t offer platitudes. He simply breathes with you. 

“Even drifting leaves know where to land.” 

You don’t know if he means you or him. But either way, you believe it.

6. He opens up about his own past, gently.

“Before I left Inazuma, I thought I had to carry my grief alone. That if I let go, I’d forget him. Or fail him somehow.” He doesn’t name Tomo directly, but you know. “But clinging to pain isn’t loyalty. And pushing yourself until you break isn’t strength.”

7. He leaves you notes and poems as reminders.

Remember to eat. There’s onigiri in the basket.

I’m waiting for you by the docks at sunset. Just fifteen minutes, if you can spare them.

You’re doing enough.

When you spend too long buried in papers, he sits near the open window and hums old Inazuman tunes—melodies from a time before the storms. Sometimes he whistles songs you once told him you liked.

8. Over time, he helps you build slower rhythms.

He encourages small changes, like taking your work outside when the weather’s good, stepping away when you hit a wall, and letting yourself exist without being productive. And he keeps showing up. Not to rescue you, but to walk beside you while you figure it out.

“You don’t need to prove your worth by wearing yourself out. You’re enough, just as you are. Even when you rest.”

itto

1. At first, he thinks you’re just being “Super dedicated.” Then he catches you passing out on a pile of papers.

He pokes your cheek. No response. He pokes harder. Still nothing.

“…Uhhh. Okay. This is either really bad, or you’ve just entered some kind of secret meditative ninja state.”

(Spoiler: it’s really bad.)

2. His response? Chaos. Immediate, well-meaning chaos.

He bursts into your office the next day with five onigiri, a straw mat, and a gang member holding a shamisen for “vibe support.”

“Alright! Operation Save the Boss from the Evil Paper Demons is underway!”

You protest. He shushes you with a finger to your lips and zero personal space.

“You’ve been promoted. To Taking-a-Nap Officer. Now c’mon. Eyes closed. That’s an order.”

3. He treats resting like a team sport. And you’re on his team now.

Can’t sleep? He tells stories (bad ones).

Won’t eat? He challenges you to a dumpling-eating contest.

Still anxious? He tries to “Scare the stress away” by pretending to fight it in the corner.

“This one’s for that overdue report! HIIYAH!”

4. Eventually, he gets serious. As serious as Itto can get.

One night, after dragging you outside for fresh air and bug-catching, he glances sideways and says, “Hey… You don’t gotta be perfect all the time, y’know?”

You laugh it off. He doesn’t.

“Nah, I mean it. You think the Arataki Gang would follow me if I acted like I didn’t need breaks? Or fun? Or help?”

You stare. He shrugs.

“Being strong’s not about going nonstop. It’s about knowin’ when to stop, so you can keep goin’. That’s what makes a real boss.”

5. From then on, you get regular “Arataki Break Attacks.”

They’re loud, unexpected, and unavoidable. You’re elbow-deep in paperwork? BOOM. He bursts through the window with mochi and a picnic blanket. Stressed from a deadline? He brings the gang to do your chores (badly).

“We filed your papers alphabetically! …Sort of!”

You should be annoyed, but the laughter helps more than you admit.

6. One day, you finally break down, and he catches you.

You’re overwhelmed. Quietly crumbling. He finds you curled on your futon, staring at nothing. And for once, his presence isn’t loud.

He kneels. Offers you his forehead, gently. 

“I don’t know how to fix what’s hurtin’ you. But I’m here. For however long it takes.”

You grip his sleeve. He holds you like you’re gold.

“You’re not a job. You’re you. And I like that person just the way they are.”

7. He makes recovery feel like living.

Not just resting, not just surviving—he reminds you how to have fun again. Whether it’s beetle battles, fireworks, or dancing terribly at a festival, he’s there, arm slung around you, grin wide, heart full.

“Work’ll still be there tomorrow. But right now? You got an Arataki-brand life to live!”

And somehow, with him beside you, the world feels lighter.

aether

1. He notices your exhaustion before you ever speak it out loud.

Aether lives by reading people—he’s had to, traveling alone for so long. Others believe you when you say you’re fine, but Aether watches the small things: the too‑slow blinks, the silence you sit in like it’s a weight, the way you stare at your tasks as if they’re cliffs that keep growing higher. You rub your temples and forget to eat the food Paimon hands you.

Paimon huffs, “Seriously? That’s the third untouched meal today!”

Aether doesn’t comment. He just gravitates closer. He’s used to carrying burdens alone, but he refuses to watch someone else fall into that habit.

2. His concern is gentle but incredibly persistent.

Aether never nags. He simply appears with the things you need: sliced fruit next to your work, a blanket around your shoulders, tea steeped exactly the way you like it. Paimon keeps mysteriously dropping snacks onto your desk like a tiny, floating delivery service.

If you insist you’re “just tired,” he lifts his brows like he’s heard that excuse in every nation and never believed it once. He helps adjust your posture so your neck won’t hurt, refills your ink, hands you the thing you keep reaching for and missing because your vision’s going blurry.

3. When you snap, he doesn’t pull away.

You’re frustrated, overwhelmed, and maybe a little sharp with him.

He just steps closer, calm and steady. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Let’s take a break.”

There’s no judgment in his voice—just patience and a grounding gentleness firm enough that you can lean on it.

4. He worries when you push yourself too far.

You slump onto a bench after a long day, pale and trembling. He kneels instantly, hands hovering, not touching you until you give him a faint nod. He hadn’t realized until that moment how tightly he’d been orbiting you—how you’d become one of the anchors keeping him grounded in a world that still didn’t feel like home.

“You scared me,” he whispers. “Please don’t disappear.”

You’re confused; you weren’t going anywhere. But Aether has lost people; he knows what “here one moment, gone the next” feels like. And he’s terrified of feeling it again.

5. He opens up only when he thinks you can’t hear.

Paimon grumbles about how worried she was, but Aether silently moves your hair from your face with careful fingers and tucks his cloak around you. He stares at the glimmering stars above with a distant, melancholy expression—one you’ve seen when he thinks about Lumine.

That loneliness flickers across him like a shadow.

He whispers, thinking you’re asleep, “I don’t want you to burn yourself out chasing something alone like I did.”

5. He disrupts your routine in deceptively gentle ways.

Aether never shuts your work away. He instead rearranges reality around you. He opens windows before the air gets stuffy. Adjusts the lighting so your eyes don’t strain. Reorganizes your cluttered desk into something workable. Silently takes half your errands onto his own list.

When you ask why he’s treating you like you’re made of glass, he gives a small smile. “It’s not that you’re fragile. It’s that you don’t realize how much you’re carrying.”

6. When you wake, he finally lets his guard down.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he says softly. “Or push through everything by yourself.”

His golden eyes hold yours, warm as sunrise breaking through fog.

“I know what it feels like when it seems the world won’t slow down for you. When resting feels dangerous. When you think stopping means falling behind.” He reaches for your hand. “But you’re not alone anymore. Let me shoulder some of it, okay?”

With Aether, it’s never just words. For once, he resolves not to walk forward by himself.

tighnari

1. He diagnoses your burnout instantly.

He takes one look at your slumped posture, the way you squint at the daylight, and sighs like he’s witnessing a natural disaster.

