noobiestnoober

[noobiestnoober]

OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X F!READER

🖤 OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X ISABEL (Reader) 🖤

Chapter 5: Founders' Fire

Author: @noobiestnoober

Requested by: @issabellec7

✨ Summary:

Mystic Falls burns, secrets ignite, and the truth begins to bleed through the smoke. Isabel faces the flames, old enemies return, and magic leaves scars that memory alone can’t erase…

✨ Read the Previous Chapters Here: Old Debts, Dark Hearts

Chapter 5: Founders' Fire

The 150th Founders’ Day Parade swept through Mystic Falls in a flurry of music, laughter, and old secrets. Banners and bunting fluttered, the air sticky with anticipation and the hidden weight of history. Isabel moved purposefully along the edge of the crowd, senses finely tuned not just to the festivities but to the tension simmering beneath the day’s bright surface. She made her way toward the courthouse steps, lingering close enough to catch the glint of John Gilbert’s ring and the set of his jaw as he pressed his phone to his ear. She ducked behind a group of chattering townsfolk, her expression cool, all attention as she strained to listen, heart ticking up a notch.

The breeze carried scraps of John’s urgent conversation: “…the device… Katherine wants it ready. Tonight.”

The name hit Isabel with a cold, metallic sting. Katherine. In that instant, the sound and color of the parade fell away, replaced by a memory so sharp she almost gasped—a candlelit parlor, Katherine’s laughter in her ear, low and wicked: “Trust no one, Isabel. Not even the Mikaelsons. Their loyalty changes with the wind.” The words lingered as an ache in her bones. She watched John with fresh suspicion, her mind turning the possibilities over. What was Katherine planning, and how deep did John’s involvement go?

Isabel forced herself to move, her gaze skimming over costumed children, nervous parents, the over-bright eyes of the Founders’ families. Something was off-balance; she could feel it—a storm swelling behind the spectacle, waiting for its moment. She pressed closer to the curb, every muscle poised for disaster.

It came all at once. A shrill, invisible frequency ripped through the afternoon, undetectable to most—except for Isabel. Pain exploded behind her eyes, a raw electric agony. She staggered, clutching her skull, the world shrinking to the blur of her own ragged breathing. Around her, vampires dropped like stones, helpless as deputies moved in with vervain syringes and panicked townsfolk scattered or froze. Her last coherent thought was a flicker of panic and confusion, before everything narrowed to a tunnel of muffled sound, acrid smoke, and rushing blackness.

In that darkness, impressions drifted past: rough hands dragging her, the icy bite of chains at her wrists, the smell of stone and blood. When Isabel blinked awake, she was chained to a pillar deep in the Gilbert Building’s basement, her limbs heavy with vervain and exhaustion. Around her, vampires groaned and muttered. Damon Salvatore slumped nearby, sweat-slick and delirious. Across the room, the tomb vampire leader strained at his bonds. The walls pulsed with firelight as smoke curled upward, licking hungrily at the ceiling.

Fear pulsed in Isabel’s chest. Her mind scrambled, half-dreaming, as the door slammed and deputies’ boots retreated. In the corner, Damon’s voice rasped, “We’re running out of time. Somebody has to get us out of here.”

Then the door burst open—Stefan Salvatore, wild-eyed and desperate, silhouetted by smoke. He nearly stumbled over Isabel. His gaze landed on her, confusion and recognition dawning at once.

“Isabel?” His voice shook, torn between helping his brother and the woman lying at his feet.

She tried to speak but her voice was broken, barely a whisper: “Take him first. Hurry.”

Stefan hesitated, the fire roaring louder behind him, his own panic barely in check. He dragged Damon toward the exit, but flames closed the path. Isabel clawed for consciousness, reaching deep into her reserves. Words spilled from her lips, half-chant, half-prayer—old, sacred, dangerous. The fire twisted, forming a narrow corridor of safety.

She tried to crawl after them, but a burning beam crashed down across her legs. Pain—real, animal pain—blossomed as flesh charred and muscles seized. Stefan pulled Isabel out from under the burning beam, dragging her to a patch of floor untouched by fire. He crouched beside her, eyes wide in horror as he watched her wounds—raw and blackened—slowly begin to mend, torn flesh and ruined bone knitting together with unnatural speed. His breath caught; his hands trembled so hard he nearly dropped her.

Isabel blinked up at him, exhaustion and pain clouding her gaze. With effort, she summoned a last whisper of power, her fingers brushing Stefan’s cheek. Magic flickered between them—an ancient compulsion—and Stefan’s pupils dilated, his expression going slack as the memory of what he’d seen unraveled from his mind. Dazed, he got to his feet, instinctively hoisting Damon over his shoulder and stumbling toward the smoke-filled exit, never glancing back.

When the rescue teams finally broke in, they found only scorched chains, blood smeared on the stone, and a lingering trace of unnatural heat—no sign of Isabel at all.

Night had fallen by the time Bonnie found Isabel crouched in the shadows behind the Mystic Falls Library. Bonnie’s hands twisted the strap of her bag; her eyes wouldn’t meet Isabel’s. She hovered at the edge of the lamplight, silent for a long moment.

“I know what you did,” Bonnie said at last, her voice unsteady. “You saved them. I should have helped, but… I was angry. I froze. I’m so sorry.”

Isabel regarded her with an odd, tired gentleness. “Anger’s a hard thing, Bonnie. Sometimes it keeps us going. Sometimes it locks us inside ourselves.”

Bonnie’s shoulders hunched. She wrung her hands until her knuckles turned white. “Thank you—for saving them. Even after what I did.”

Isabel managed a rueful smile. “We all carry debts. Don’t let yours eat you alive.” She reached out, squeezing Bonnie’s cold, trembling fingers—a wordless promise of understanding.

Bonnie nodded, eyes shining with tears she wouldn’t let fall. She stepped back into the night, the burden of guilt a little lighter for having shared it.

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent light, the stink of antiseptic, and the murmur of tragedy. John Gilbert lay in a sterile bed, his hand bandaged, his eyes hollowed by pain and dread. When Isabel slipped into the room, her silhouette cut sharp against the pale blue curtain. John startled, trying to sit up, bravado crumbling.

“You should be dead,” he said, voice hoarse.

Isabel studied him, her features unreadable. For a fleeting moment, tension flickered in her jaw, the memory of fire and loss etched deep. “Not tonight,” she said. “But if you don’t tell me the truth—about Katherine, about the device—you’ll wish I was a ghost.”

He tried for a sneer but faltered, mouth twisting. “Katherine said this was just the beginning. The device—it’s only the first move. Mystic Falls will never be the same.”

Isabel stepped closer, her presence heavy as thunder. “You’re in over your head, John. And if you drag more people down with you, I’ll finish what Katherine started.”

A flash of fear, then something softer—wounded, wary—crossed her eyes. She lingered a moment longer, watching him, then turned and left the room, her mind already churning through possibilities, old debts and darker threats looming.

That night, Stefan tossed and turned in bed, haunted by images he couldn’t quite remember: flames roaring, flesh healing, a voice calling his name from the fire. Every time he reached for the memory, it slipped away, leaving only a hollow unease—and the growing suspicion that Isabel was far more than she seemed.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More TVD fics? [TVD Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X F!READER

🖤 OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X ISABEL (Reader) 🖤

Chapter 4: Witches’ Oaths

Author: @noobiestnoober

Requested by: @issabellec7

✨ Summary:

Founders’ Gala aftermath. Secrets in the spellbook. Bennett magic, heavy choices, and the power of oaths. Bonnie and Isabel face grief, guilt, and the legacy of old wounds—while the future of Mystic Falls balances on a witch’s promise.

✨ Read the Previous Chapters Here: Old Debts, Dark Hearts

Chapter 4: Witches’ Oaths

The morning after the Founders’ Gala arrived shrouded in quiet gloom, the sort that lingered in the corners of Bennet house crept through Mystic Falls itself. The air felt thick, heavy with all that had gone unsaid. In the kitchen, Isabel moved through her routines with deliberate gentleness—filling the kettle, setting out tea, letting her presence speak comfort. Across the table, Bonnie Bennett sat rigid, her hands curled tight around a mug she hadn’t touched, shoulders drawn in against the chill of memory and regret. Sunlight struggled through rain-splattered windows, casting pale ribbons that barely brightened the mood.

Isabel poured tea, her movements soft and measured. “It’s alright if you can’t talk yet. We can work in silence, if that’s easier. Sometimes the hands know what to do before the heart does.”

Bonnie glanced up, a brittle edge to her expression. “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere right now. Like I’m drifting.”

Isabel reached across the table, her hand a warm, steadying weight. “You belong right here. Would you like to go through Emily’s spellbook? Magic can help anchor us. We can do it together.”

A long silence. Bonnie’s reply, quiet but hopeful: “Yeah. I’d like that. I just… I miss Grams so much.”

They settled together on the couch, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the glass as Isabel retrieved a stack of worn books from her sideboard. The one she placed on top—Emily Bennett’s spellbook—was wrapped in a faded ribbon, its cover scuffed with age and history. Bonnie cradled it for a moment, then opened to the first page, running her fingers over the inked script. She breathed in the scent of old paper and sage, feeling something steady inside her begin to thaw.

As Isabel read aloud, the familiar cadence of spells seemed to settle Bonnie’s nerves. Together, they turned pages filled with sigils, protective circles, half-legible notes in Sheila’s looping hand. Isabel’s voice guided Bonnie gently: “Every witch leaves a mark, Bonnie. Our choices, our restraint—that’s our true legacy.”

Bonnie’s voice wavered. “But what if anger is all I have left?”

“Then you learn to hold it without letting it rule you.” Isabel turned another page, pointing out a healing incantation. “Magic is a promise. A burden and a blessing. Power untempered can shatter, but channeled with care—it can heal.”

Bonnie fell silent, her thumb tracing the edge of the page. “Sometimes it feels like I’m still at that kitchen table with Grams���her voice in my ear, correcting my mistakes.”

For a moment, Bonnie was lost in memory—a kitchen warm with sunlight, the clatter of teacups, Sheila’s laughter filling the space as Bonnie stumbled through an incantation, only to be gently guided back by her grandmother’s patient hands. The ache of loss tightened in her chest.

As they delved deeper, Bonnie discovered a nearly hidden page folded into the spine—a sketch of a peculiar metal device. “Jonathan Gilbert,” she read aloud, her tone distant and astonished. “Emily Bennett wrote about his inventions. It says here that every one of them was spelled by Bennett witches.” The margin notes detailed how the devices functioned, and more crucially, how they could be unmade.

Isabel felt the change in the room, a new current of electricity in Bonnie’s aura. “So the device Elena’s after—it’s bound by a Bennett spell?”

Bonnie’s lips parted in realization. “Only a Bennett can break it. And Elena and the Salvatores are counting on me.”

Her confession tumbled out in fits and starts—about her Grams, about guilt, about fury at the vampires who refused to leave well enough alone. “She died trying to seal that tomb,” Bonnie whispered, voice rough. “They made a mess of everything. I want to help Elena, but I also want the vampires to pay for what they did. I want to keep her safe. I’m not sure I can do both.”

Isabel’s hand closed over Bonnie’s, her jaw tight, eyes brimming with a quiet empathy. “I’ve kept secrets for the wrong reasons before. The choices you make—sometimes, there’s no right one. The question is whether you can live with it.”

Tears spilled down Bonnie’s cheeks as she admitted her plan: “If I pretend to break the spell, the device will still work. Elena will trust me, and if the vampires try anything, it’ll stop them. But… I can’t tell her. Or anyone. Not yet.”

For a beat, Isabel’s composure slipped—her hand tightened on the spellbook, knuckles pale. “That’s a heavy secret, Bonnie. It could cost more than you expect.”

“I know. But I can’t forgive them. Not yet. Please… just promise you won’t tell.”

The old oath settled between them, heavy and binding. Isabel gave a solemn nod. “I swear, by magic and by friendship. This stays between us.”

Dusk bled into the room. Bonnie gathered her things, shoulders lighter but her eyes still stormy. At the door, she paused, looking back. “Thank you—for listening. For not judging.”

Isabel offered a gentle smile. “My door is always open. If the weight gets too much, come back. Just remember—revenge never brings the peace we want. But you have choices. Always.”

Bonnie nodded, managing a wan smile before disappearing into the evening, burdened but no longer alone.

Isabel lingered, the house settling around her in the blue hush of night. She ran her hands over the spellbooks, her mind spinning back to a century past—the Salvatore brothers’ laughter echoing in firelit halls, secrets and mischief and shared dreams. Friendship and heartbreak tangled together, forever changed by choices made in fear and love alike.

Drawing herself into the present, Isabel carried the spellbooks to the garden. Kneeling among rain-dampened herbs, she pressed her palms to the earth, whispering old words as she wove protective wards into the soil—charms for safety, for hope, for the town and for the young witches she’d promised to protect. Every knot tied and rune traced was a small rebellion against despair and division.

Later, she watched moonlight spill through the window, feeling the echo of Bonnie’s anger and courage. In the solitude, Isabel reaffirmed her promise: when the time came, she would stand between darkness and those she loved—no matter how tangled the cost. The past might haunt her, but she would not let it define the future.