“Come here,” he says, already closing the distance. He tilts your chin up with a gloved hand, eyes scanning your face. “Sluggish pupil response. Pale complexion, dark circles… Your circadian rhythm is committing unspeakable crimes.”

You try to laugh it off. He doesn’t.

“Honestly,” he mutters, “you look worse than a withering zone.”

His tone is dry enough to parch a forest, but his touch stays delicate as he checks your pulse.

2. His worry comes out as exasperation.

The more worried Tighnari gets, the more his snark ramps up. 

“Oh, wonderful. You’re dehydrated, sleep-deprived, and haven’t eaten a proper meal in… let me guess—since yesterday morning? Congratulations. You’ve achieved the disaster trifecta.”

When you snap that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, he gives you a look so flat it could level a hillside.

“If that were true, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

There’s no anger, just the protective frustration of someone who’s patched up far too many self‑neglecting rangers and refuses to let you join their ranks.

3. The moment he realizes talking won’t work, he shifts into caretaker mode.

A glass of water is pushed into your hands. Then a plate of food. Then a blanket. He fusses without admitting he’s fussing.

You ask if he’s babying you. He raises a brow.

“If I were babying you, I’d have hauled you to the nearest bed and put you into a mandatory nap.” He pauses. “…Don’t tempt me.”

4. Every comforting gesture comes disguised as “practical necessity.”

He’ll brew a herbal infusion “to reduce inflammation,” then sit beside you until you finish the entire cup. He’ll braid your hair out of your face “to prevent sensory interference.” If you lean back too quickly, his hand is already behind your chair. “To avoid concussion,” he claims.

Each act appears outwardly efficient and logical until you look closely enough to see the warmth threaded through every motion. Point it out, and he clears his throat, ears flicking in embarrassment. 

“It’s called preventative care. Don’t make it weird.” 

5. He keeps an eye on you even though he pretends he’s not.

Every time you stand up too fast? He’s there. Every time you yawn? A pointed stare. When you stumble over your words because you’re exhausted? His pen pauses mid‑stroke.

“You’re at 40% functionality,” he informs you one afternoon.

You groan. “Can you not quantify my suffering?”

“It helps me track how close you are to collapsing.”

“…Okay, maybe quantify a little.”

6. When you push yourself too hard, he stops being sarcastic and starts being firm.

The day you reach for more materials while visibly wobbling, Tighnari steps directly into your path, eyes narrowing. “Sit. Down.”

It isn’t a suggestion; it’s a command forged from years of keeping rangers alive in conditions they had no business surviving. And you obey, because it’s the first time he sounds genuinely upset.

“Please take care of yourself,” he murmurs, his expression full of hurt. “Exhaustion proves nothing except how far a person can push themselves before they break.”

7. Once you’re resting, his protectiveness becomes instinctive.

The second you fall asleep, Tighnari is in full guardian mode. He adjusts your pillow. He checks your temperature. He angles a lamp so it won’t shine in your eyes. Outside, he warns the rangers, “If anyone disturbs this room, I will assign you to fungal spore sampling duty for a month.”

Collei salutes. The other rangers flee.

He sits beside your bed with a botanical manual open, though he doesn’t turn a single page. His hand lightly brushes your blanket as if reassuring himself you’re still there. When your eyes finally flutter open, he looks relieved in a way he tries very hard to hide.

“You slept for six hours,” he says with a halfhearted scold. “…Good. You needed it.”

thoma

1. He notices the small changes first.

You’re not meeting his eyes as often. Your sentences get shorter. You keep saying “almost done” with a tired smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. And the first time you cancel dinner plans—something you usually look forward to—he knows for certain.

You’re drowning. Quietly.

So he knocks on your door that night, holding a thermos and a neat box of onigiri. “I wasn’t sure if you ate today,” he says gently. “Mind if I sit with you a while?”

2. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He reminds you it’s okay to slow down.

“I get it—sometimes you want to prove you can handle it all. I’ve been there,” he says as he sets things out, watching the tension in your shoulders with concern. “But just because you can carry something doesn’t mean you should do it alone.”

And for some reason, that hits harder than any admonishment could have.

3. He starts checking in more often but never pushes.

A warm drink appears on your desk during long afternoons. Laundry you forgot about ends up folded neatly on your chair. He even brings Taroumaru once, claiming “a surprise wellness check from the best boy in Inazuma.”

He never makes you feel guilty for being overwhelmed. He just keeps showing up, gentle and dependable.

4. When you finally crash, he’s by your side.

You fall asleep at your desk, shoulders tense, fingers still curled around your pen. When you stir awake, the lights are lower, a blanket is tucked around you, and Thoma’s coat is folded beneath your arm like a pillow. He’s sitting beside you, reading so he won’t disturb you. He looks up with relief.

“Hey,” he greets. “You scared me a little there.” 

He’s silent for a moment. 

“Next time…let me help before it gets to this point, yeah?”

5. When you say you didn’t want to burden him, that he already does so much, something in his expression shifts.

He lets out a breath—half fond, half aching—and shakes his head.. “That’s what people like us do, isn’t it? We take care of everyone else and forget we deserve care too.”

He takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.

“I’m here because I want to be. Not because you need rescuing. Because you matter. Even when you’re not accomplishing anything—especially then.”

6. From then on, he makes “doing nothing” feel like something special.

A slow meal on the engawa as the breeze rustles the wind chimes. Shared silence under the stars. An understanding glance when you sigh and confess, “I still feel behind.”

He leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky, and replies, “Behind what? The world isn’t going anywhere. But if you burn yourself out… it’ll lose something no one can replace.”

7. And when you finally begin to let go of the pressure—just a little—he’s there to catch you.

Not with grand gestures. But with rice balls, soft words, warm hands, and a steady heart. Because Thoma doesn’t need you to be perfect. He just wants you to stay.

diluc

1. He notices what you stop doing. 

Diluc pays attention to patterns. You used to greet him in passing, pause to appreciate small things, hum while you worked—little marks of ease that brightened your days. When those habits fade, he notices instantly.

Years of managing people—and years of losing them—have made him acutely aware of what strain looks like. He doesn’t question you about it; he knows too well how inquiries can feel like pressure rather than concern.

2. Instead of confronting you, he begins adjusting the world around you.

Not the type to lecture or hover, Diluc is a man of action, efficiency, and solutions. Tedious errands you’d been meaning to get to are mysteriously handled by someone else. Deadlines shift. A warm drink appears near your workspace when you’re too focused to notice your own needs. 

It all feels effortless, almost coincidental. That’s intentional. Diluc would rather lighten your burden without making you self‑conscious about it.

3. He addresses your exhaustion indirectly. 

One evening, he finds you staring at a page without seeing it. The dim light flickers across your face and catches something in your eyes that stirs an old ache in him. He approaches, delicately closes the book beneath your hand, and says, “Walk with me.”

He leads you outside and through the vineyard, where the lanterns glow warm against the early night and the air carries the scent of earth and ripening fruit. Diluc never fills the silence. He lets it steady you, each unhurried step loosening your thoughts.

4. He grounds you through consistency.

He joins you for meals whenever schedules align. Some afternoons he stops by simply to share a few minutes of stillness. Other times, he works beside you turning, the silence into something companionable instead of isolating.