As midnight swept across Mystic Falls, Isabel let herself rest at last, the weight of secrets and oaths settling around her. Two witches lay awake—each on her own uncertain path, each holding tight to hope and the power of choice.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More TVD fics? [TVD Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X F!READER

🖤 OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X ISABEL (Reader) 🖤

Chapter 3: Red Under the Lights

Author: @noobiestnoober Requested by: @issabellec7

✨ Summary: As the Founders’ Gala shimmers through Mystic Falls, Isabel Sinclair senses the tension beneath the celebration’s polished surface. An unexpected reunion with the Salvatore brothers raises old questions, while her watchful presence anchors Bonnie through swirling guilt, grief, and dangerous new magic. When chaos erupts, Isabel intervenes—using her power to save Bonnie and stop Stefan before anyone else can be hurt. But even as the night calms, Isabel can feel a subtle warning in her bones: something is shifting in Mystic Falls, and her promise to Sheila Bennett—and to Bonnie—will be tested in ways she cannot yet foresee.

✨ Read the Previous Chapters Here: Old Debts, Dark Hearts

Chapter 3: Red Under the Lights

Afternoon sunlight slipped through lace curtains, sketching restless patterns on Bonnie’s bedroom walls. Isabel Sinclair stood at the window, listening for distant footsteps, more aware of Bonnie’s anxiety than the quiet street outside. Bonnie moved from her bed to the dresser, twisting her fingers in the hem of her dress, unable to settle.

“Bonnie,” Isabel said softly, her tone steady but gentle, “you don’t have to attend tonight if you aren’t ready.”

Bonnie glanced over, lips pressed thin. “I promised Caroline I’d help her. Besides, Grams would’ve wanted me to go to the Founders’ Gala. She used to say the town was safest when we kept an eye on it.”

Isabel’s lips twitched in a small, private smile. She crossed the room and held out a small charm—an old silver coin etched with worn runes. “Take this. For protection, for calm. Just hold it if things get overwhelming.”

Bonnie hesitated, then accepted the talisman, closing her hand around it. “Thank you.”

Isabel’s touch, briefly brushing Bonnie’s hair, was almost maternal. “Stay aware tonight. The town feels unsettled. Like something’s prowling, waiting for a moment of weakness.”

Bonnie shivered. “It’s not just you. I feel it too. Something’s different tonight.”

The hours before the gala dragged. Bonnie’s movements slowed; her laughter sounded forced when she reassured Caroline by phone. Isabel watched quietly, feeling ripples of unfamiliar magic. She caught her own reflection and, for a moment, saw her centuries-old burdens etched in the lines of her face. The promise to Sheila Bennett pressed heavy on her heart.

The Founders’ Gala glowed with polished wood and chandelier light, each surface reflecting a careful legacy—old money, pride, and secrets. Isabel entered alone, steps sure and unhurried, her presence drawing a few curious glances from the crowd. As she passed the entrance, Mrs. Lockwood greeted her warmly as an old friend of the Bennetts. “Sheila always believed every celebration was a chance to protect the town—one way or another,” Isabel said, the smile in her eyes just a shade too sad.

Before Isabel could move further, she caught sight of two figures at the edge of the ballroom—Damon and Stefan Salvatore, both frozen mid-conversation, eyes fixed on her. Damon was the first to recover, leaning in toward his brother and murmuring, "Tell me I’m not hallucinating."

Stefan’s voice was soft, almost awed. "She… she hasn’t changed."

Isabel approached, her lips quirking in familiar amusement. “You two always did look best in tuxedos.”

Damon offered his classic smirk, masking suspicion with charm. “And you always did enjoy making an entrance.”

Stefan stepped forward, warmth and confusion mixing in his gaze. “It’s been—what, a century?”

“Give or take. Some years are longer than others,” Isabel replied lightly, letting the moment linger.

Damon, eyes narrowing, dropped his voice. “Witches don’t stay young. Not like this.”

She met his gaze, enigmatic. “Let’s just say my methods are unconventional. Mystic Falls is overdue for unconventional solutions, wouldn’t you agree?”

Stefan, still processing, gave a nod. "A lot’s changed since you left. Things are... complicated."

A flicker of shadow crossed Isabel’s face. "I heard. Old debts, old friends—I couldn’t stay away."

The conversation left the brothers with more questions than answers. As Isabel melted into the crowd, Damon muttered to Stefan, “She’s hiding something.”

“Whatever it is,” Stefan said, watching Isabel disappear into the throng, “let’s hope it’s on our side.”

The crowd sparkled with silk and laughter, but Isabel felt the tension beneath the music. She observed how alliances shifted, how certain glances lingered too long, how rivalries and secrets wove just under the surface.

Near the refreshment table, Bonnie spoke quietly with Caroline while Elena hovered uncertainly. Isabel studied their dynamic, the forced smiles, the tightness in Bonnie’s shoulders, and the sympathy in Elena’s eyes. Caroline filled the silence with cheerful chatter. Old wounds had reopened, and guilt and grief rippled between them.

Across the ballroom, John Gilbert watched with patient malice. Isabel met his gaze, noting the sharp suspicion beneath his thin, knowing smile. When John intercepted her by the drinks table, he feigned casual interest. “Ms. Sinclair, isn’t it? I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

“Not officially,” Isabel replied with equal civility. “But you look just like your ancestor’s portrait in the Town Hall.”

John’s lips twitched. “You know a lot about Mystic Falls’ past. I’d be careful—this town has a long memory.”

“Sometimes memory is all that keeps a place safe,” Isabel answered, her tone edged with warning. They regarded each other a moment too long. John, unsettled by what he could not read in her, withdrew.

Music began; couples twirled onto the floor. Isabel’s gaze found Stefan Salvatore again, who radiated unease—a predator barely containing himself. She noted the way his focus slipped when others brushed past him, the effort behind his restraint. Danger clung to him.

Later, Isabel paused by the hall, catching Anna and Damon’s voices:

“You know John Gilbert is sniffing around again,” Damon said, sharp and impatient. “Whatever Pearl has, it needs to stay hidden.”

Anna replied, “We know how to protect ourselves. But your secrets have a way of causing trouble for all of us.”

Isabel remained at the edge, unseen. The mention of Pearl, John, and a hidden object troubled her. She made a mental note—she would watch the Gilberts and the Salvatores closely.

During the dance rehearsal, Isabel lingered near Bonnie and Caroline, watching Bonnie’s hands tremble. She leaned in: “You’re stronger than you know, Bonnie. But strength needs balance. Don’t let them see you rattled.”

Bonnie squeezed the talisman in her pocket, nodding. Isabel stayed nearby, a steadying shadow. The pageant unfolded. The air thickened; Isabel felt the dread rising.

When chaos erupted—a wave of desperate magic that sliced through the air—Isabel felt it like a sudden flare in her veins. She followed the surge toward a dimly lit hallway, skirts whispering against the marble. Just ahead, Stefan loomed over Bonnie, wild-eyed and barely restrained; the frightened pageant girl cowered on the floor. Without hesitation, Isabel’s eyes flashed with focus—magic surged from her outstretched hand, invisible force snapping through the air. Stefan’s head jerked violently as if struck, and he crumpled to the floor, immobilized by the witch’s spell. He collapsed, momentarily immobilized.

Bonnie staggered backward, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. Elena and Damon rushed in, alarmed. Damon’s eyes darted from Isabel to Stefan’s crumpled body, then back.

Damon’s voice was sharp, but grateful. “Good timing. I’ll handle my brother.” He dragged Stefan away as Elena tried to comfort the shaken pageant girl.

As Elena turned to Bonnie, hoping to reach her, Bonnie shook her head and bolted from the scene. Isabel, reading her distress, slipped quietly after her, finding her huddled in the shadowed alcove beyond the crowd.

She drew Bonnie close, hand resting gently on her arm. “Your magic was powerful. But power without balance is a danger to yourself and others. Never let fear drive your gift. You did what you had to, but there are other ways—and I’ll teach you. You’re not alone.”

Bonnie’s shoulders shook. “I didn’t know what else to do. He was out of control.”

Isabel squeezed her hand. “You made the hard choice. Sometimes that’s all any of us can do.”

As the Gala faded, they found a quiet corner. Bonnie described what happened, voice trembling with guilt and fear. Isabel listened, her own memories darkening her gaze.

“I was scared,” Bonnie whispered. “Not just for myself, but for what I could do if I lost control.”

“I know that fear well.” Isabel’s voice was steady, anchoring. “Magic can save or destroy—sometimes both. What matters is that you choose what to stand for, every time. And when you doubt, remember you have people who’ll help you carry the weight.”

Bonnie drew a shaky breath. “Will it get worse?”

Isabel nodded. “There’s a darkness gathering here. Tonight was only a warning. Be vigilant. Protect those you love—but yourself first.”

Bonnie pressed the talisman in her palm, drawing strength from Isabel’s words.

The Gala emptied, laughter fading into shadows. Alone, Isabel wandered the dim, quiet halls. She paused at a window, the glass cool beneath her palm, and felt a faint, uneasy tingling deep in her gut—like the hush before a storm, or the warning in old bones that something in Mystic Falls was about to shift. Not a vision, not true fear—just a subtle sense that the town stood on the edge of trouble.

She murmured a quiet protective phrase and traced a simple sigil in the condensation. No brilliant magic flared—just a promise to herself, a ward for the days to come. Isabel lingered in the hush, listening to the last notes of music, to the secrets and fears pressed into the walls by generations.

She looked up at the night sky, thoughtful. “You’re not alone, Bonnie,” she whispered, voice softer now—a vow and a comfort, not a threat. “I’ll watch for what’s coming.”

Before leaving, Isabel glanced back one last time, sealing her silent promise to Sheila’s spirit. As she stepped outside, the midnight wind brushed past her, stirring the leaves and hinting that change, not doom, waited just ahead.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More TVD fics? [TVD Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

🕊️ Announcement: Health Break Until September 5, 2025 🕊️

Hey everyone,

Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be taking a break from Tumblr until September 5, 2025 due to some ongoing health issues. It’s nothing too alarming, but I need to prioritize rest and recovery for the time being.

I know many of you have been following my stories and updates closely, and I’m truly grateful for your support, messages, and patience. This break is simply to give myself the space to heal so I can return stronger—and with better content.

In the meantime, feel free to explore the archives, re-read old works, or leave asks/messages if you’d like. I’ll get back to them once I’m back online.

Take care of yourselves, drink water, and remember: your well-being comes first too.

See you soon.

— @noobiestnoober 💜

[noobiestnoober]

Kitchen Counter (Childe X Lumine)

✨🍑 KITCHEN COUNTER 🍑✨ Childe x Lumine | Explicit | Hurt/Comfort, Dom/Sub, Aftercare 🩸 Bruises & Bandages. Teasing & Temptation. Worship on the Counter. 🩸

The Harbinger fusses over every bruise… until he loses control. In the hush of summer, all that heat finally breaks.

SMUT WARNING!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

The kitchen is thick with the scent of antiseptic and dusk-warmed pine, the window cracked for summer air as Childe peels off his gloves, fingers stained faintly pink from the last stubborn cut on Lumine’s forearm. Distant cicadas thrum against the hush, the lingering gold of twilight casting lines across the counters. His smile is lopsided, bright with trouble, as he rifles through the battered first-aid kit—he’s the Harbinger, but tonight he’s content to fuss and fuss, thumbs deft as he smooths a new strip of gauze over a purpled bruise. Touches linger, some too long, leaving ghostly heat behind; glances hang between them, each one a heartbeat past innocent, charged with unsaid things and a tension neither will break first. She hisses once when the alcohol stings, jaw taut, and his gaze catches hers, sharp and electric, the whole world narrowing to the slip of her breath.

“You take more hits than you let on, you know,” he teases, voice velvet-soft, blue eyes searching her face as if cataloguing every mark. His hand drifts, idle, knuckles brushing her cheek where the skin’s gone sun-warmed and tender. “Always running headlong into trouble. What would you do without me, huh?”

Lumine’s lips curve, faint, almost mocking. “Find someone less dramatic to play nurse,” she counters, her fingers ghosting along his jaw—a deliberate, featherlight touch. She feels the stubble, the promise of violence he carries in his bones, and her thumb lingers at the edge of his mouth, brushing away some imagined stain. For a moment, the distance between them is taut as a bowstring—until Childe exhales, slow and shaky, betraying the nerves he can’t quite hide.

That’s when he stills, breath flaring in his chest, the silence stretching until it snaps—something brittle and sweet. “You really wanna test my control, comrade?” The words drop like a gauntlet, heavy and wicked, his voice so low it curls inside her. She doesn’t look away. The kitchen seems smaller now, the air between them tight with possibility. Outside, a night bird calls and the world sharpens around the pulse in her throat.

He closes the gap, bodies flush in the cramped kitchen, and he presses her back against the counter with a deliberate slowness that feels like a dare. The hard edge bites into her hips, a tether pinning her in place as Childe cages her in, hands braced on either side, body crowding hers without force, just the threat of it. The air crackles, electric, and his eyes trace the line of her throat, the quick pulse fluttering there. She breathes in the salt of his skin, feels the barely-restrained force in the way his arms bracket her in, his presence looming like a storm about to break.

He leans in, close enough that she feels every exhale brush her skin. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but the words are a formality—he already knows she won’t. His lips find her jaw, tongue tracing the line where her pulse beats frantic, teeth scraping just enough to sting. Her breath shudders out, a trembling gasp—and her fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting in blue silk. His hands move with purpose, framing her face, his thumbs pressing gently at her jaw to tilt her head, exposing her neck in silent invitation.