He never frames these moments as interventions. They are companionship: something he knows can keep a person from unraveling. You find yourself looking forward to the routine with him that seems to slow the world around you until it becomes manageable again.

5. He corrects your self‑criticism with a conviction that’s difficult to refute. 

Whenever you insist you’re behind or not doing enough, Diluc listens without interrupting. When he finally responds, his voice is certain and sincere in a way that leaves little room for doubt.

“You carry more than you realize—and far more than anyone should expect of one person.” His gaze meets yours in earnest. “You’re capable, dependable, and far kinder than the world gives you reason to be. You don’t need to exhaust yourself to prove any of that.”

6. When you push too far, he meets you.

The night you nearly miss dinner, he appears at your doorway, hair loosened from the day, ungloved hands resting calmly at his sides.

“You’re late,” he says. “The food won’t stay warm.” 

You begin to apologize, but he shakes his head.

“Eat first. The rest can wait.”

He sits across from you, arms crossed, pretending he’s not watching to ensure you eat.

7. When you finally admit how overwhelmed you are, he listens in a way that feels disarming.

You tell him it feels like everything will fall apart if you slow down, and his gaze softens in a way few ever see.

“Work can always be resumed,” he tells you. “You, however…cannot be replaced”

Beneath his words lies the conviction of one who has already lost too much to relentless duty.

“I just don’t want to disappoint anyone,” you finally admit. 

“You won’t,” he assures you firmly. “You do not owe this world exhaustion to prove your worth. You give it your presence, and that is more than enough.” 

8. He becomes your safeguard against your own pressure. 

Diluc does not smother or coddle. He simply remains a steady presence at your side as someone who cares deeply, and has learned—through mistakes he cannot undo—how important it is to catch a person long before they fall. Rather than save you from burning out, he prevents the flame from consuming you in the first place. 

Diluc will never say the words outright, but it’s clear in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re focused elsewhere: your well‑being is something he has quietly folded into his responsibilities, right alongside the winery and the city he once vowed to protect. And though he would never claim it aloud, supporting you matters to him every bit as much as any duty he’s ever carried.

childe

1. He’s deceptively perceptive when it comes to people he cares about.

Growing up with siblings means he’s witnessed every flavor of stubborn exhaustion, from his older brother pulling all-nighters to Teucer trying to avoid bedtime. So he picks up your signs quickly: the way you rub your eyes, the slight tremor in your hands, and the fact that you’re running purely on determination.

Everyone else buys the excuse that you’re “only a little tired.” Childe, on the other hand, narrows his eyes. “My little siblings lie better than that, and one of them is seven.”

2. He calls you out directly, but there’s softness under the bite.

Childe isn’t one for subtle warnings: “You can’t keep this up,” he says, crossing his arms. “You look like you fought a dragon bare-handed, and not in a way I’d brag about.”

You glare at him, and he only steps closer, voice dropping. 

“You’re wearing yourself thin, comrade. I don’t like watching that happen.” It’s the most roundabout way he can say he’s worried.

3. If reminding you to rest doesn’t work, he resorts to mischief.

He steals the pen out of your hand mid-sentence. He lifts your notes above your reach (he’s annoyingly tall). He sits on your stack of textbooks like a smug cat. 

If you protest, he grins. “Duel me for them.” 

He’s not joking. He drops into a fighting stance in the middle of your room. You point out you’re exhausted.

“That’s why it’ll be fun.” He is insufferable. He is also trying to make you rest.

4. When your energy gives out, his instinct takes over.

You wobble, and he reacts instantly, catching you with one arm behind your back, the other guiding your head to his chest. His whole body shifts as if to angle himself between you and the world.

“Hey—stay with me.” His voice is low, tight. Not his usual playful tone.

You try to say you’re alright.

“Don’t. Don’t even finish that sentence.” His jaw is clenched, heartbeat wild against your cheek.

He scoops you up without hesitation, expression lethal. Anyone who so much as glances your way wrong on the walk back gets the kind of glare that promises consequences.

5. He cleans up your workspace like he’s securing a battlefield.

Once you’re resting, he surveys the room with a soldier’s eye and quietly puts everything in order—papers stacked, candles extinguished, hazards removed.

“You don’t have to take on the whole world by yourself,” he mutters under his breath.

Then, he sits beside your bed and brushes your forehead with the back of his hand, checking for fever. “I can take hits,” he says softly. “Doesn’t mean I enjoy watching someone else take them.”

6. Starting the next morning, he becomes more deliberate.

He brings breakfast and sits beside you until you eat. He walks you home whenever he can. He insists on taking some of your workload: “I’m good at carrying things. Work, bags, stubborn people who don’t know how to rest.”

When you apologize for worrying him, he only smirks and taps your forehead. 

“Just don’t do it again. But if you start slipping, I’ll be there before you fall.”

7. His “rest plan” is… uniquely Childe.

He makes you a schedule. A battle-style schedule, color-coded into:

Mandatory Rest Periods

Nutrition Breaks (with treats—nonnegotiable)

Light Exercise

Hydration Checks (“Don’t test me. I have water and I have aim.”)

Supervised Work Sessions

He hands it to you with pride. “This is strategic efficiency. Trust me—General Childe knows what he’s doing.”

You point out he’s not actually a general.

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

8. And eventually, the truth slips out.

You find him watching you work, unusually quiet.

“You push yourself so hard it hurts to watch,” he says finally. “You work like you’re trying to earn your right to exist. But you’re not something that needs to prove its worth. You’re…” His voice falters. “…someone I care about. A lot.”

He clears his throat violently, as if honesty betrayed him.

“If you collapse again, I’m staying with you until you’re better. And that’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”

zhongli 

1. He recognizes the signs long before you do.

The slight tremble in your fingers The missed step on uneven cobblestone. The way your gaze sometimes flickers past him, unfocused, as if your thoughts are pulling you in too many directions at once.

He doesn’t intrude, but he sees. And in quieter moments, he remembers countless mortals who pushed themselves too far. So few ever stopped before the cost came due.

2. He doesn’t confront; he provides.

“You seem fatigued,” he remarks one afternoon over tea.

You smile. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He stirs his cup, thoughtfully. “Even the strongest stone yields under constant strain.”

You brush it off with a laugh, and he doesn’t push. But the next time he invites you out, he phrases it differently: “Join me. Not for discussion, not for business. Simply to rest.” With him, invitations are never obligations.

3. He begins to anchor you in subtle ways.

He sends herbal blends meant for clarity and calm. Bowls of warm food appear with the simple explanation: “I worried you might skip a meal.” He asks you to accompany him on walks through Liyue Harbor’s quiet streets touched by sunset.

And when you protest, saying, “I should be working,” he meets your gaze with unwavering calm.

“And I should be elsewhere,” he says softly. “Yet I am here. And I would prefer your company over solitude.”

4. When exhaustion finally overtakes you, it wounds him more than it surprises him.

He finds you slumped over your desk, ink smudged across your hand. For a long moment, he only stands there, a quiet sorrow flickering across features that have seen ages pass. Then, he gathers you carefully, almost reverently, and carries you to the couch. He drapes his coat over you, its warmth and faint incense scent settling around you like a shield, and he remains by your side, eyes tracing the moonlight on your face.