His mouth works lower, slow as honey, painting bruises in the hollow of her throat, his hands dragging down her arms to pin her wrists to the counter. She squirms—restless, impatient—but he only smiles against her skin, a wicked little hum vibrating through her chest. “Easy, girl,” he breathes, one thigh wedging between hers, knee nudging her legs apart with casual certainty. “I want to remember every sound you make for me.” The promise thrums between them, hot and sharp.

Lumine bucks her hips, friction catching, and a low growl rumbles in his throat—fuck, you’re impatient,—as his teeth nip her collarbone, tongue soothing after. The bandages he so tenderly applied become leverage as he gathers both her wrists in one big hand, pinning them overhead, his grip firm but never cruel. His other hand trails down her waist, nails scratching lightly, teasing the edge of her torn shirt, pulling it up inch by torturous inch. She watches him, transfixed, the hunger in his gaze a mirror of her own.

She shivers, body arching into his touch, desperate for more. “You talk too much,” she whispers, voice frayed, and he laughs—low, dangerous, a wolf scenting blood. “And you’re reckless,” he answers, teeth flashing as he catches her earlobe between his lips, biting just hard enough to draw a gasp. His hands drift down, exploring every new patch of skin revealed, trailing fire in their wake. The counter creaks under the strain as she twists, pushing up against his chest, her own control unraveling.

Her shirt’s gone, carelessly tossed, the faded bandages stark against her skin. Childe pauses, his eyes devouring her, hungry and soft all at once, thumb stroking the underside of her breast. “Pretty thing,” he murmurs, voice gone rough. “So brave out there, but here… you’re mine.” He palms her breast, thumb circling her nipple until it pebbles tight beneath his touch, her back arching, lips parting on a breathy moan. He presses a line of kisses down her sternum, worshipping the tremble in her body, his breath hot as it ghosts across old bruises and fresh scratches.

He kneels, lips dragging down her stomach, tongue flicking over every new bruise, every scrape, worshipping each imperfection. He mouths at her hip, teeth grazing the band of her shorts, and looks up���eyes blown wide and wanting, his hair a copper halo in the lamplight. “Let me taste you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, as he hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags the fabric down, slow enough to drive her mad. Each inch of skin revealed is another conquest, another battlefield surrendered in the hush of their kitchen. Her fingers tangle in his hair, desperate, clutching at anything to anchor her.

Her thighs tremble, nerves singing, as he settles between them, hands pinning her knees wide. His mouth finds her, hot breath ghosting over her most sensitive skin, and the first press of his tongue is deliberate, possessive—a long, slow lick that has her gasping, head thrown back, hands scrabbling uselessly at the counter. Aah—haa, Childe, please— The kitchen fills with the slick, obscene sounds of his mouth, his tongue working her with maddening precision, alternating between gentle flicks and rough, hungry sucks that make her sob, “Nnhh, gods—” He’s methodical, relentless, mapping her with tongue and teeth, drawing out every sound, every tremor that he can wring from her body.

Childe’s free hand creeps up, fingers finding her mouth—“Bite down if you need to, comrade,” he whispers, voice dark silk, but she only whimpers and sucks them in, desperate for anything to ground her. He groans, the vibration sending sparks through her belly, and he works her faster, tongue pressing relentless circles until she’s shivering, thighs locked around his shoulders, the sweet wet heat building to a fever-pitch. The world drops away, nothing but sensation and the bruising grip of his hands, the insistent worship of his mouth, the throb of her heartbeat in her ears.

She comes undone, sharp and sudden, hips bucking, her moan spilling free—as she clenches around nothing, his name stuttering off her lips. He rides out her high, mouth never leaving her, drawing every last tremor from her body until she sags, boneless, against the counter. When she finally dares to open her eyes, his gaze is already waiting, greedy and reverent all at once, as if she’s a secret only he gets to know.

He stands, eyes glittering, mouth slick and feral as he licks his lips. “You’re dangerous,” he growls, grabbing her hips and hauling her up onto the counter in one fluid motion, settling between her spread thighs. His cock grinds against her, hot and thick through his clothes, and she arches into him, needy, the ache in her body returning sharper, deeper. “Now it’s my turn, isn’t it?” he whispers, voice a promise and a threat, and Lumine nods, dazed, pulling him close. Her hands tremble as they slip beneath his shirt, desperate for skin, for contact, for the shudder that runs through him when her nails scrape lightly across his back.

He kisses her, hard, biting at her lip until she moans, until the line between pleasure and pain blurs and they’re lost in each other. The kitchen is chaos, bodies tangled, every edge and angle pressed to its limits. She feels the harsh grind of his hips, the slick slide of her arousal staining his clothes, the stuttering hitch of his breath as she drags him closer, legs locking around his waist. There is no gentle now—only urgency, only need.

He fumbles with his belt, curses muffled against her throat. His hands tremble. When he finally frees himself, the heat of him presses against her, thick and throbbing—so real, so close.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice rough, and she does. Her eyes are wide and glassy, drinking him in as if he might vanish if she blinks.

He pushes into her—slow, deliberate, their bodies fitting together with a desperate, aching precision. She gasps. The stretch burns, then soothes, all at once. She clings to him, breathless, nails digging into his back, the world spinning out of focus.

They move together in a brutal, beautiful rhythm, every thrust knocking the air from her lungs, every gasp a vow he claims with his teeth at her throat. He fucks her hard, rough, not quite gentle but never cruel, each movement a challenge, a dare to see how much she can take. He keeps her wrists pinned overhead, free hand clutching her hip, thumb stroking lazy circles as he drives into her over and over, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing between gasps and curses.

She is undone, again and again, voice breaking as pleasure crests and crashes through her, the edge of the counter digging into her back, grounding her as she falls apart in his arms. Childe drinks in every sound, every moan, his own composure shattering as he chases his own release, grinding into her until the tension snaps, sharp and hot, and he spills inside her, hips stuttering, a guttural cry ripped from his throat.

For a long time, they stay tangled together, sweat-slicked and shaking, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the night pressing in at the windows. He presses kisses to her brow, her cheek, her mouth, softer now, almost reverent. “You’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of laughter, fingers tracing idle shapes over her skin. “Good thing I like trouble.”

She laughs, weak and giddy, and when he finally lets her go, he scoops her into his arms and carries her to the faded old couch in the next room. There, in the hush of the aftermath, he tends to every bruise, every ache, his touch gentler than before, as if he’s afraid she’ll break. She traces the line of his jaw, memorizing the curve of his smile, the softness in his eyes, the tremor in his hands as he tucks a blanket around them both.

The night stretches on, bruises and tenderness mingling in the hush. Every movement is a dare, a wild and perfect mess. Each sound is their secret. Each touch is a promise he has every intention of keeping. When sleep finally finds them, it’s tangled and sweet, a rare peace carved out of chaos, the world outside forgotten until morning comes again.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Genshin Impact fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

Drowning in Dreams (Childe X Lumine)

🌧️✨ Drowning in Dreams ✨🌧️ [Childe (Tartaglia) x Lumine | Hurt/Comfort | Genshin Impact One-Shot]

“In the middle of a storm, Lumine finds Childe lost to his darkest fears—so she climbs into his bed to hold him, promising he’ll never have to face the night alone.”

—

Read below for a gentle, emotional one-shot full of comfort, rain-soaked longing, and morning warmth.

Thunder rolled outside, echoing off the stone walls and rattling the little lantern perched on the sill. Lumine drifted in and out of shallow sleep, her body curled under thin, scratchy sheets in a small bed that creaked with every movement. The salty tang of the harbor air lingered in the room, and the drafty chill seeped through every crack. Her bare toes were cold, and each shift on the old mattress made it groan beneath her, reminding her of the lonely silence. The candle she’d lit for comfort had guttered out hours ago, leaving only the storm to cast restless shadows across the ceiling. She was half-lost to dreams when a sound cut through the silence—a shuddering gasp, soft but raw, almost swallowed by the rain.

She sat up, blinking into the dark. The harbor below was quiet, boats bobbing gently on the water, their lanterns distant. There it was again: a muffled, desperate sound, choked as if someone was fighting to breathe. Instinctively, her heart clenched with worry. She listened, holding her breath. It came from down the hall.

Childe.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard him pacing at night, his footsteps light as a shadow in the corridor, his presence lingering outside her door. Sometimes, she’d catch a glimpse of his silhouette beneath the doorway, see the flicker of blue eyes in the darkness before he moved away, feigning nonchalance the next morning. But tonight felt different—his suffering was too raw to hide.

She rose and moved across the cold floor, her feet silent as she slipped into the hallway. Childe’s door was ajar. The room beyond was bathed in silver-blue, pale moonlight fighting through rain-streaked glass. He lay curled on his side, sheets twisted around him, sweat plastering his ginger hair to his brow. Even in sleep, tension gripped his frame. His hands clawed at the pillow, nails digging in as he whispered broken words—pleas and apologies in his native tongue. Lumine recognized only fragments, but one word cut through: “Don’t.”

She hovered at the threshold, heart pounding. In the pale blue light, Childe looked so vulnerable—stripped of bravado, of Fatui arrogance, of every mask he wore by day. She’d seen him laugh off wounds and face monsters without blinking, but now he trembled, lost in nightmares she couldn’t see. The sight carved straight through her, shifting her worry into something deeper—an ache she couldn’t ignore, pulling her forward before she even realized she’d moved.

Without thinking, she padded across the room and gently climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight. Childe’s breathing hitched; his nightmares seemed to close in tighter, his face contorting with panic. She reached for him, hesitating for the briefest moment, then wrapped her arms around his tense shoulders from behind, drawing him close.

He jolted—startled, halfway between sleep and waking. For a moment he struggled, like a man fighting the tide, but then recognition flickered across his features even with his eyes closed. With a broken sound, he turned toward her, grabbing her as if she might vanish, clutching her with a desperate, bruising strength. His face pressed against her shoulder, breath ragged, his whole body trembling.

“It’s me,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair, voice soft and steady. “You’re safe, Childe. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He shuddered, a strangled sob escaping his lips. His grip loosened only slightly, hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt as if she were the only thing anchoring him to reality. Rain drummed a lullaby on the roof; somewhere far off, thunder grumbled. She could feel his heartbeat hammering against her chest.

Gradually, the tension seeped from his body. His breathing slowed, though he refused to let her go. Lumine just held him, one hand rubbing slow circles along his back, grounding him in the present. His whispered Fatui gave way to silence, save for the storm and their mingled breaths.

She wondered what he saw in his dreams. The endless cold of Snezhnaya? The faces of those he’d fought and lost? Or maybe, worst of all, visions of her slipping from his grasp—taken by the Fatui, by fate, by his own mistakes. The thought made her hold him tighter.

For a long while, neither moved. The minutes stretched on. Childe’s grip softened, but even as his body finally relaxed, he kept her close, as if letting go would send him tumbling back into darkness. In some distant part of his dreaming mind, warmth and safety wrapped around him—something precious he could never allow himself in waking life. Even asleep, he clung to her, afraid that if he released her, he’d be lost to the storm forever. In that fragile silence, Lumine pressed her cheek to his hair and promised herself—whatever haunted him, whatever the Fatui or the future threatened, she wouldn’t let him face it alone.

As the storm faded and a pale dawn crept through the window, Childe finally slipped into peaceful sleep, breath even and quiet. Lumine stayed with him, tangled together in the nest of sheets and comfort, vowing to be the anchor he so desperately needed.

She never let go. When morning broke, soft golden light spilled across the tangled sheets, brushing warmth over them both. Lumine closed her eyes and breathed in the quiet, feeling the last traces of the storm melt away. In that hush, with sunlight on their skin and Childe finally at peace, she knew they had made it through the night—together.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Genshin fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X F!READER

🖤 OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X ISABEL (Reader) 🖤

Chapter 2: The Debt

Author: @noobiestnoober Requested by: @issabellec7

✨ Summary: After Sheila Bennett’s funeral, Bonnie finds herself lost in grief—until Isabel Sinclair becomes a gentle, guiding presence in her life. As the two begin to build a bond over shared stories, tea, and old magic, Isabel steps into the role of Bonnie’s mentor, honoring an old promise to Sheila. But as night falls, Isabel senses that something dark and ancient is already stirring in Mystic Falls…

✨ Read the Previous Chapters Here: Old Debts, Dark Hearts

Chapter 2: The Debt

Two weeks had passed since Sheila Bennett’s funeral, and the hush over Bonnie’s house had only deepened. Shadows gathered in corners, memories clinging to curtains and doorframes. Bonnie moved quietly through rooms that felt hollow without her Grams—every footstep echoing with loss. The silence pressed in, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator or the creak of floorboards. She avoided the kitchen, where the memory of her Grams humming over boiling water made the emptiness sharper, and rarely ventured into the garden, where rosemary and sage grew wild. Sometimes she paused in a doorway, fingers tracing an old shawl, staring at a half-burned candle, or picking up a teacup still marked with her Grams’ faded lipstick. These small remnants made her ache, caught between longing for the past and struggling to move forward.

One afternoon, Bonnie opened the door to find Isabel standing on the porch, a small tin of loose-leaf tea in her hands. Isabel smiled—calm, not pressing—and asked if she could come in. They brewed the tea together, letting the scent of roots and petals fill the kitchen. For the first time since Grams’ death, Bonnie felt a flicker of comfort, drawn from the careful way Isabel moved and the steady certainty of her presence.

They settled in the living room, rain tapping gently at the windows. Isabel listened quietly while Bonnie spoke—sometimes about the weather, sometimes Mystic Falls history, sometimes nothing at all. When conversation turned to magic, Isabel's tone was gentle and reverent, never showy, always a little cautious. That restraint, more than anything, made Bonnie begin to trust her. In those moments, with the warmth of tea in her hands and Isabel’s steady presence, Bonnie realized she might not be as alone as she’d thought.

One slow afternoon, rain pattered against the window, blurring the world outside into a watercolor of gray and green. The hush in the room was heavy, filled with unspoken questions and quiet longing. Bonnie poured hot water over a blend Isabel had given her, the steam curling up, scented with lavender and something wild—like the memory of a forest after a storm. Isabel sat on the edge of the armchair, posture perfect but never rigid, her dark eyes reflecting not just the muted light but a history of secrets. Bonnie curled on the couch, hugging her knees, the mug warm between her palms, drawing comfort from the simple act of sharing space. Between them hung the sense of words left unsaid, the silence shaped as much by grief as by trust growing slowly between them.

They sat together in the rain-washed quiet. Bonnie found herself studying Isabel, noticing her stillness—how she seemed to listen not only to Bonnie, but to something far beyond the house. The question slipped out before Bonnie could stop it.

“Do you ever feel like you’re standing at the edge of something you can’t see?” she asked softly, stirring honey into her tea.

Isabel’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Often. The world is full of things just beyond the veil, Bonnie. Some are beautiful. Some are not.”

Bonnie nodded, gazing into her cup. “Grams used to say I was stronger than I believed. But I don’t feel strong. Not now. It’s like—part of me is missing.”

Isabel leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. “Grief doesn’t make you weak. It means you loved deeply. That love—it’s still with you. In your magic. In the way you see the world.”

Bonnie blinked, tears gathering. “I wish I could feel her here. It’s like everything is muffled.”

Isabel set her tea aside and reached across, not touching, but offering presence. “Magic has a way of echoing through loss, but it doesn’t disappear. It waits, sometimes. It finds you again, when you’re ready.”

They talked about Sheila then—memories, recipes, small magics she’d taught Bonnie as a child. Isabel’s voice grew softer as she recounted a night long ago when she’d been adrift, too proud to ask for help. Sheila had found her outside a rundown boarding house, shivering in the dark. Without a word, Sheila had taken her hand and led her inside, brewed a strong tea laced with a Bennett charm, and fixed Isabel with a look that brooked no argument. “Drink, and stop being stubborn,” Sheila had said, her tone both gruff and kind. “Magic is no good to a soul that’s lost itself.”

Bonnie smiled through her tears, picturing her grandmother’s fierce compassion. The story made Isabel’s presence feel less like an intrusion, more like a continuation of an old promise.

Bonnie’s laugh was watery but real. “That sounds just like her.”

“It was,” Isabel said softly. “She had a gift for knowing exactly what someone needed.”

A comfortable quiet settled. The rain grew heavier, drumming on the windows, and the house seemed to draw in closer, warm despite the storm.

Bonnie hesitated, then set her mug aside. “How did you know her? Really?”

Isabel’s fingers toyed with her teacup, expression distant. “Sheila helped me once, a long time ago. She taught me what it meant to carry a burden with dignity. We kept each other’s secrets, and I promised I would be there if she ever needed me. Now, I’d like to help you—if you’ll let me.”

Bonnie studied her, searching for honesty. “As my mentor?”

“If you want.” Isabel’s voice was gentle. “Not to replace your Grams, but to honor her. To help you learn safely, and not alone.”

Bonnie nodded, a slow, shy smile tugging at her mouth. “I think I’d like that.”

Isabel reached into her bag and drew out a small, leather-bound notebook, its cover softened with age. She set it gently on the table between them. “Your Grams kept notes—old spells, bits of wisdom, warnings. She left them for you, with me. Will you let me teach you some of what she wanted you to know?”

Bonnie’s hands trembled as she reached for the notebook. Opening the cover, she saw her Grams’ handwriting, looping and sure. The words smelled of dried herbs and time. Bonnie looked up, hope and sadness raw in her eyes. “Yes. Please.”

They spent the afternoon together, the living room softly aglow with lamplight as the sky darkened. They turned pages, reading words that sparked with quiet power. Isabel translated older spells, explained the layers of meaning behind Sheila’s notes, and gently guided Bonnie when she tried a simple incantation—lighting a candle, charming a stone. Bonnie found herself laughing more than she expected, and when she stumbled, Isabel simply smiled, repeating one of Sheila’s favorite mantras: “Magic is as much forgiveness as it is strength.”

Outside, the rain washed over Mystic Falls, making the world feel far away and secret. Inside, Bonnie felt—if not whole—at least no longer adrift. For the first time since the funeral, hope edged out the heaviness of grief.

As dusk settled, Isabel helped Bonnie brew one last cup of tea. Bonnie watched her, noting the care in every gesture. “Did you ever make mistakes, when you were learning?”

“All the time,” Isabel admitted, her eyes sparkling with a rare mischief. “The trick is not to fear the magic, or the mistakes. It’s to learn from them, and to remember who you are.”

Later, after Bonnie went to bed, Isabel lingered in the living room, reading over Sheila’s grimoire by the soft porch light. She traced the Bennett sigil with careful fingers, feeling the pulse of old magic beneath her skin—a restless reminder of debts unpaid. She closed her eyes and whispered into the night, “The debt is not paid yet, Sheila. But I will protect her, no matter the cost.” For a brief moment, Isabel sensed something shifting in the air—an ancient warning or a promise carried on the wind. She opened her eyes, resolve sharpening her features. Something unseen was stirring in Mystic Falls, watching and waiting.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More TVD fics? [TVD Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

Lantern Rite Chaos (Childe X Lumine)

✨ Lantern Rite Chaos — Genshin Impact One-Shot ✨

Pairing: Childe x Lumine (event/chaotic fluff, comedy) Setting: Liyue Lantern Rite Festival Summary: When Childe drags Lumine into Liyue’s Lantern Rite Cooking Contest, chaos—and culinary disaster—ensue. From sabotaged woks to sentient dumplings, the only thing fiercer than the competition is the banter between the two. Lanterns rise, tempers flare, and next year’s revenge is already on the menu.

🥟🎆🍤

Liyue Harbor glittered like a treasure chest cracked open beneath the soft glow of the Lantern Rite. Fireworks stitched golden threads into the velvet night. Every ripple in the harbor reflected a thousand hopeful wishes. On the main street, food stalls fanned out in a rainbow of color. Spices perfumed the air. The sizzle of festival treats promised warmth and comfort. Children chased each other between tables; merchants called out their best deals; paper lanterns bobbed gently on the water, each bearing a quiet prayer. And somewhere in the bustle—

“Lumine! Quick, pretend you know how to sauté!”

Childe grabbed her wrist, yanking her straight through a cluster of stunned elders and wide-eyed street performers. The sharp jingle of talismans overhead—symbols of fortune, peace, and, apparently, culinary skill—barely registered as she was dragged bodily toward a stage set just beyond the docks. The crowd pressed close, half the city eager for a view.

"Why are we—?" Lumine tried to dig in her heels, but Childe was relentless.

“No time!” He shot her a dazzling, wolfish grin that spelled nothing but war crimes and bad decisions. “I entered us into the Liyue Lantern Culinary Showdown.”

She nearly tripped as he hauled her up onto the platform, just as an announcer boomed over the din: “Team Northern Appetite! Featuring contestants from... Snezhnaya?!”

The effect was instant. Boos. Hisses. A small steamed bun whizzed past Lumine’s ear and nearly clipped Childe in the cheek.

Lumine ducked, wide-eyed. “Childe!”

“What? I’m playing to our underdog appeal.” He was already rummaging through their station, brandishing a wok like a weapon. “We have thirty minutes to impress the judges. And win. And humiliate that fool Xiangling who dared call my borscht ‘military rations.’”

She gaped at him. “You didn’t even cook that, your retainer did.”

He winked, as if this was the most natural admission in the world. “Semantics. You sauté, I sabotage.”

Chaos erupted before she could protest further. The pantry was a warzone. Childe moved like a tornado with a grudge. Tomatoes arced through the air. Garlic cloves rained down. Oil hissed, sharp and dangerous. He snatched a ladle from a bewildered Mondstadt teen. He ignored the scandalized looks from the organizers. He leaned in and whispered, “Shh. Think of it as... cultural exchange.”

Meanwhile, Lumine rolled up her sleeves and got to work. She chopped bok choy with deadly precision, stirred broth until it tasted almost restaurant-worthy, and tried to drown out the chaos behind her. Every now and then, she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, only to see her so-called teammate committing ever more egregious culinary crimes.

He added sugar instead of salt. Twice. He flambéed something with a reckless glee that had the audience leaning back in their seats. He tried to fillet a fish and somehow managed to fling it onto Xiangling’s prep table, only for Guoba to leap into action and chase Childe in frantic circles, knocking over bowls, trays, and one unlucky contestant from Inazuma who was just trying to zest a lemon.

Lumine pressed her lips together to hide a smile. For all his bravado, Childe was an absolute disaster in the kitchen. His apron was already on fire once—put out by a quick-thinking Xiao tossing a bucket of water his way.

The crowd was eating it up. Laughter, jeers, shouts of encouragement. A group of Liyue elders was loudly debating whether this counted as culinary blasphemy or modern art. Meanwhile, time was ticking down and Lumine tried to focus, assembling her golden shrimp balls and jasmine broth, hoping the flavor would at least earn them pity points.

Behind her, Childe was making a mockery of gastronomy. At one point he mistook flour for powdered sugar and dumped it wholesale into his batter. He tried to caramelize onions, then promptly forgot about them. “I once caught a fish this big in the Snezhnayan tundra—” he declared, only to be interrupted by a judge: “You’re supposed to be making dumplings.”

Guoba returned, victorious, having rescued Xiangling’s fish. Childe, undeterred, snatched a scallion from another contestant, tossed it into his wok, and flambéed the entire mess with a flourish that set several judges’ robes smoking.

The last few minutes blurred into pure chaos. The crowd pressed in, anticipation buzzing in the air. Lumine plated her dish with trembling hands, heart thudding as she glanced at the judges. Childe, meanwhile, unveiled his own creation: a horrifically charred... dumpling? The smell hit first—burnt, vaguely chemical, and not entirely reassuring. It oozed. It hissed. It might have been sentient.

“I call it ‘Polar Night Delight,’” he declared, loud and proud.

Lumine’s dish sat serenely beside it—a steaming, humble bowl of shrimp balls, golden and aromatic, with delicate jasmine broth.

The judges started with hers. They murmured in approval, one even nodding in honest surprise. Then, with the solemn bravery of people facing death, they sampled Childe’s.

One judge fainted.

Another began sweating and muttering about “descending into the abyss.”

A third spat it out and demanded to know if regret was an actual seasoning. Xiangling doubled over, tears streaming down her face. “Did you season that with... regret?” she managed between fits of laughter.

Guoba, not to be left out, sniffed Childe’s dish, recoiled, and retreated under Xiangling’s chef hat for safety.

Childe was utterly unfazed. He slung an arm around Lumine’s shoulders as the crowd voted—by laughter, by applause, by sheer volume—not for him.

“Well,” he sighed as lanterns rose above, bathing their utter failure in soft amber, “we didn’t win, but I call this a success.”

Lumine glared, trying to look cross, but couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “You’re completely insane.”

He grinned. “And yet... you’re still here.”

The last of the lanterns soared skyward, casting shimmering reflections on the harbor. All around, the festival carried on—drums, laughter, the hum of happy chaos. Childe’s hand lingered just a second longer at her shoulder, then dropped away, but the warmth remained. Her cheeks flushed from the heat. Or maybe it was something else entirely. But she didn’t move.

“Next year,” he whispered, “we’re sabotaging with style. I’ll come prepared. Tripwires. Exploding radishes. The works.”

She rolled her eyes, voice soft but fond. “Next year, you’re wearing a shock collar.”

He grinned wider, the wicked glint in his eyes returning. “Only if you hold the remote.”

Lanterns drifted higher, painting golden patterns on the water below—the same golden threads that had signaled the start of the night’s chaos. Somewhere in the distance, a new firework burst and the crowd cheered, laughter ringing through the city. Lumine glanced at Childe, shaking her head, but the smile on her lips was genuine. Lantern Rite, she realized, always promised surprises. And next year, she’d be ready for anything—especially him.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Genshin fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

Wounds Unseen (Childe X Lumine)

╔══ ❀•°:❁:°•❀ ══╗ WOUNDS UNSEEN ╚══ ❀•°:❁:°•❀ ══╝

Genshin Impact | Childe x Lumine Angst · Hurt/Comfort · Lantern-lit Nights in Liyue

“You don’t get to die. Not like this. Not out there alone.”

Blood in the quiet, golden corners of Liyue. Truths exposed beneath trembling hands. A moment where neither hero nor harbinger knows what to say—only that tonight, neither of them is alone.

The scent of blood shouldn’t have lingered in the quiet corners of the inn. Not here, not in Liyue, where silk lanterns painted golden spirals across the polished wood and the air smelled of spice, river fog, and the faint sweetness of osmanthus. Yet it lingered—a quiet, metallic shadow beneath all the warmth and light, a wrongness that didn’t belong.