“Morax would have named this stubbornness,” he murmurs. “But I believe… you simply fear stopping.”

5. When you finally ask why your wellbeing matters so deeply to him, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I have lived through the rise and fall of gods,” he says. “I have watched whole histories fade into legend, and legends fade into silence.” He turns toward you. “You are not a fleeting dynasty, meant only to be remembered or forgotten. You are someone I hope remains, not for legacy, but simply for yourself.”

6. He teaches you how to rest respectfully, without making you feel weak.

He walks you through gardens at dusk, where lanterns sway and cicadas sing. He reads aloud when your head is too heavy for thought. He speaks of rest not as luxury, but as a form of wisdom in itself.

“Clarity is born from stillness, not exhaustion,” he reminds you, offering warm tea. “Even the sun must set to rise again. You, too, must allow yourself that cycle.”

And somehow, from him, it makes sense. With him, rest feels safe. It feels like something you are allowed to have.

7. And afterward—when you do pause, when you finally let yourself breathe—he stays.

Simply to exist beside you with quiet devotion. Because to him, you are not a task, nor a responsibility, nor a fleeting mortal life to be pitied.

everything will be based on romantic interactions, if you would like any more specific tips, feel free to send in an ask or to comment !!

Blushing/Flusteredness

not everyone has skin tones that can show blush on their cheeks or their tips of their ears being red. you as the author may have that trait, but not all your readers do.

instead, try writing it off as “heat can be felt in the tips of your ears” or “you cup your hand against your cheek, feeling the heat rise” because that’s still a good way of showcasing being flustered without directly telling the reader they have a lighter skin tone in the fanfic you created, leaving the readers description to be ambiguous.

me personally, i tend to smile in such scenarios, albeit a bit nervously but still. so maybe describing it as a “nervous smile encroaching on your face” could be another way of displaying that sort of emotion.

Physical Characteristics

this is one of the most difficult things to portray as ambiguous and isn’t something that actually can be painted as completely ambiguous unless you avoid descriptions all together. so let’s tackle the main ones:

— hair

most of the fics i’ve read, authors write readers hair akin to being straight and/or at most wavy “silky smooth” being a common description i’ve seen in fem!readers specifically.

however in the context of a hand running through the reader’s hair, not all hair types/styles will allows it, i.e. braids, twists, curly hair in general. a common phrase i’ve seen describes this actions is “running a hand through your strands.”

something i believe that gives off a similar connotation is saying “…played with a lock of your hair” since anyone can have a lock of hair unless your bald, my fault guys i’m not as good as i thought at this.

— body types

before i get flamed this is for when you want to intentionally write an ambiguous reader which i believe all reader inserts should be so we wouldn’t be having this conversation rn but hey thaz just me

sometimes all you have to do is remove an added description from a word used for the reader’s body in order for it to be more inclusive. “…holding your small frame against theirs,” can be just, “holding your frame against theirs.” simple, but it works.

curves — commonly in fem!readers, however, can be a hit or miss description no matter what aspect you’re describing. “accentuating so & so’s curves,” will always be a common description seen everywhere when they’re in a tight dress.

“perfectly complimenting your figure” is an option that exists, but i find it more awkward to read in my opinion. feel free to comment or reblog any ideas you want to add on, which goes for anything i write in this post.

— skin (tone)

could go hand in hand with the blushing section, but i digress. it’s not much of an issue nowadays, but i do catch myself pausing at some of these things.

fortunately “pale” isn’t used when describing the readers complexion as often as it was, though “porcelain” is something i have seen and believe has similar connotations. that’s why i put parentheses around tone, porcelain insinuates a face without acne or acne scarring, a body without scars or blemishes.

this might be a more personal thing compared to the rest of my qualms as i've never had perfect skin anywhere on my body compared to my peers, so readers skin being described as smooth and soft is something i never related to, but i digress.

a good way of describing a readers facial structure would be to describe the emotion on their face. let me explain. when angry, a persons face tends to look sharper : “you clench your jaw in frustration, eyebrows slanting, with the shadows on your face making your features look harsh." or when happy it can be described as soft : "your face lit up in elation, eyes crinkling upwards gently. your mouth curving into a delicate grin at the sight in front of you."

it's a fun way for the readers to imagine the scene you're creating.

SMAU’s (at least for photos)

as someone whose created quite a few smau’s before, i understand the struggle. personally when i made my first ever smau i struggled trying to find photos where even the reader’s silhouette was left ambiguous at least gender wise.

i tried to make an overlayed tint to the skin tone of photos i found on pinterest. (this was the only one i could find from my olden days)

idk if yall know that old tim drake x gn!reader smau called coffee, but this is from it so lmk if yall want me to bring it back but edited

EMPHASIS ON TRIED, it’s still obvious the persons skin tone was lighter and i put a red overlay on top of it so don’t really consider this a tip, just a little extra side thing to consider and do better than me.

let me know if you have any questions or any additional tips you want to add on in comments, reblogs, and/or my asks!

reminder that this is no shade to any specific writers in general, writing is a skill and not a talent and everyone who does it does scait in an amazing way, thank you all authors for your hard work and all readers who interact with our posts. everyone truly appreciates it, and thank you for reading.

Cape a deep crimson with delicate fur trim, the Kaedehara family crest is embroidered on the back in gold thread. Kazuha always thought it was unnecessary to flaunt his status, preferring respect of the family name over awe of his wealth. But being a gift from a dear friend, he wears it more often than not. In cases like these, he wishes he hadn’t. Your eyes catch the glint of his garments, and you freeze, petrified.  

Lowering to a crouch, Kazuha waves away his guards with dimmissive hand, gloved hands working to collect fallen sheets. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice kind and with a smile. He holds out a scroll for you to take back. Your fingers brush his. 

“Yes…” you mutter back, somewhat sheepish. You quickly rise to your feet and offer him a bow. “My apologies, Your Highness.” 

“No need for it.” 

He offers to walk you to your destination. You decline. He insists. The two of you both make it to the library in quick succession, the others on the road making way the minute the red of his cape is seen. 

“This is quite unnecessary, Your Highness.” Kazuha looks over at you. You smile when he meets your eyes. “It was I who bumped into you. There was no need to escort me back.”

“Ah, but I wanted to.” 

It’s when you’re inside, the door closed behind you, that Kazuha stops to stare at where you’d once stood. His cheeks are rosy with warmth.  

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” one of the guards prods, hesitant. “You seem a bit… flushed.” 

“I’m more than alright.” 

The kingdom falls before he can see you again. 

Flames engulf houses and shops; fire starved and ravenous, it becomes a glutton as it licks up the side of the library. His horse whinnies and backs away when the heat gets to be too much, but Kazuha can’t seem to pull himself away from the sight. He needs to leave. He needs to leave. Run. Run. Run. Run—

Some part of him hopes you made it out unscathed, heart heavy as the shouts of enemy troops chase after him. You would’ve liked the palace archives, he thinks, salt trailing down ash-stained cheeks as the ruins disappear in the distance. 

—

In one universe, you’ve just moved from the city to the countryside. 

As your new neighbour, Kazuha took it upon himself to welcome you. The rest of the area had heard about your reasonings: a relative of yours who owned the house you’d be staying in has fallen ill. You’re here to keep things in order while they receive treatment. 