Lumine caught it the moment she entered the hallway, that copper tang threading through all the usual smells. It pulled at her, sharper with every step, until she was gliding past creaking floorboards and weaving between forgotten furniture. At the end of the hall stood a closed door, silent as the grave. She didn’t bother knocking. She pressed her palm to the wood and pushed, careful but certain, letting the hush swallow her whole.

Inside, the world shrank to shadows and gold. Childe sat slumped on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, jacket discarded in a heap on the floor. Blood soaked through the linen wrap clinging to his ribs—so much that the white cloth was nearly black. He didn’t look up when she entered. There was no bright grin, no careless tease, no cocky tilt of his head. Only breathing—slow, uneven, shuddering. A hiss slipped out as he shifted, the sound more resignation than pain. For once, he didn’t put on a show—simply sat there, letting the silence stretch and himself bleed.

Lumine shut the door behind her, the click of the latch oddly final. For a moment, neither spoke. The golden light from the paper lanterns slanted across his face, revealing how pale he was—how young he looked, stripped of all bravado and masks.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” Her voice barely broke the quiet, but it carried—a tremor threaded through soft steel.

Childe didn’t flinch. “Figured it wasn’t worth it.” He glanced down at the rag in his hand, already soaked through, crimson blooming from between his fingers. “Got careless. It happens.”

She crossed the distance quickly, not letting herself hesitate. The boards creaked under her weight as she knelt in front of him, knees hitting the wood with a dull thud. He looked at her, gaze flicking away just as fast. Uncertain. Vulnerable. But he didn’t move. Didn’t stop her as she reached for the knot at his side, her fingers brushing warm, sticky skin.

“I’ll do it,” she said, her voice so low it barely counted as sound—a whisper, a promise. A plea, maybe, to let her in just this once.

The cloth stuck to his wound like a second skin. She peeled it back, slow and careful, revealing the raw edge of the gash—long, deep, ugly. Not the kind of wound you got by accident. Not something from a sparring match or a stumble in the dark. This was the mark of a blade meant to kill, left fresh and angry, still oozing at the edges but already crusting with the telltale brown of old blood. He sucked in air between his teeth but held still, jaw tight, blue eyes fixed on a point just over her shoulder. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say a word.

“This isn’t careless.” Her words were soft, but each syllable cut deep, sharper than any blade. “This is someone trying to put you in the ground.”

He tried to muster a laugh, but it came out broken—a sound with no joy in it. “Occupational hazard,” he muttered, like that could explain everything. Like it was normal.

“Don’t,” she snapped, sharper now, pressing a little harder than she needed to. He grunted, flinched, but still didn’t pull away. “Don’t turn this into some game.”

A silence fell, heavy and brittle. It pressed down on them, as if even the lanterns dared not flicker. Lumine fumbled through her pouch, hands trembling just enough for him to notice but not enough for her to stop. She found a salve, fingers brushing the cool glass of the jar, and smeared it gently across the wound, watching red streak and smear beneath her touch. The metallic scent grew stronger, mingling with the ointment’s herbal tang.

“You always bleed like this when you lie?” she asked, bitterness coloring her words.

His hand lifted, shakily, to catch her wrist. It was a weak grip, but it stopped her all the same. “Lumine.” Her name sounded different when he said it, softer, edged with something raw.

She froze, pulse pounding in her ears.

“If I told you every time I came back like this…” He trailed off, voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t sleep.”

“I don’t sleep anyway,” she replied, too fast, too honest.

A heartbeat passed between them—a fragile, electric moment. The world outside faded, replaced by the golden hush of lamplight and the steady sound of Childe’s uneven breathing.

“I don’t sleep because I wonder where the hell you are, and if you’re even still alive.” The admission was brittle, sharper than her earlier anger. She looked at him, really looked, and saw all the exhaustion hidden beneath his usual bravado.

For the first time, Childe met her gaze fully. There was nothing in his expression she recognized—no mask, no Fatui, no harbinger. Just a boy, barely older than her, skin washed pale in the lantern glow, mouth parted as if searching for words that refused to come.

So she said them for him, voice breaking on the edges. “You don’t get to die,” she whispered, pressing a fresh bandage to the wound, firmer than before. “Not like this. Not out there alone.”

She wound the cloth slowly, carefully, her hands lingering longer than they needed to—fingers trembling with all the things she couldn’t say. His skin was hot under her touch, feverish and shivering, and she couldn’t tell if it was him or her shaking. She tied off the bandage, gentle, thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

Childe didn’t say a word. He just watched her, eyes searching her face, expression unreadable. His lips parted, but whatever words he wanted to say caught in his throat.

The bandage held. Her fingers stilled on his skin. The silence swelled—full of everything unsaid.

She stayed there, kneeling before him in the soft gold light, unwilling to move. He watched her, breathing a little easier now, eyes heavy with exhaustion. For a long moment, nothing else mattered—just the warmth of their hands, the soft hush of breath, and the certainty that—for tonight, at least—neither of them was alone. Outside, the world spun on, the lanterns swaying in the Liyue night, casting shifting shadows across their quiet sanctuary.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [masterlists here]!” and “More Genshin fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

Heya, it's me again! The anon who requested Reader interviewing B.O.W.s with a tiny mic and I'm back at it again with more crackfic chaos!

This time, it isn't in the Assistantverse, instead, this is an RE5 AU where Chris and Sheva face a horde of Wesker clones meant to confuse them only to realize they're not as intelligent as the real deal, in fact, far from it. Their true feelings are unfiltered. Basically, they're all just a bunch of himbos that have a huge crush on Chris and they're quite chatty. They all act like like a bunch of fangirls. They swoon over everything that Chris does. For example, they all cheer when Chris punches a boulder lol

Meanwhile, the actual Wesker is hiding away elsewhere out of embarrassment lol

(Btw this is based on an actual RE5 mod where there are multiple Weskers)

https://youtu.be/VL1-OwqChdY?feature=shared

(Sorry if this is too long lol)

(Feel free to delete this ask if you want)

🦠 Chris Redfield and the Boulderpuncher Fangirl Army 🦠

(Resident Evil 5 Crackfic One-Shot | Wesker Clone Chaos)

“I FOUND A ROCK!” “I CAN BE A ROCK!” “Chris, use me for strength training!” “It’s like he’s singing to us. Chris, say ‘boulder’ again.”

Summary:

Chris and Sheva face the ultimate bioweapon: an army of Wesker clones who are... not exactly the intellectual elite. Swooning, chaotic, and utterly obsessed with Chris, these clones make boulder-punching the hottest event in Africa. Meanwhile, the real Wesker is hiding in the vents out of secondhand embarrassment, silently plotting his own dramatic resignation from villainy.

A/N: Huge thank you to the brilliant anonymous requester for this absolute goldmine of a prompt! You inspired one of the most chaotic and joyful crackfics I’ve written in ages—hope you enjoy every ridiculous Wesker-clone, boulder-punching, therapy-bound second of it. Your ideas are always welcome in my inbox! 💖

"Ready, partner?" Chris asks, voice all steely confidence as he reloads his gun, dust caked on his arms, biceps flexing like he’s starring in a protein shake commercial. The sun glints off his forehead in the kind of way that makes Sheva reconsider every life choice that got her here.

Sheva barely gets a chance to respond before the air is suddenly filled with identical, echoing voices: “CHRIS!! OMG, IT’S REALLY HIM!!”

From every corner of the crumbling ruins, a swarm of men in black—sunglasses gleaming, trench coats billowing in the equatorial heat (somehow)—burst out, each one jostling for space and attention. It’s a Wesker-palooza. Something’s… deeply, deeply off. They tumble into the open, like runway models who took a wrong turn at a villain convention.

The clones descend in a wave of excitement, all talking at once—

One twirls his sunglasses and swoons, "Chris Redfield, you’re even buffer in person! Can I touch your biceps? For science?" Another clutches his chest, declaring, "The way you reload… so efficient! So manly! Does your arm ever get tired?" A third, barely able to contain himself, points at Chris’s biceps and exclaims, “Is it true you bench press B.O.W.s for breakfast? Wait—do you need a workout partner? I volunteer!”

Chris blinks. Sheva stares. A clone sighs dreamily and scribbles in a diary labeled “Chris’ Boulderpuncher Era.”

Sheva leans in and lowers her voice. "Is it too late to switch partners?"

Clone #4 perks up instantly. "I’ll be your partner, Sheva! Unless Chris wants me as his spotter—then sorry, girl, priorities!"

Meanwhile, Real Wesker is hidden in the shadows, silently reciting self-affirmations and regretting every choice that led him here. "They’re a disgrace to my genetic superiority," he hisses, trying to squeeze himself further into the air duct. A single, silent tear rolls behind his sunglasses. The duct, by the way, is now full of empty Monster cans and a crumpled villain handbook.

Chris, ever the professional, tries to push forward. But with every step, the Wesker clones trail after him like overeager fans at a world’s strongest man competition. Every flick of his wrist, every tactical roll, every faint grunt—met with wild applause and at least three fainting spells.

It’s then that Chris finds their path blocked by a massive boulder—impossibly wedged in the way, as if mocking him. The clones gasp in suspense, clutching each other. Chris sighs, rolling up his sleeves with the practiced resignation of a man who’s done this before.

He squares up to the boulder. The clones hold their collective breath, a reverent hush falling. He punches—no, obliterates—the boulder. Debris flies. Sweat glistens. There is a beat of stunned silence before the entire clone squad erupts: hats thrown, sunglasses flying, some literally drop to their knees, others begin openly weeping with joy. It’s pandemonium, like someone just announced free protein bars for life.

The clones absolutely LOSE IT.

Clone #5 (screaming): “DID YOU SEE THAT? HE PUNCHED IT! HE REALLY DID! HE’S SO STRONG!!”

Clone #6 (crying actual tears, clutching a notebook): “He’s even more beautiful when he’s exerting brute force! I’m writing this down for my fanfic.”

Clone #7 (clapping): “Can I get your autograph on my Uroboros sample? Please!? Also, do you want to collab on an anti-Wesker workout DVD?”

One clone faints. Another tries to take a selfie with Chris in the background but only manages to capture Sheva’s look of pure existential dread. A third clone starts live-streaming to his 3 followers on CloneTok, hashtagging #BoulderDaddy #ChrisCrush #WeskerIsShook.

Sheva, using the opportunity, starts sneakily herding the lovesick clones into a corner. “Look, if you want Chris to notice you, maybe form a line. Or, uh, bring him more boulders. He likes boulders. Or protein shakes. Or both.”

Instant chaos: “I FOUND A ROCK!” “I CAN BE A ROCK!” “Chris, use me for strength training!” “I brought a boulder. It’s shaped like a heart!” “I made a protein smoothie for you, senpai!”

Chris, whose patience is now breaking down at the molecular level, looks at Sheva with wide, desperate eyes.

"Sheva. Help. Please."

One clone tries to initiate a Chris Redfield Cosplay Contest among the others, resulting in seven clones flexing and tearing their own sleeves. Two more are constructing a shrine out of discarded sunglasses and Uroboros syringes, chanting, “Praise be to the Boulder King.”

Real Wesker—deprived of dignity, pride, and a decent evil monologue—decides to just set off the self-destruct. He flips the switch, but instead of explosions, the speakers across the facility blast a remixed "Eye of the Tiger" with Chris’s grunts autotuned over the beat. The lights start flashing. Clones begin breakdancing, one of them attempts the worm, another tries to crowd-surf but only lands in Sheva’s arms.

Clone #8 is sobbing with joy, mascara running down his cheeks.

"It’s like he’s singing to us. Chris, say ‘boulder’ again."

Chris drags a hand down his face.

"I’m retiring after this."

Sheva lets out a low laugh as she shakes her head.

"Agreed. I’m updating my CV."

One clone tries to start a group hug. Another pitches a reality show: “Keeping Up With the Redfields—Chris, you in?”

As the clones dissolve into a mass of adoration and selfie requests, Sheva grabs Chris’s arm, whispering, “Now, while they’re distracted!” They sneak past Real Wesker, who’s now curled up in the vent, muttering, “None of this was in the plan. None of it.”

Outside, Chris leans against a jeep, dragging a hand down his face. “If I ever see another clone again, I’m leaving the planet.”

Sheva grins, tossing him a protein bar. “At least you have fans, superstar.”

Somewhere in the distance, real Wesker sits stiffly in the waiting room of a clinical, white-walled office. He's surrounded by other washed-up villains clutching self-help pamphlets—one is muttering about capes, another about henchmen unionizing. When his name is called, Wesker steps into the therapist’s office and lowers his sunglasses just enough to make eye contact.

The therapist gives a gentle, practiced smile. “So, tell me about your clones.”

Wesker stares at the floor for a long moment. “They cheered when Redfield punched a rock. I—”

He falters, unable to articulate the trauma. Somewhere deep inside, a single dramatic violin sting echoes. The therapist simply nods, as if she’s heard it all before.

THE END.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Resident Evil fics? [Resident Evil Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

Ice Fishing Chaos | Childe x Lumine

❄️ Ice Fishing Chaos | Childe x Lumine ❄️ Pairing: Childe (Ajax/Tartaglia) x Lumine Genre: Winter fluff • Humor • Slow-burn teasing • Canonverse slice-of-life Summary: A calm winter morning turns into absolute chaos when Childe invites Lumine ice fishing—with very Childe-like results. Slippery mishaps, soaked coats, and unstoppable laughter follow in this cozy disaster of a day on Mondstadt’s frozen lake.