Basket full of fresh fruit from his own farm, he stands outside your door with a nervous frown. His heart beats erratically in his chest, pulse ricocheting off the bones of his ribs. It’s never like him to be so jittery when greeting others. Readjusting his grip, Kazuha sucks in a breath and knocks. 

You shout back, “Just a sec!” 

There’s a brief moment where Kazuha debates leaving, dropping the basket and running. He digs his heels into the ground. The door opens with a click. You smile and— 

Oh. 

He’s been here before, hasn't he? 

Cheeks turning a soft pink, he grins back, holding out the basket. 

“A little welcome gift,” he says, “from your new neighbour.” 

You take the basket from him; your fingers don’t touch his. Is it weird that he wishes they did? Kazuha comes back the next day, handing you a bunch of mail and a package. You invite him to stay this time. 

Kazuha swears he’s seen you before, that you moving wasn’t a coincidence judging by the butterflies that eat at his stomach lining. Whatever it is, you don’t remember him like how he thinks of you. 

You return to the city months later, leaving the confession on the tip of his tongue. 

—

In one universe, you are the wind that greets him every morning. 

The hospital room is stuffy, void of colour except for the stack of “Get well soon!” cards and deflating balloons shoved by his bedside. He misses the farm, he decides, the vast openness of the trees and fields. The smell of medicine had stung his nose at first; now it’s barely there. Kazuha stares out at the sunrise, smiling to himself when a familiar breeze slips through the crack of his window. Bathed in gold with the sun speckled in his hair, he strains an arm and grasps onto a well-loved notepad and pen. 

“One day,” he murmurs, voice airy as he jots down the date, “I’ll be out there too.” 

—

In one universe, you’re a birdhouse and he’s the bird. 

The seeds are kept well stocked; the shelter you provide is always dry. You both get swept away in a windstorm. 

—

In one universe, he is a star. 

Rubble and debris from what were once towering builds block any type of path you may have been able to venture. Despite the lack of them, the stench of walking death still permeates the air.  

“Shouldn’t have taken that shortcut,” you mumble, grunting when your foot catches on another root. 

The trees grow thicker and you swear you’ve passed this part of the woods already. You grumble a string of profanities, plopping down to the forest floor and leaning against the bark. You look up. 

“You’re here at least.” The words are soft, much too gentle for the atmosphere. Kazuha doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. “You’d scold me for scavenging this late. I know it.” 

The star grows brighter, as if laughing. 

— 

In one universe, Kazuha’s flesh can be tasted on your tongue. 

Tied up in the corner, your arms pinned behind your back, he sits about two metres away in front of you on a broken crate. The gun lays loaded in his lap. Eyes closed with his head down, fingers resting on the cool metal, Kazuha’s lips stretch into a thin line. 

“It’s not right,” he mutters, mainly to himself as you thrash in the corner, desperate to reach him. “It’s not my right to rob you of life.” 

You snarl in response. Eyes bloodshot and crazed, he wonders if you can still understand him. Would you plead for him to shoot you? Would you beg to be spared? Could he bear to do either? He’s going to be sick. 

“It’s not right,” he repeats, shaky hands curling in his lap. “It’s you and me. We haven’t come all this way just to end.” 

The world has taken enough from him. Kazuha refuses to let it take you too; not without him.  

He stands in front of you. The gun lays off to the side. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice screams at him not to fold. They wouldn’t want this, it wails, clawing at the walls of his skull. Another tells him, Do it. And so Kazuha undoes your binds, kisses you, smiles tearfully when your nails claw into his skin. Blood runs down his back, stains his tattered clothing. He hugs you. Your jaws clamp down on the junction of his neck and shoulder. His nose brushes against your jaw. 

“It’s ok,” he whispers to ears that cannot hear reason, hold tightening, “we’ll be ok.” 

—

In one universe, you two never meet. Not face-to-face at least. 

Kazuha smiles at the camera, holding up a peace-sign, before the view switches to another member on stage. The clip goes viral very shortly after its creation. You come across it one day. 

“An idol, huh…” you mutter. 

 You scroll away. 

— 

In one universe, he’s stuck behind a screen, a watcher to your world as you go through the motions of life. 

Fate isn’t his, but he can’t seem to mind. When his splash art first coloured your screen, when he first witnessed that giddy look in your eyes, Kazuha knew he was smitten. 

Even if you ult at the wrong times, run out of stamina in the middle of climbing, skip dialogue, Kazuha is there beside you. For every beginning, end, every plotline in between, he’s a staple of your team. 

One day, you stop logging in. It was gradual at first; daily tasks, some resin here and there, you’d skip a day then come back the next. A day turned into two. Then three. A week. A month. Kazuha still waits. It’s funny how his world comes to a standstill when you do. He hopes you’re doing well. 

—

In one universe, he is a leaf and you are a river cutting through the forest. 

He drowns in your embrace, waterlogged and swept away as you carry him down stream. If he had a conscience, Kazuha would do it again. 

—

In this universe, it’s finally Kazuha and you. (There is no need to say he loves you when his name is already beside yours.)

Kazuha watches as you pack up your things. He stands from his spot next to you, bag slung over his shoulder as he waits. Other students are already leaving the lecture hall, milling about as he admires you from this short distance. 

In this universe, it’s been Kazuha and you since birth. Friends since forever, it surprised no one when both of you confessed. It would be nice if every universe were like this. 

“You’re staring.” 

He blinks, hand finding yours automatically. You squeeze back. 

“It’s hard not to when you look like that,” he teases back. 

“C’mon, the winter festival is starting soon.” You roll your eyes. 

Foot catching on the chair, Kazuha steadies you before your books can fall out of your hands, giggling when you’re quick to apologize. 

“I had a weird dream last night,” he blurts out once you’re back to standing. 

“About me falling?” 

“More than that.” He traces your skin with his thumb, lost in thought before speaking again. “I’ll walk you back to your dorm. Drop off your stuff and all.” 

“Nah, I can just meet up with you.” 

Would it be nice if every universe were like this? That’s silly, he thinks with a smile. No world could make me love you less. 

“I insist.” 

So when Harumasa strolls into the office for once, on time, with a light step and casual wave, it’s enough to make you look up from your flood of paperwork with a confused glance as he throws you a wink.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says cheerily, hand on his hips, stopping just short of entering the office. “I have a surprise for you all!” 

Soukaku and Miyabi, who have been diligently working (read: eating snacks and playing tic tac toe on official bureaucratic documents), are the first to run over. Yanagi remains at her desk, and the two of you exchange wary looks. 

“They’re so cute!” Soukaku says with childish delight, crouching down to mess with something half-hidden behind Harumasa and the open office doors. 

“How lifelike,” Miyabi muses, arms folded.

It’s at this point that you and Yanagi can’t resist striding over to see what Harumasa’s surprise entails. You’re greeted by the sight of several Bangboos crowding behind him. They appear to be custom-made: one in blue, one in black, one in white, and one in your favorite color—they’re the exact same as the Bangboo forms you and your colleagues had taken during a virtual reality attack from a hacker group. 

Soukaku is patting her Bangboo, her eyes bright as the Bangboo (Soukaboo, you decide it should be called) makes happy noises. Miyabi and her Bangboo (Miyaboo would be a good name for it) simply stare at each other without blinking, though after a moment, Miyabi nods, as if coming to some sort of internal decision.

“Bangboo?” Yanagi murmurs. “But why?”

“You can interact with them, you know,” Harumasa interjects.

“Interact with them?” you ask. 

At the sound of your voice, your Bangboo tilts its head at you. It appears to be sizing you up in the same way you’re observing it, with the same measured detachment. It’s a little eerie how similar it is to you, your mannerisms captured in a robot. 

Harumasa’s Bangboo (Asaboo, you dub it in your head) takes a few steps towards your Bangboo and tries to nuzzle it, only for your Bangboo to swiftly sidestep its advances, turning its body away in a clear sign of rejection. Asaboo lets out a sad little sigh, synthetic ears drooping, before it immediately perks up when its gaze alights on you.

“Ehn-nah!” Asaboo says, its mechanical voice sounding like the cheerful jingle of a bell.

Its body is chubby and white, smooth and sleek like the shell of a fat egg, and it preens under your newfound attention. Asaboo spins in a circle, revealing a little red target and arrow on its butt, and it takes all your self control not to throw your arms around it. 

There’s one thing you can’t deny: these Bangboo are absolutely adorable.

“It’s so much cuter than Harumasa,” you say out loud, arms crossed, as Asaboo beeps a little “eh-nah” in agreement, shuffling closer to you as it does.

“I agree,” Yanagi says. “Perhaps we could consider replacing Harumasa with this Bangboo. I imagine reports would come in a much more timely manner if we did.” 

“You know I can hear you, right?” Harumasa says, a faux wounded expression on his face.

“I know,” you say dryly. “But what’s the point of bringing them over? Don’t these look like the time we were turned–”

“It’s a change of pace,” Harumasa interrupts. “I figured we needed our own mascots, don’t you think? Think of the merchandising we can do. And they would brighten up the office.” 

“Yeah?” you say, unconvinced. “Since when did you care about that?”

“Well…” he continues, “There was also a deal at the shop I went to where if you bought one, you could get one free. Why wouldn’t I take advantage of such a good deal?”

Miyabi is watching Harumasa with a contemplative expression, her ear twitching slightly at his words. Before you can ask her what she’s thinking about, Asaboo suddenly tugs at your leg.

You glance down, and its chubby arms are wrapped around your calf, its little face peering up at you with its wide eyes.

“Eh-nah?” it asks, in the cutest, most innocent voice imaginable. 

You can’t stop yourself from reaching down and patting the top of its head. It wiggles at your touch, reaching up its little hands, as if trying to feel the spot where you just pat it to capture your warmth. 

“It’s so cute,” you say fondly. 

At your words, Asaboo jumps up and down in excitement. 

“And it’s oddly attached to you,” Yanagi remarks. “Asaba, what does the AI data for these Bangboos look like?”

For the first time this morning, Harumasa looks abashed, but that doesn’t stop him from responding, “Well, these Bangboos are modeled closely on our personalities.”

“Harumasa, is there something you want to say to me?” you tease. “I don’t recall you being as desperate for my attention as this Bangboo.”

“I think this is very telling, Asaba,” Yanagi says, crossing her arms. 

“What on earth are you two talking about?” Harumasa says, widening his eyes, neatly sidestepping your questions and avoiding your gaze. “Telling in what way? Deputy Chief, don’t tell me you’re feeling left out. Should I order one for you, too?”

“No,” Yanagi says wearily, “That won’t be necessary. I’d rather you save your money for something useful.”

“This is useful, though! It’s excellent for team morale! Don’t you think they’re cute, Soukaku?”

“Hm…” Soukaku looks down at Soukaboo, who does a little hop. “They’re cute! I like them.”

“Don’t drag Soukaku into this!” Yanagi says. 

“I think my Bangboo will make an excellent training partner. I haven’t had a chance to spar with myself yet,” Miyabi interjects in a thoughtful voice. Miyaboo nods its head in agreement.

“Chief, not you, too!”

“I think it’s harmless, Yanagi,” you say. “It’s one of Harumasa’s better ideas.” As you speak, Asaboo tugs on your leg again, looking up at you with a pitiful expression. “Oh, are you feeling left out?”

You reach down and run your gentle fingers along Asaboo’s head, rubbing alongside its ears. It has a smooth, rubbery texture, but if you press down harder, you can feel the vibration and stabilized heat of its whirring machinery beneath its exterior.

Harumasa watches you with a conflicted expression. “Why aren’t you this nice to me?”

“You’re not as cute as Asaboo,” you say resolutely, and Asaboo lets out a little “eh-nah” of agreement. 

Harumasa purses his lips. His eyes narrow at Asaboo, and it’s the exact same expression he has  right before he lets loose an arrow aimed for an Ethereal’s core. “I’m starting to regret this purchase.”

“You’re the one who brought them over. Asaboo hasn’t done anything wrong,” you say. 

“But you’re taking its side!” Harumasa protests. “Against me, your loyal partner! Our bond is forged through countless adversities in the Hollows, against the worst Ethereals New Eridu has ever seen! And you’re choosing a Bangboo over me!”

“Our relationship is strictly business. This is different,” you say, fingers dancing over the top of Asaboo’s ears as it lets out a content sigh. 

“Harumasa’s been replaced,” Miyabi murmurs.

“He’s been replaced,” Yanagi agrees. “Harumasamasa has been replaced!” Soukaku says cheerfully.

“There’s no need to rub it in…” Harumasa glances at your Bangboo, which is peacefully sitting on the floor in a patch of sunlight, staring out one of the windows, oblivious to the chaos around it. He crouches, and holds out his hand, as if to pat its head. “Hey there.” Your Bangboo immediately jumps up and scampers away without looking at Harumasa, resuming its vigil farther away.

“Rejected, even by a Bangboo,” Yanagi murmurs. “Asaba, I’m starting to feel bad for you.”

“Tsukishiro, if you say that, that’s just going to make me feel worse, you know?” Harumasa says ruthfully. “But it’s fine. We can just let them run around a little longer.”

The newest members of Section Six settle into the office with relative ease. The Bangboo are given free range around the office, though you notice that Soukaboo likes to sit near anyone with visible snacks, and Miyaboo is found in increasingly odder positions: on top of the door, hidden in a bookshelf, or tucked under a desk. 

Your Bangboo, on the other hand, is perfectly content to help deliver paperwork or coffee around the office, though it’s not immune from Miyaboo and Soukaboo pulling it into sudden games. Asaboo has no similar luck with your Bangboo, which seems to ignore Asaboo’s attempts to get close. There’s a hint of dissatisfaction in your Bangboo’s expression, though you can’t tell where it’s coming from. 

So Asaboo ends up waddling after you, settling right next to the side of your desk. Whenever you get up to grab a cup of coffee, discuss confidential information with other officers, or simply to stretch, Asaboo immediately jumps up to follow.

“Not interested in playing with the other Bangboo anymore?” you say. The other Bangboo are hopping around in the distance, bouncing a ball Soukaku pulled out from her desk back and forth.

“Eh-nah!” it says, puffing out its chest.