It was the kind of morning that made Mondstadt seem like it had been dipped in starlight and chilled in a snow globe—trees glittering with frost, lake iced over in a flawless sheet of blue-white glass, and Childe’s voice carrying across the flat expanse, already brimming with pride and reckless joy.

Everything looked like a painting left out in the cold to shimmer. Pine needles wore crystal jackets, rooftops glinted in the sun, and the frozen lake stretched endless and undisturbed, a blank invitation for chaos. Overhead, a flock of pigeons scattered, startled by Childe’s shout as he waved to Lumine with all the irrepressible excitement of a boy seeing snow for the first time.

“Come on, Lumine!” he shouted, one gloved hand waving her over as he stood at the center of the frozen lake, a small wooden sled behind him loaded with a fishing pole, a thermos, and something suspiciously lumpy wrapped in fur. “This is Snezhnayan-level technique I’m about to show you. Elite stuff. You won’t find this in any Adventurer’s Handbook.”

Lumine, bundled in her winter cloak and scarf, eyebrows raised in amusement, carefully picked her way across the slick surface after him. Her boots crunched faintly with each step, the ice groaning in quiet protest. She was used to battling Hilichurls in thigh-deep rivers and leaping from floating platforms—brute force and instinct, every muscle primed for danger. But this was a different kind of challenge, and somehow it left her more tense than the wildest fight. With monsters, the risk was clear: hit or be hit, survive or fall. Here, the real threat was slipping up in front of Childe, whose unshakeable confidence was more intimidating than any abyssal beast. There was no telling what he’d do next, and Lumine found herself both wary and quietly drawn to that unpredictable spark.

“You’ve said that five times now,” she called, smiling, the cold biting at her cheeks. “And every time, something explodes.”

He turned with a grin so broad it nearly cut his cheeks, crouched beside a little hole he'd already carved into the ice with a spear-tip. “Explosions? Maybe. Accidents? Never. This—this is the pride of the north. Generations of Fatui have frozen their butts off doing this, and now…” He held up the fishing rod like a sword. “Now it’s your turn to witness greatness. Take notes.”

Lumine crouched beside him, peering into the hole. A shimmer of water flickered far below, dark and mysterious. “So we just… sit here? And hope a fish comes to us?”

“You doubt the method,” he said dramatically. “You wound me. Watch—I've got bait prepped and everything.”

He pulled a thin string of bait from a pouch, hooked it with the ease of long practice, and with a flourish only Childe could muster, tossed the line in. It dropped with a little splash, the only sound in the hush of the morning.

And then—nothing.

Childe stared with intensity. His brows furrowed, lips pressed tight. He whispered a few prayers to the Tsaritsa under his breath, gaze fixed on the motionless line.

Lumine tilted her head, her breath fogging the air. “Elite technique, huh?”

“Shh. It’s a process.” He glanced at her, then raised an eyebrow. “Want to try? Or are you scared of Snezhnayan innovation?”

She nodded, lips curving. “Sure. I’m braver than I look.”

He rose gallantly, stepping back to give her space—except his boot hit a patch of smooth ice slick with morning melt. His arms pinwheeled, and he shouted something incoherent—

“Wait, Childe—!”

Too late. With a cartoonish whoop and the dumbest expression on his face, he slid backward, heels flailing, crashing hard onto his back with a crack and then—crrrACK!—straight through another, thinner patch of ice with a roar of water and limbs and dignity vanishing into the depths. A moment of wild flailing, and then he was gone, vanished beneath the surface with a splash that echoed across the lake.

SPLASH.

The thermos toppled off the sled, rolling in slow motion. A little fish flopped out of the hole he'd drilled and landed beside it with a comical splat, wriggling in confusion as if it too couldn’t believe what had just happened. For a moment, it thrashed in a tiny arc, tail flicking icy crystals into the air, before settling with a final, indignant flop. Lumine snorted so hard at the sight that she nearly doubled over—somehow the lake itself seemed to be joining in on the mockery, delivering one last punchline to Childe’s catastrophe. The sled wobbled dangerously and for a split second, Lumine wondered if it too would end up in the water.

Lumine sat frozen for exactly one second. Then she started laughing. And didn’t stop.

Her laughter rang over the ice like a bell, wild and bright and uncontrollable, echoing back in shimmering waves. Childe, still floundering below the surface, paused just long enough to shoot her a sheepish, waterlogged grin—equal parts embarrassed and delighted that he’d managed to make her laugh this hard. Even as he coughed and spluttered, his eyes sparkled, lips quirking upward despite himself, basking in the sound of her happiness. She doubled over, arms hugging herself, as tears pricked her eyes from the force of it. “Oh my—gods—Childe—did you—just—?!”

A drenched head emerged from the hole moments later, gasping, auburn hair flattened against his skull, eyes wide in indignant betrayal. He coughed, sputtered, and slammed his hand down onto the edge of the ice. “I am fine! I planned this!”

“You—hah—you planned to fall in?” she wheezed, crawling over to the edge, peering down at him, her cheeks flushed and hands trembling with suppressed laughter.

“For immersion! Full cultural experience!” he barked back, voice a little shaky, teeth chattering. “We Snezhnayans are one with our lakes! It’s character building. Builds immunity to embarrassment.”

“Uh-huh.” She reached down, still grinning hard enough her ribs hurt. “You need help, ‘one with the lake’? Because I’m not diving in there after you.”

“I have everything under control,” he said, hauling himself halfway out, water pouring off his coat, boots full, pride even more battered than his body. “Absolutely everything is—cold!—totally within my expert prediction—”

His foot slipped again and he yelped as his butt hit the ice with a splat, sending up a fresh spray of water. Lumine pressed her lips together, trying to stifle another laugh, but her shoulders shook with silent mirth. She covered her mouth, eyes watering, then managed, “You look like a soggy Abyss Mage. Seriously, are you sure you’re not secretly Hydro Mage?”

She let out a shaky breath, composing herself just enough to offer him her hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out before you freeze into a popsicle.”

His teeth were chattering now, cheeks red from cold and embarrassment, water dripping from his sleeves, hair plastered to his forehead.

“I meant to do that,” he said again weakly, looking more like a half-drowned duckling than a Fatui harbinger.

“You’re lucky I didn’t let you drown while laughing.” She helped peel off his soaked gloves, hands gentle but still shaking from amusement. “Next time, bring a rope.”

Childe slumped onto the sled, shivering, lips blue, pride irreparably damaged for the day. “Note to self: don’t stand too close to the—”

CRACK.

They both froze.

He glanced under him, eyes wide.

“Oh, come on—!”

Together, they scrambled back to the edge of the lake, him sliding on his knees, her half-dragging the sled, both laughing now like idiots as the ice behind them began to spiderweb with cracks again. The sled thudded along, leaving a trail. Their laughter echoed across the frozen field as they barely made it to safety, hearts pounding from adrenaline and cold.

Once safe, he collapsed backward into the snowbank, arms spread, hair clinging to his forehead, soaked to the bone, boots squishing with every movement. “Next time,” he muttered, “we build a campfire first. Then fish. I’ll even let you do the bait. And maybe…maybe bring towels.”

Lumine crouched beside him and nudged his ribs gently with her elbow, smile softening. “You’ve got frost in your eyelashes.”

“You’ve got no mercy.”

She grinned down at him. “Maybe. But I’ve got a good memory. And I’m never letting you live this down. This is story material for at least a year.”

He cracked one eye open, smiled crookedly, utterly defeated and yet pleased. “Worth it. You laughed. That was the mission.”

She blinked, warm in spite of the chill, and tried not to let her heart squeeze too much. Sometimes, she thought, the world made more sense when he was there, making a fool of himself just to see her smile.

Then she leaned over and tucked a damp strand of hair behind his ear, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yours,” he said, almost smug despite everything, a faint flush rising beneath the cold.

She pretended to shove him back into the snow but curled beside him instead, sharing his ridiculous heat, the two of them a heap of steam and laughter while the lake stilled behind them once more. In that moment, everything felt possible—the whole day ahead, the world waiting, their laughter rising over the frosted lake as the sun crept higher. The cold didn’t matter, not when they had each other and an endless capacity for making memories out of disaster.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Genshin Impact fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

Marble and Molten Gold (Zhongli X Lumine)

✨ "Marble and Molten Gold" ✨ 🔥 Zhongli x Lumine | Genshin Impact Smut One-Shot 🔥 💥 Heated argument. Divine domination. Worship redefined. 👑 "You provoke a dragon… and expect not to be devoured?"

📜 Tags: #zhongli x lumine #genshin smut #dominant zhongli #possessive zhongli #power play #semi-public smut #filthy worship #geo daddy #genshin fanfic #genshin impact one shot #zhongli supremacy

SMUT WARNING. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.

Tension cracked through the night like thunder on marble, sharp and sudden as a warning unheeded. Liyue's moon hung low, casting silver blades across the courtyard of the Wangshu Inn. Beneath it, Lumine's voice cut sharp and defiant. "You had no right to step in like that!"

Zhongli stood opposite her, statuesque, hands behind his back as if still a diplomat, as if still human. "You call it stepping in. I call it stopping a foolish act." His amber eyes gleamed, molten gold in the dim. “You were outnumbered.”

“I could’ve handled it,” Lumine snapped, defiance flaring in her eyes like the last glint of a dying star.

“You nearly died,” Zhongli said, his voice like granite—measured, ancient, unyielding—as he looked her over with barely restrained fury beneath his calm facade.

“I didn’t.” She snapped the word, chest rising, lips curled. The adrenaline still sang in her blood, that wild thrill of combat and chaos—but his words poured cold stone over it. “You think because you’re—”

“Because I am a god,” he interrupted, and that low bass in his voice made her heart slam once.

He stepped forward. Once, and then again. The black of his coat whispered as he moved, quiet as a shifting shadow as he cornered her back, her boot knocking against the marble base of a pillar. Her spine pressed into the cool stone.

“And because you are not.” His eyes held hers, unblinking—amber depths heavy with something unspoken, something ancient. The words weren’t cruel. They were reverent. A reminder, not of her weakness, but of his weight. Of the godhood that trembled just beneath his skin.

She opened her mouth—whether to argue or to gasp, she wasn’t sure—but he silenced her with a slow lean forward, his palms bracing the marble on either side of her head. His scent was spice and earth, like incense ground in dragon’s blood, like dust stirred in the wake of something ancient and waking.

"You throw yourself to the wolves, little one," he murmured, voice a silk-gloved threat. “And you expect me to watch? To stand idly while mortals take from you what’s mine?”

Lumine’s breath hitched. “Yours—?”

He growled. A low, resonant thing deep in his chest. “Everything. Your breath. Your fury. That defiant little spark in your eyes. Do not mistake my restraint for indifference.”

His thumb brushed her lower lip, slow and claiming, before dragging down her chin to tilt her head back. She swallowed—he watched her throat bob and smiled.

Zhongli leaned in, his words brushing hot across her cheek. “Do you know what I felt, when I saw you bloodied, standing alone?”

“Rage?” she whispered.

He laughed—dark, soft, wicked. “Yes. But not just rage.” His hand traced the line of her throat, then lower, over her chest, slow enough to make her shiver, firm enough to remind her what he was. “Desire. To mark you. To remind you. You are mine not because you’re weak, but because you’re strong—and I chose you.”

She didn’t realize her legs had parted until his thigh slid between them, pinning her, her back grinding into the marble with the shift of his weight.

"Say it," he growled into her ear, his breath hot and cruelly teasing. “Say you are mine, or I will make you scream it.”

Lumine clenched her fists, her body a livewire, heat pooling low in her belly, the threat of him pressed between her thighs.

She tilted her head, met his gaze without flinching. "Then make me."

Zhongli’s eyes glowed—amber flaring into primal gold. His lips crashed onto hers like a storm breaking over mountains. One hand tangled in her hair, the other sliding up her thigh, fingers trailing fire under her skirts.

The pillar groaned behind her with the force of his kiss. The air around them trembled with geo energy, dust shaking loose from ancient stone. She moaned into his mouth as his tongue tasted hers, his body pinning, claiming, worshipping with raw hunger.

And yet, still, he did not lose control. Not yet.

“You provoke a dragon,” he rasped, his voice now a growl against her throat, where his teeth scraped. “And expect not to be devoured?”

Her head fell back. “Then stop talking…”

“Oh?” His lips curved, cruel and reverent, as his fingers brushed heat between her legs. "You like danger, Lumine? Then let me show you how gods play when they stop pretending to be men."

And then he sank lower. Kneeling before her, beneath moonlight and stone, his voice a reverent whisper—

“Worship begins with the tongue,” Zhongli murmured, voice dipped in velvet and danger, his eyes lifting to meet hers with a smoldering reverence that promised both ruin and rapture.

His breath caressed the inside of her thigh like a sacred wind drawn from deep within a cavern of gods. He looked up at her from his knees—knees, this archon who once carved mountains with a word—and his eyes were nothing but reverence and hunger braided into gold.

Lumine trembled, one hand pressed against the cold marble, the other curled tight into the lapel of his coat where it had fallen open, baring the skin just below his collarbone. It was warm. Alive.

“Even stone bends for you,” Zhongli murmured, placing a kiss just above the pulse of her inner thigh. “But you—” another kiss, higher now, teeth grazing flesh “—must learn how to shatter under me.”