“Well, I’m happy to hang out with you, too.” You pat its head once more, and it gives a wiggle of delight.

“I’m also happy to hang out with you,” Harumasa adds. His desk is right next to yours, so it’s easy for him to see everything that’s going on. You glance at him, with his chair pushed back from his desk, feet propped up on the table, ankles crossed.

“Sure, but you’re not voluntarily spending time with me. We work together,” you respond dryly. You don’t miss how his mouth tugs into a pout, looking for all the world like a displeased cat which has been denied its favorite meal. 

Around lunchtime, when you pick up your packed lunch to head to the break room, Asaboo jumps up and down in the air, holding out its hands.

“Oh? Do you want to carry this for me?” you say, holding the package aloft.

It nods enthusiastically, ears flopping, and you gently place your lunchbox into its hands. Asaboo clutches the bundle to its chest like its most precious treasure, though it’s nothing more than some plastic containers set in a carrying case, with a handle that pops out that Asaboo loops its hand through.

“I could carry that for you,” Harumasa adds. His head is down on his desk, gazing at you through the fringe of his dark eyelashes. They’re unfairly long and pretty.

“Are you sure?” you say, raising your eyebrow. “I thought you said you weren’t capable of lifting anything heavier than a single sheet of paper.” 

“Well, I’m feeling a burst of strength today, so–” Harumasa raises himself from his desk and reaches out towards your lunchbox, but Asaboo leaps back before his hand can even graze it. 

“Eh-eh-nah!” it says defiantly. 

“Oh, you little–”

“Don’t bully Asaboo,” you scold, moving to stand in front of it. “Come on, Harumasa. It’s just a cute little Bangboo.” 

“It just made a face at me,” he says indignantly, throwing his hands up helplessly.

“Well, like you said, the data for its personality is based on you.”

With that, you and Asaboo head towards the break room, Asaboo wobbling behind you cheerfully the entire time. The break room itself is surprisingly spacious, with floor to ceiling windows, tasteful plants tucked in corners, and clusters of tables and cushy chairs scattered about. Various gleaming, stainless state of the art kitchen appliances are huddled in the corner. It’s one of the nicer break rooms you’ve seen, and you have HSO budget to thank for that.

Asaboo quickly runs to a table near one of the windows, and hops up to place your lunchbox on the table. It’s a quiet spot, away from the other officers, and the sunlight pleasantly warms the area.

“Did you choose this place on purpose? You’re so thoughtful,” you coo, and Asaboo ducks its head, raising its hands to cover its face in embarrassment. Really, when it reacts like that, it’s hard to imagine Asaboo derives its personality from Harumasa. It’s not as if Harumasa isn’t thoughtful; in fact, you have a feeling the presence of the Bangboo is his roundabout way to make everyone happy, somehow. 

But Harumasa, clinging to your leg, or following you everywhere? It’s hard to imagine. Is that how he really wants to act around you, or is it simply that Asaboo has its own individual quirks, separate from the influence of Harumasa’s personality data? Despite Yanagi’s earlier comment about how “telling” Asaboo’s reactions are, your own teasing, and Harumasa’s reticent response, it’s not a clear marker for Harumasa’s own feelings. 

You’re not sure you want to use Asaboo to measure Harumasa’s feelings, either. That brings up its own complications, especially regarding your own emotions towards Harumasa. It would be a lie to say that Asaboo being Harumasa’s Bangoo doesn’t make you extra sweet to it. Well, that and the mischievous desire in you to see Harumasa pout. After all, it’s payback for all the teasing you’ve endured from him since the two of you joined Section Six.

You enjoy a quiet lunch with Asaboo, though once you’re both back at the office and you’re settled at your desk, Asaboo lets out a little “eh-nah” when it sees Soukaku holding up a picture to her Bangboo, a crayon drawing of her and Soukaboo in a field of flowers, holding hands. It immediately leaps up and heads out the door. You don’t have time to wonder at its behavior, though, not when you have a mountain of tasks that’s piled up since you were away at lunch.

“Your loyal companion left. Want me to take its place?” Harumasa offers.

“Get back to work, Harumasa.”

Ten minutes later, you’re interrupted from your workflow by the patter of mechanical feet and something tugging at your leg.

You look down to see Asaboo, covered in mud and grass stains, a trail of dirty footprints behind it, and a proud expression on its face as it clutches a flower in its hand. In contrast to Asaboo’s appearance, the flower is pristine, with soft, pure yellow petals.

“Eh-nah!” Asaboo says. It holds the flower in your direction.

“Oh, Asaboo, where did you get this? Is this for me?” you ask. You gingerly take the flower from its hand, and Asaboo looks proudly at you.

“Eh-nah. Ehn-nah-nah!” It jumps up and down for emphasis. 

“I’ll cherish it forever,” you promise, and carefully place the flower on your desk. You’ll ask Soukaku to help you press it later so you can preserve it. Was that why Asaboo had been looking at Soukaku’s drawing? Because it was thinking of you?

“If you want flowers, I can give you some, too, without ripping up the building’s lawn,” Harumasa says. He looks at you sleepily, with that familiar pout curling around his mouth.

“Then why haven’t you?” you tease him. “Besides, think about it. If Asaboo gives me a flower, isn’t it essentially the same as if you gave me the flower yourself?”

“It’s completely different,” he protests. “It’s not like I knew you wanted flowers. And Asaboo isn’t me. If anything, it’s…” He brings a hand to his tie, which already hangs loose from his collar, and unconsciously slides the knot lower. 

“It’s what?” 

“The Bangoo weren’t meant to do any of this,” he says. 

“I thought you said these Bangboo were bought on a whim,” you say.

“I did. That’s not exactly wrong, but…” Harumasa hops up on your desk, perching on a spot free from papers or office supplies. He crosses his legs, and you swing your office chair in his direction. “Sometimes, if you have a bitter memory, you can overwrite it by facing it over and over until you get used to it and it’s no longer so painful, right? Like exposure therapy.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Asaboo, at some point, has slowly run off to find the other Bangboo. They circle each other and jump around, an innocent dance of happiness, though Asaboo is watching your Bangboo more intensely than anything else in the room.

“Are you talking about the time we were turned into Bangboo?” you venture. It’s a memory whose threat has faded with time, becoming less of a menace and more of a funny office story to relay to coworkers. Dangerous situations and odd circumstances come part and parcel with your job.

Still, you can remember the sensation of being a Bangboo with startling clarity: the virtual buildings of Lumina Square inflating in size around you, wobbling on legs you weren’t used to, unable to wield a weapon. When you lifted your hands, a shock would jolt through you to see metal and not limbs and fingers. It’s a feeling of helpless you aren’t eager to return to.

“I was the first to turn into a Bangboo,” Harumasa says ruthfully. “And I couldn’t do anything. I had to watch everyone fight, knowing every second we wasted was a second closer to death. I had to watch you put your life at risk to keep me safe, and I couldn’t do anything at all. Everyone here is strong, but…” He taps his fingers on your desk. “You all pretend to be fine when you’re really not.”

How long has this been on his mind? It must have been what Miyabi noticed right away, from the very moment Harumasa started showing off the Bangboo. You slowly cover his hand with one of your own, entangling your fingers together. The heavy fabric of his gloves brush against your bare fingers, but you can still feel the bump of his knuckles, the curve of the back of his hand.