Her breath caught. She opened her mouth to snap something back, something bold and teasing—he cut it off with a drag of his tongue. One slow, devastating stroke. She gasped, the sound torn from her throat like a prayer she never meant to say.

His hands gripped her hips, not to restrain, but to hold—anchor—as his mouth worked. Tongue firm and precise, dragging over her with an intimacy that had nothing of hesitation. This wasn’t fumbling. It wasn’t worship from afar. It was full, visceral possession. Every flick of his tongue was measured, deliberate. Every moan she gave, he swallowed like payment.

“You taste like thunder,” he growled against her slick heat. “Like battle and starlight. I could lose centuries here.”

His pace built, slow to cruel. He held her right on the edge, his tongue circling, dragging, pressing—only to retreat, just when her legs began to shake.

“Zhongli—!” Her voice broke—high, breathless, somewhere between a plea and a curse. Her fingers fisted in his hair, trying to pull him closer or push him away—she didn’t know which.

He chuckled, low and filthy, dragging the sound along her skin like a sin. “So soon you forget how sharp your tongue was earlier. Now it begs.”

His thumb joined his mouth—pressing just right, slow circles over her clit, building again. She was fire and molten air now, caught between the cold of the marble at her back and the burn of him below.

Her thighs clamped around his head and he growled, a true, god-deep rumble, vibrating right into her. Her hands buried in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as she bucked into his mouth. His pace shifted—less worship now, more punishment, dragging her relentlessly toward the edge she’d tried to posture above.

“Oh god—” The words slipped out unbidden, half-moan, half-prayer, her head lolling back as her thighs clamped around his head, hips twitching with the force of pleasure.

He lifted his head just long enough to say, voice velvet-laced iron, “Yes. Yours.”

Then he buried his mouth in her again, and this time—this time he let her come. It hit like an earthquake. Her cry cracked the stillness of the inn’s stone corridors, echoing off polished columns. Her thighs squeezed his head, and Zhongli groaned into her as she shattered against his mouth, her whole body arching.

He held her through it, licking her slow and thorough. He caught every twitch, every whimper, drinking her like the finest wine. And when she sagged against the pillar, panting, legs barely holding, he rose. Licked his lips.

His hand cupped her jaw, eyes glowing like duskfire. “Still angry, my flower?”

She blinked up at him, flushed and dazed. “A little.”

Zhongli smiled. Then unbuckled his belt, the clink of geo metal echoing between them. “Then I’m not finished yet.”

The Archon would carve his name into her bones. And tomorrow—she would still ache with the shape of it.

The belt dropped. Not like silk. Not like velvet. It fell with weight, the thunk of solid brass and leather on marble, loud in the stillness of the moon-washed inn. Zhongli’s coat hung open now, collar askew, his shirt rumpled where Lumine had clawed at it. And his slacks—

Tight. Strained. Barely containing the god’s answer to provocation.

He stepped back, just far enough to drag his thumb along her thigh, wet and trembling, then rose to full height. That towering, deliciously slow kind of rise that let her eyes trace every inch of him—commanding, patient, terrifying.

“You always were bold.” He unfastened his cuffs, one button at a time. “But boldness has… consequences.”

Her legs still trembled from the force of her orgasm, and the marble at her back had gone from cold to bruising. She didn’t care. She was molten beneath her skin, slick and aching, hungry.

“You’re the one undressing.” Her voice came out hoarse. “Not me.”

A dangerous glint flared in his eyes. “Oh?” he purred. “Then let me fix that.”

He didn’t tear the fabric from her. That would be too human. Zhongli commanded it away. Fingers at the hem, a flick of geo pulsing against her skin—and her garments obeyed. The strings at her sides came undone like whispered apologies, cloth slipping away like falling ash.

She gasped. Not at the chill—but at the exposure. Bared beneath Liyue’s sky. Against a pillar that had once supported the dreams of mortals.

He stepped in again, bare chest brushing hers, his cock thick and hard between them now, brushing low on her stomach. She looked down—fuck—he was big. Elegant, like the rest of him, but heavy. Veined. Thick enough that her thighs pressed together on instinct, already fluttering.

“Do you know what it takes,” he murmured, dragging the tip of himself along her folds, coating it in slick, “to hold back centuries of desire?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

His hands captured her thighs and lifted—effortless. Like hoisting a scroll. He pinned her higher against the pillar, spread and open, and the cool marble kissed her spine. Her breath hitched; her fingers scrambled at his shoulders.

Zhongli leaned in, mouth brushing her ear. “I will not break you. But I will ruin you for anyone else.”

And then—

He pushed in. Slow. Deep. Stretching.

Lumine choked on a gasp, her head thudding back against the marble.

Zhongli groaned. Deep in his throat, teeth gritted as her heat swallowed him inch by agonizing inch. “You take me… so well,” he hissed. “Just as I imagined. Every damn night since you stepped into my city.”

He bottomed out. Buried to the hilt. Her walls fluttering around him, tight and wet, and already trembling. Her nails raked his back—she didn’t know if she was pulling him closer or trying to hold on. He rolled his hips, slow at first, dragging the tip of himself along her walls like a sculpture in progress. She whimpered, legs wrapped around him, her body aching for more.

He gave it to her. The thrust came harder. Then again. Faster. The marble cracked behind her with each slam of his hips.

Zhongli’s rhythm was merciless. Each thrust landed like thunder. Deliberate. Unyielding—he fucked like a tectonic plate shifting, slow and devastating. Controlled fury. Carved chaos.

She cried out his name, over and over, and he caught her mouth with his, drinking down her sounds, tongue tasting the moans he earned. Her slick smeared down his cock, dripping to the marble with every stroke. The wet sound of skin against skin echoed in the hollowed silence.

“You’re shaking,” he growled into her neck.

“You’re shaking,” she gasped.

Zhongli chuckled—low and dark. “Then let us shatter together.”

And he snapped his hips—hard. Again. And again. Her back arching, her cry cracking the stars. Her orgasm hit like a landslide, clenching down on him so tight he growled, slamming in to spill inside her with a gasp that sounded like reverence.

He filled her. Slow, grinding thrusts as he rode it out, drawing every pulse from her, pressing her into the stone like an offering. When it ended—when the stars stopped spinning—he didn’t move. He held her there, his head pressed to her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin.

And then—

“…That,” he murmured, “was the first lesson. Never provoke what you’re not prepared to endure.”

He pulled out slow, her thighs still trembling, her cunt leaking down her leg.

“You still need to learn,” he added, tucking himself back in, voice smug and rich, “what it means to call a god yours.”

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Genshin Impact fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

When Stone Turns Soft (Zhongli X Lumine)

🌧️ GENSHIN IMPACT | Zhongli x Lumine | Hurt/Comfort + Emotional Intimacy 🪨 "When Stone Turns Soft" — Zhongli watches over a fevered Lumine in a rain-soaked Wangshu Inn. As she finally collapses beneath the weight of her journey, the Geo Archon offers something rarer than gold: tenderness. 💔 Slow-burn | protective Zhongli | emotional vulnerability | poetic prose 🛏️ rain, tea, and quiet vigil vibes

“Then let me hold your burdens, if only tonight. Let me be stone beneath your sky, until you rise again.”

The lanterns burned low in Wangshu Inn, casting a honeyed sheen through rice paper walls. Rain tapped against the windows in a whispering lull, a hush that blanketed the world in velvet gray. The wind carried the petrichor of Liyue’s soil, rich and deep like the soul of its guardian. Everything outside seemed to wait—the forest holding its breath, the river stilled beneath fog—as if nature itself paid reverence to the moment unfolding inside.

Zhongli sat with the stillness of a statue, more ancient than the wooden chair beneath him. One hand rested on the spine of a worn book—“Songs from the Time of the First Mora.” The other held a porcelain teacup, untouched and growing colder by the hour. His amber eyes, not dulled but dimmed with a soft worry, stayed fixed on the bed where Lumine lay curled under layered quilts, breath shallow, her usually radiant skin dulled by fever. The steam had long ceased to rise from the tea, and the scent of bitter herbs lingered faintly in the room.

He had not left her side since morning. Perhaps even the previous night. Time had unraveled for him the moment she collapsed, like a thread pulled loose from the tapestry of his control, each second since fraying into worry-laced strands he could no longer weave back together.

Perhaps not even Time herself would be so indulgent, so devoted—but Morax, Rex Lapis, Zhongli, was a god who had long since learned to cherish mortal fragility. He knew what the world demanded of her. He had seen the way she pressed on, endlessly chasing glimmers of a brother lost to the tides of dimensions. How the corners of her smile had sharpened with quiet desperation. How her shoulders bowed under the invisible weight of Celestia’s gaze. She bore it all with grace, but grace had a cost.

Now, at last, she’d broken.

Collapsed in Jueyun Karst, breathless, her vision dimming mid-battle against a horde of Fatui agents. Xiao had brought her in silent urgency, his own silence edged with something perilously close to panic. “She hasn’t slept in days,” he’d said.

Zhongli had known. Of course he had. He had seen the signs—the restless pacing at night, the absent-minded nods during council talks, the way she reached for her sword as though it were her spine. Her exhaustion had become marrow-deep.

He lingered on the last stanza, his thoughts wrapped around her labored breaths, before finally turning a page. His voice, a deep hum like polished amber rolling across marble, threaded through the quiet.

“And so the mountain bowed its peak, To hush the stars that dared to speak, For in the cradle, Moonlight weeps, Until the child of stone, she sleeps…”

His thumb smoothed the worn parchment with reverence, but his gaze kept flicking back to her face—fevered but soft now, lashes fluttering like pale moth wings. She stirred, a fragile murmur escaping her lips, her brow tightening with effort, and her eyes fluttering open just enough to glimpse him through the fever haze.

“Zhong…li…” Her voice was dry, laced with confusion and fear, her expression crumpling as though she barely believed he was real.

The sound of her voice—barely more than a breath—coaxed him forward, the chair’s legs scraping slightly as he leaned. He set the book aside and reached out, cupping her hand between his own. His palms were warm, vast, calloused with the texture of millennia. His grip was careful, as though she might shatter beneath the weight of touch.

“I’m here,” he said, low and rich, velvet poured into shadow. “You need not rise. Rest, Lumine.”

“But I—” Her breath caught in a hiccup of guilt. “The Abyss... Aether... I can’t—”

“Shh.” He leaned close, his brow brushing against hers, the gesture light as dew on stone. “Even the mountains sleep beneath snow, and even gods once dreamed before war woke them. You are no less worthy of stillness than any star in the sky.”

Lumine’s lips parted, but no sound came. Only a shuddering exhale that broke something in him. He would have fought any demon, any archon, any fate that laid hands on her—but exhaustion was an invisible foe, patient and cruel. She looked at him not with strength, but surrender.

She trembled. His hand moved to her cheek, thumb brushing across fevered skin. The heat there unsettled him more than blade or war ever had.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, quieter now, as though afraid to wake the storm of guilt behind her eyes.

Her nod was a barely-there motion.

“Then let me hold your burdens, if only tonight. Let me be stone beneath your sky, unyielding and steady, the ground beneath your storm—until you rise again.” He pressed her hand to his chest, where no heart beat, yet somehow still warmth radiated—centuries of love coiled beneath marble skin. It was a warmth he rarely offered, reserved only for those who had touched something human in him.

“I’ll… try,” she whispered.

“Then that is enough.” A faint flicker passed through his expression—relief, mingled with ache. The edge of his mouth softened, and the tension in his shoulders loosened as though her trust had cracked something open in him.

He reached again for the book, but this time, he did not read. Instead, he began to hum—a song only the oldest trees remembered. A lullaby from before the Archon War, back when the world was young and stars whispered kindly. Each note was a story, each breath a prayer for her healing.

Lumine’s eyes fluttered shut.

Outside, the rain softened into mist. Inside, Zhongli sat watchful as a dragon over gold, still as the mountain he once was. In that quiet room, time slowed its stride, and Zhongli found himself wondering how something so fragile could still feel so vital in his arms—unwilling to disturb the moment. A god keeping vigil not for the world, but for one mortal girl whose light had dimmed... but would burn again. And perhaps, when it did, she would never carry it alone again.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment��your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Genshin Impact fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

The Price of History (Zhongli X Lumine)

✨ Genshin Impact One Shot | Zhongli x Lumine ✨ 📜 The Price of History 📜 Genre: Comedy, Slice of Life, Soft Banter, Street Food Shenanigans Setting: Liyue Harbor at golden dusk 🌇 Summary: Zhongli forgets his wallet... again. Lumine is not amused. But between the smell of hotpot, poetic excuses, and one very bewildered server, Liyue’s history is about to cost her another dinner.

💰 “Still not as valuable as mora.” 🪨 “Debatable.”

Read the full one-shot below 👇 #zhongli x lumine #genshin impact fanfic #zhongli fluff #genshin oneshot #humor #liyue vibes #genshin writing #zhongli #lumine #genshin impact #genshin fic #romantic comedy #genshin x reader #genshin drabble #zhongli supremacy #wanderlust invocation

The scent of grilled tigerfish and sizzling crystal shrimp filled the air, curling through the crowded veins of Liyue Harbor. Lanterns bloomed like fireflowers overhead, flickering softly and casting long amber shadows across the worn stone paths. Laughter echoed from merchant stalls; music thrummed from the plaza, stringed instruments weaving through the pulse of the city like silk threads. Children darted between travelers’ legs, their joyous shouts dancing in harmony with the sounds of celebration.