No one else in the office can see the two of you right now, the front of your desk with your computer and stack of books and folders acting as a barrier from the rest of the world.

“Harumasa.” You dip a finger under his glove, to feel the tender, warm, uncertain flesh underneath and trace designs on the back of his hand. His breath hitches. “You don’t need to take on everything yourself. You also like to pretend you’re fine when you’re not; you can rely on us a little more.”

“So the Bangboo weren’t a good idea, huh?” The joke comes out light-hearted and weak.

“No, they’re very cute,” you say. “I really like them, even if you don’t. But if you want to overwrite bitter memories, I think we should all do it together.”

A heated intensity steals across Harumasa’s face, his attention on you as unwavering and steady as a shaft of blazing summer light. “Together? Do you promise that?”

He bends his head a little closer, and you tilt your head upwards in response. Whatever it is he offers, you’ll accept.

However, before either of you can make another move, there’s a great crash, metal slamming on cold tile, and you instantly rise from your seat to seek out the source of the noise. In the middle of the offic, you see Asaboo collapsed on the floor, sprawled over like a fallen egg on its side.

“Oh no,” you murmur. But before you can rush over, something astonishing happens. Your Bangboo, which previously has ignored Asaboo, immediately leaps to Asaboo’s side, patting its head with its hands.

“Ehn-nah,” your Bangboo says worriedly.

“Eh-ne-ne,” Asaboo says back in a faint tone.

Your Bangboo cradles Asaboo’s hand in its own as it helps Asaboo stand. Asaboo leans on your Bangboo, though you can’t help but feel Asaboo’s steps are a little too energetic as your Bangboo guides it out of the door, their hands entangled together the whole time, probably to find a charging port or a mechanic. 

“Huh? I thought their Bangboo didn’t like Asaboo!” Soukaku says. She jumps up from her chair. Miyabi and Yanagi are clustered around Soukaku’s desk, ostensibly discussing some business that’s been interrupted by the Bangboo drama. “It didn’t want to play with Asaboo before!”

“I wonder if their Bangboo was just shy towards Asaboo,” Yanagi theorizes. “Or it’s possible it was jealous, too, of Asaboo clinging to someone else.”

“It’s most likely both,” Miyabi says. “I believe it’s always cared for Asaboo, and Harumasa by extension, but would loathe to let everyone know the extent of its feelings.”

Your face heats up as everyone’s gazes swing towards you, like bright stage lights revealing you to an audience you didn’t realize was there. You don’t even want to look at Harumasa, still perched on your desk, because you can already imagine the smug, overly pleased expression on his face. 

“I think we should talk about something else,” you suggest hastily. “Don’t you think Asaboo’s behavior was a little strange?”

“As Asaboo’s owner and foremost expert,” Harumasa says, one hand cupped around his chin, “I think it’s obvious Asaboo was faking its sudden bout of dizziness in order to get the attention of your Bangboo.”

“Why does that sound exactly like something you would pull off?” you say. “Like owner, like Bangboo.”

“Speaking of… I feel a little faint… I think… I need to lean on you…” Harumasa, with no attempt to hide his theatrics, begins to lean strategically in your direction, face landing on your shoulder, slumping his entire body so his weight falls on you.

“Asaba Harumasa, can you at least pretend to hide your intentions?”

“Can’t hear you… Still dizzy… We need to hold hands or I’ll fall…” 

Harumasa reaches for your hand with surprising speed, but you tuck it behind your back so he can’t hold it. He takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around you instead, and it takes all your willpower not to shove him off and onto the floor. 

You can still feel the gaze of your other coworkers upon you, and hear the whisper of their conversation, though they aren’t making any effort to hide their comments.

“They’re embarrassed,” Miyabi says quietly.

“They’re very embarrassed,” Yanagi says.

"...Is this related to the surprise for your teammates that you mentioned a few weeks ago?" Curious, you took a seat next to him, examining the little robot.

"Spot on! I got one for myself, they said it should act a bit like me, too. Aren't you happy to have two Harumasas now? Many fans would dream of this, you know?"

You rolled your eyes at his playful tone, reaching over to carefully pick up Asaboo and put him on your lap. The little thing was undoubtedly adorable, leaning into your touch when you began to pet one of his ears.

Your boyfriend watched for a little before a pout appeared on his lips, seeing his Bangboo get all of your attention. Now, he wasn't an overly jealous man, but... Come on! He was right there!

"Doooon't you think you're giving too much affection to him? What about your poor, sick boyfriend who has been working so hard lately?" He twisted his position to put his head between you and the robot, looking up at you with sad eyes.

"Aren't you working so hard these last few days because Yanagi got tired of how much you've been slacking off?" You raised an eyebrow at him, reaching over to continue petting the little rabbit.

"Whaaaaat? Me? Slacking off? I would never." In a quick show of his dexterity, Harumasa snatched the Bangboo from your lap and plopped his head on your thighs, the robot now sitting on his stomach.

He took one of your hands, guiding it to his head with a smirk on his lips. "There, you can pet me and I'll pet Asaboo, isn't this better?"

"Hmm, I don't know... I think Asaboo might be softer, and much more adorable..." You said, tapping your chin with a finger as if you were thinking really hard about it.

Harumasa gasped in mock hurt, resting a hand over his heart. "How could you... Ouch, I think... I think my heart is actually going to break. Oh, to die by being heartbroken, betrayed by my own partner... Ah, I can see the light..."

Letting out a snort at his antics, you ran your fingers through his dark hair, the fake hurt expression completely disappearing from the agent's face when you finally gave him what he wanted. True to his word, he began to pet the Bangboo's head in response.

"You're such a drama queen."

"But you loooove me!"

You shook your head with a smile, laughing when you felt one of Asaboo's paws start to pet your arm since it didn't reach your head, turning it into some kind of weird, petting circle.

the spoiler sweethearts

are at your EVERY beck and call and do not care how silly they may look when doing so. they get your meds if you need them, food, water, the whole nine yards. they spoil you and absolutely love you, even when you claim you look like shit (you never could in his eyes) 

jiyan, xiangli yao, argenti, luocha, jing yuan, your faves! 

they’re doing their best, okay?

they do everything the spoiler sweethearts do except a little clumsier and… in unique ways, to put it nicely. don’t get me wrong, they do their damned best to take care of you, but you KNOW they have no idea what the fuck they’re doing. they get an e for effort and a gold star for trying. 

boothill, calcharo, lingyang, aalto, gallagher (irony cause he’s a healer lol), your faves! 

they’re hopeless- get a medic to your home, quick! 

listen, they did their best but unknowingly made you feel worse in the process, which is… yikes, to say the least. at this rate, it would be best if you knew a healer and brought them to your home. but don’t tell him I said that, he’d look like a kicked puppy. 

blade, aventurine (throws money at you lovingly), luka, gepard (cries for you and then lynx comes over), your faves! 

getting meds in you before you get sick

truly the overachievers because they notice when you start feeling under the weather before YOU DO. but maybe they just have a sixth sense when it comes to you. i guess we’ll never know…

dr. ratio, dan heng, welt, sunday, jiyan, mortefi, your faves!