Zhongli strolled through it all with his usual composed gait, hands clasped behind his back, dressed immaculately as always—pristine, poised, anciently perfect. His long coat swayed gently with each step, and not a strand of his dark hair was out of place. Lumine, on the other hand, trailed him with the resigned look of someone who knew what was coming.

Because it always came.

They had just finished exploring Guili Plains, where Zhongli had slipped into another of his poetic digressions about lost dynasties and lovers turned to stone, his deep voice weaving tragedy into the breeze. Even the wind seemed to pause respectfully as he spoke. Now they walked into the night-drenched heart of Liyue, stomachs grumbling in harmony, led by the flicker of lanterns and the promise of street food that smelled far too good to ignore.

“Ah,” Zhongli said, eyes half-lidded with something like contentment, “do you smell that, Lumine? Osmanthus wine isn’t the only fragrance that evokes memories. That stall—yes, the one near the jade carving stand—makes a meatball hotpot recipe once favored by the Yan of Eastern Quince. A lost art, truly. We must partake.”

Lumine squinted toward the stand, half-hungry, half-suspicious. “You’re paying this time.”

Zhongli gave a mild, noncommittal hum—the kind that meant nothing and everything when it came out of his mouth.

They sat at a humble food stand, where steam rose in gentle clouds, wrapping around them like fog. Zhongli spoke in lyrical tones about the original use of glaze lilies in ceremonial Liyue feasts while Lumine devoured a skewer of shrimp balls, nodding politely between bites. Her eyes flicked to him, more interested in whether he’d actually produce mora this time than in his impromptu history lectures. Nearby, a street performer juggled glowing geo shards to the delight of a growing crowd, casting momentary flashes of golden light across the cobbled street.

When the server arrived with the bill, he turned toward Zhongli expectantly. Zhongli blinked, then reached into his coat.  Then frowned. Checked another pocket. And another.

His expression did not change—Zhongli was a master of serenity—but the way his fingers moved became increasingly methodical, then uncertain, and finally... painfully slow.

“Is there a problem?” the server asked, raising a brow.

Zhongli’s hand halted mid-pocket. He looked up with the grace of someone preparing to recite an elegy for the dead.

“It seems,” he began solemnly, “that I have once again misplaced my wallet. Fascinating.”

Lumine choked on her drink.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed, clutching her side as the laughter spilled out. “Again? Are you serious?”

“I assure you, Lumine,” he replied with calm conviction, “I was quite certain I placed it in this inner pocket. Perhaps it is a temporal anomaly. Or a dimensional fissure.”

“It’s your coat,” Lumine said, throwing her hands up in exasperation, eyebrows raised and mouth half-laughing. “You have, like, forty secret compartments in there! You probably tucked it next to a jade slip on maritime law from 300 years ago.”

The server cleared his throat. “Sir, the bill.”

Zhongli nodded serenely, steepling his fingers.

“May I propose a counter-offer?” he began, voice like falling gravel wrapped in silk. “In lieu of payment, I would be pleased to recount the complete rise and fall of the Guizhong-Dynasty’s culinary renaissance. It is, after all, intrinsically tied to the very meatball hotpot you serve—”

“NO,” Lumine cut in, sliding a pouch of mora across the counter with a thud. “I’ll cover it. Again. Please. Just stop trying to barter history lessons for food.”

The server glanced between them, bewildered. Then shrugged, snatched the pouch, and shuffled off.

Zhongli looked almost wounded. “But surely the cultural—”

“You offered a fisherman a poem once in exchange for grilled fish, Zhongli,” Lumine said, jabbing a finger at him with mock outrage, her eyes wide with amused disbelief. “A poem.”

Zhongli lifted his chin slightly, looking almost affronted, but more so bemused. “That poem detailed the extinction of five freshwater species endemic to—”

“You’re impossible,” Lumine muttered, though her lips twitched into a grin.

Zhongli sighed, settling back in his seat with a defeated grace. “Perhaps I should attach my wallet to a geo tether. A practical measure.”

Lumine raised an eyebrow. “You should attach yourself to a budget.”

“You wound me, Lumine,” Zhongli said, placing a hand to his chest in dramatic offense, though his golden eyes gleamed with faint amusement.

Lumine crossed her arms and leaned forward with an arched brow, her tone dry but affectionate. “You owe me. And next time I want a souvenir, don’t start quoting the dynasty that first smelted clay coins. Just pay for it.”

Zhongli’s eyes glinted gold beneath his lashes. “You have my word. Next time, I shall come prepared. In the meantime...” He gestured toward the remaining skewers on the plate. “Shall we enjoy what history has brought us?”

Lumine rolled her eyes, but she reached for another shrimp ball. “You’re lucky you’re charming.”

Zhongli smiled softly, one corner of his mouth curving with immortal mischief. “It is a trait refined over millennia.”

“Still not as valuable as mora,” Lumine quipped with a sly smirk, tilting her head and giving him a pointed look.

Zhongli chuckled under his breath, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement as he leaned back, ever the picture of composed defiance. “Debatable.”

Their laughter faded into the soft hush of evening.

A small wind rustled past the stand, carrying the scent of incense, the flicker of lanterns, and the rustle of fluttering silk. The harbor behind them glowed, golden reflections rippling across the water like spilled treasure. In that quiet, comfortable moment of absurdity, it was easy to forget the weight of ancient wars and timeless legacies. There was only the food, the warmth, and the shared rhythm of footsteps that always seemed to return to each other.

And so the night stretched on—between bites, banter, and the occasional philosophical musing on the concept of debt—with Lumine once again covering the cost of a dinner steeped in history, mystery, and the age-old certainty that Zhongli's wallet would never be where it was supposed to be.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Genshin Impact fics? [Genshin Impact Masterlist]”

[noobiestnoober]

Old Debts, Dark Hearts (Klaus X F!Reader) - Chapter Index

🩸 OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS 🩸

The Vampire Diaries AU | OC-Insert | Mystery, Magic & Found Family

Requested by: @issabellec7

Chapters:

Chapter 1: The Funeral

Chapter 2: The Debt

Chapter 3: Red Under the Lights

Chapter 4: Witches’ Oaths

Chapter 5: Founders' Fire

About:

A Vampire Diaries AU where Isabel, an old friend of the Bennetts and Salvatores, returns to Mystic Falls—caught between old debts, new threats, and the supernatural secrets at the heart of town.

[noobiestnoober]

Are there any rules/guidelines for what ur willing to write? 🤔

Hi anon! 😊 Thanks for asking! I’m pretty flexible with what I write, but I do have a few boundaries and preferences to keep things fun and safe for everyone:

No NSFW with minors (obviously), incest, or non-con/rape.

No heavy gore/torture (light horror is okay, but nothing super graphic).

No hate speech, racism, or anything discriminatory.

I reserve the right to skip any requests that make me uncomfortable, but I’ll always try to let you know if I can’t write something!

If you have a specific request in mind, feel free to send it in! I’m happy to clarify if you’re unsure whether something’s okay. Thanks for respecting my boundaries! 💖

[noobiestnoober]

OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X F!READER

🖤 OLD DEBTS, DARK HEARTS — KLAUS X ISABEL (Reader) 🖤

Chapter 1: The Funeral

Author: @noobiestnoober Requested by: @issabellec7 (thank you for inspiring this story!)

✨ Author’s Note: Welcome to Old Debts, Dark Hearts—a slow-burn, enemies to lovers TVD series following Klaus Mikaelson and original character Isabel Sinclair, a witch haunted by old promises and centuries of secrets. This story begins at Sheila Bennett’s funeral, as Isabel steps forward to pay her respects and keep a promise to Bonnie. Huge thanks to @issabellec7 for the wonderful request and for trusting me with your vision! If you enjoy, please like/reblog.

Chapter 1: The Funeral

Rain fell in gentle sheets, casting the cemetery in a soft, gray hush. Umbrellas dotted the mourners like dark blooms, while the battered oak above Sheila Bennett’s grave seemed to bow with age and loss. It was a small, intimate gathering—just family and the few who truly loved Sheila. Bonnie Bennett stood slightly apart, shoulders tight, clutching a single white rose until its stem pressed deep lines into her palm.

The minister’s voice faded beneath the sound of the rain and the thick, weighted silence that always comes at the end. People offered hugs and murmured platitudes, but everything felt blurred at the edges. Bonnie’s mind wandered in loops of memory—her grandmother’s laughter, her warm hands, her warnings about magic and power. It was impossible to believe this was real, that Sheila Bennett, the strongest person she had ever known, was simply gone.

As the casket was lowered, Bonnie stepped back, breath fogging in the cool air. The other mourners—distant cousins, neighbors, a handful of old family friends—stood in small, quiet clusters, murmuring their final goodbyes. Bonnie felt isolated among them, the absence of familiar faces from her day-to-day life making the moment feel even heavier. She was surrounded by strangers who knew pieces of her grandmother's story, but none who truly knew her heart.

When the crowd began to thin, Bonnie found herself rooted at the grave, the white rose trembling in her grip. She wanted to say something, but all the words she’d rehearsed slipped away. She could only stare at the disturbed soil, wishing for one more moment, one more story, one more smile from her Grams.

The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of rosemary and old magic. A soft, measured footstep sounded behind her—barely audible above the rain, but somehow distinct. Bonnie turned, wiping her cheeks, expecting another relative, maybe someone from the church. Instead, she found herself facing a woman she’d never seen before.

The stranger was striking: tall and willowy, a shock of dark hair swept up and pinned neatly, eyes a piercing gray-blue that seemed older than her smooth, unlined face. She wore a simple black dress under a tailored coat, her only adornment a silver ring set with a green stone. She held a black umbrella, its edge dipping slightly as she approached.

“Bonnie Bennett?” the woman asked. Her voice was soft, almost musical, but there was a weight behind it that caught Bonnie off guard.

Bonnie nodded, uncertain. “Yes?”

The woman offered a gentle, practiced smile as she stepped closer, lowering her umbrella so Bonnie could see her face more clearly. “My name is Isabel Sinclair. I was an old friend of your grandmother’s.”

Bonnie’s eyebrows drew together, trying to place the name. There had been so many stories about Grams’ youth—friends, enemies, people lost to time. “You knew Grams?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

A wistful look softened Isabel’s features. "For a very long time. Sheila and I... we crossed paths when the world was full of old magic and even older debts. She helped me when no one else would, and I’ve carried that debt with me ever since. She was the kind of woman you never forget."

There was a long pause, the rain filling the space between them. Bonnie glanced down, blinking away new tears. “She was everything to me. I thought... I thought I’d have more time.”

Isabel’s eyes were sympathetic, but a shadow flickered behind them. “You’re not alone, Bonnie. She’s left you a great deal more than you know.”

Bonnie didn’t know what to say. Isabel reached into her coat, drawing out a small, intricate charm—silver filigree wound around a deep green stone, strung on a delicate chain. She pressed it gently into Bonnie’s palm, curling Bonnie’s fingers around it with surprising warmth.

“For protection, and for strength. Your Grams would have wanted you to have it.”

Bonnie stared down at the charm, cradling it in her palm. The surface was cold, sending a shiver up her arm, but beneath the metal, a subtle pulse of energy thrummed—a shimmer of magic that was both comforting and strange. She felt the ache in her chest ease, just a little, as if some invisible weight had shifted. The grief and exhaustion welled up, but for a brief moment, she sensed her Grams close, watching over her. Bonnie squeezed the charm tight, letting the edges press into her skin. “Thank you... but why are you here?”

Isabel hesitated, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. “Because your Grams did me a kindness I can never repay. But I mean to try. If you ever need anything—anything at all—find me. You may not trust me yet, but I hope you will.”

Bonnie’s grief shifted, a thread of curiosity weaving through the numbness. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

A small, private smile. “Not anymore. But I will be, for a while. Someone has to watch out for the next Bennett witch.”

Bonnie tucked the charm into her pocket, managing a shaky, grateful nod. “I—thank you. For coming. For this.”

Isabel glanced once more at the grave, her face reflecting real sorrow. “Your Grams was a rare soul. She gave everything for her family, for this town. I’ll do my best to honor that.”

Bonnie watched as Isabel stepped away, the older woman’s presence lingering long after she disappeared among the headstones. Bonnie’s friends called for her, but she stood for a moment longer, fingers tracing the outline of the charm in her pocket.

The cemetery emptied, leaving only silence and the rain’s steady whisper. After everyone else had gone, Isabel returned to Sheila’s headstone, kneeling by the disturbed earth. She pressed her palm gently to the soil, closing her eyes as a subtle wave of magic rippled through her. The air seemed to thicken for a heartbeat—rain slowed against her skin, the scent of wet earth sharpening, a faint tingle rising in her fingertips. For a moment, the world stilled, as if even the storm paused to listen.

“Rest well, old friend,” Isabel murmured, her voice barely more than a sigh. “I’ll look after her, just as you did for me.”

She stayed there for a while, letting the rain wash over her, letting old promises rise and settle in the quiet. She traced a ward into the earth—a small, secret spell for protection, the first of many she would weave in Mystic Falls.

When she finally rose, Isabel glanced once over her shoulder, her ageless eyes shining with resolve. She whispered a final promise—“I’ll keep her safe, no matter the cost”—and turned away, her footsteps sure on the wet grass. As she left the cemetery, Isabel knew her true work in Mystic Falls was only beginning.

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More TVD fics? [TVD Masterlist]”