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prettysweet02 · 2 hours ago

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not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

SYNOPSIS: You get kidnapped and Damian snaps. TAGS: Graphic Depictions Of Violence! Genderneutral! Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Kidnapping, Childhood Trauma, My Mother is the Worst Woman Alive and I'm her Favorite Son, Damian is Eighteen.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

YOUR PALMS WERE PRESSED tightly against your eyes, wrists raw and burning from the rope that had bound them just minutes ago. Sobs slipped from your lips, eyes bloodshot, and mouth parched dry.

The rotting smell of the warehouse was an assault on your senses—an acrid mix of trash, harsh chemicals, and the faint tang of gunfire that lingered in the air.

There was a hushing in your ear as you leaned against a cloaked figure—Batman. Bruce.

His hand rubbed at your back, firm and steady, a grounding presence amid the chaos. His cape, dark and imposing, wrapped around you like a shield, blocking out the violence unfolding just in front of you.

Shadows danced erratically on the walls as Robin moved with lethal precision. Bodies fell unconscious, thudding heavily against the concrete floor. Blood splattered. Screams echoed. Each punch landed with a sickening crunch, bones breaking. Crates and debris were scattered haphazardly, wood and concrete slamming onto the floor.

Damian couldn't see anything but red.

His vision was tunneled, focused solely on the next target, the next blow, the next scream.

A swift roundhouse kick sent one assailant crashing into a stack of crates, the wood splintering under the impact. One punch connected with a jaw, the sickening crunch of bone breaking echoing through the air. Blood sprayed on his fist. Another one rushed toward him, brandishing a knife, but he disarmed the man with a swift twist of the wrist, jamming the blade into the attacker's palm. The man screamed, clutching his arm as red streaked his skin.

Damian's eyes flickered with a dark satisfaction as he watched the thug stumble backward, clutching at the wound.

One last man remained. One who had lunged at him from behind, grappling onto his back. Damian scowled and surged backward, driving both himself and his attacker into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man's grip loosened, a pained gasp escaping his lips as the air was knocked out of him.

"Fool," Damian spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

The thug whimpered, trying to scramble away, but Damian was relentless. He twisted sharply, dislodging the assailant and slamming an elbow into his ribs. The man crumpled against the wall, clutching his side, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

"You think you can touch those I care for and get away with it?" Damian growled. He didn't give the thug a moment to recover. He swung a powerful fist into the guy's face, the impact sending a spray of blood and teeth into the air.

"F-Fuck you, man!" The man yanked a gun from his waistband, but before he could even line up a shot, Damian’s foot kicked out, sending the weapon flying through the air. The gun clattered against the concrete with a deafening clang. With a snarl, Damian lunged forward, grabbing the thug by the collar and slamming him into the ground.

"H-Hey! Mercy! Mercy! I'm a-already down!" the assailant wailed, his hands clawing at Robin's uniform in a desperate plea. "The Bat don’t kill! You—you ain't gonna kill me!"

Damian's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.

"I'm not Batman," he spat, the tone amplified and darkened by the modulator. "Every breath you take is a mercy I choose to grant. By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging for death."

He raised his fist, the tension in his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The thug’s eyes widened in terror, his pleas growing frantic as he braced for the blow. However, just as Damian’s fist was about to land, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, grabbing onto his hand with a vice-like grip. Before he could react, Batman—Bruce—had tackled him, pinning him firmly against his chest.

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was firm, concern barely concealed. “That’s enough.”

Damian's struggle was fierce, his body thrashing under his father’s strength as he roared in fury.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice raw with anger. “I’m going to kill him for what he did to them!”

The anger engulfed Damian like a stormy ocean, dragging him beneath its violent waves. Visions of his mother’s face, his grandfather’s form, and accusing shadows surged from the depths, all condemning him. Damian’s cries erupted into a raw, guttural scream, gradually dissolving into ragged gasps as he battled the relentless tide.

Though Bruce had shaped him into a hero, a beacon of justice, and his family had offered him a fragile semblance of belonging, Damian was still his mother’s son.

The violence and anger roiling within him were like roots twisted deep within his soul. There was not a thing that could purge the primal rage and pain that had taken root before his first breath.

When he finally broke through the surface, baptized in blood and weighed down by sins that clung to him like chains, he sought you out with an urgent, almost desperate need.

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

"Beloved."

Your hands were carefully peeled away from your eyes, and you met soft emerald eyes through a veil of tears. His hands moved to unlatch his cape, the soft fabric pooling around your form. His lips, speaking in his mother tongue, murmured a soothing litany of comfort, Arabic endearments flowing like silk. He pressed your head against his chest and you found refuge in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bruce watched the scene with a pensive look. His son's body had dwarfed you, broad shoulders and strong muscles enveloping your form like a shield. His head was tucked into your hair, his hands raking all over your tense and sweaty skin.

Damian had momentarily shed the hardened exterior he so often wore—a soldier with a heart that, despite its armor, occasionally revealed cracks. This was a side of him that often surprised people.

Because Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

He was all sharp edges. Poisonous, scalding words that could sear through the thickest armor of patience. Rough, nearly violent in his touch, like a blade pressed against skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, no softness in his gestures, only the relentless precision of a trained killer.

From the earliest moments he could walk, his life was an unending series of tests, each more grueling than the last. Each cut and bruise was a lesson. Failure was met with harsh punishment, success with silent approval. Affection and praise were as rare as mercy.

The League’s doctrine was ingrained in him: emotions were vulnerabilities, attachments were liabilities, and loyalty was owed only to the mission and the League. His purpose in the League of Assassins was clear—to be the perfect instrument of their will, a living embodiment of their principles.

Emotion was his enemy, a weakness to be purged. He was taught to suppress his feelings, to turn them off like a switch. Pain was an illusion, fear a phantom to be banished. He learned to compartmentalize his thoughts, locking away his humanity in the deepest recesses of his mind.

By the time he reached ten, he was a finely honed instrument of death.

A living weapon in a world that knew no peace.

It had taken Bruce eight grueling years to begin undoing the damage. And even then, he had barely scratched the surface.

Then there was you.

The trembling, warm-faced student Damian had introduced during his senior year—his partner for a science project, he said.

At first, the interactions were subtle—a fleeting glance here, a hesitant smile there. But as time went on, it became impossible to ignore the way your presence began to soften the sharp edges of Damian's demeanor.

Bruce had seen you both fall for each other over the months. And he saw hope.

You were the opposite of every lesson Damian has ever been taught.

To him, you were soft, in every sense. Soft movements, soft features, soft voice. Everything about you exuded comfort.

You made something he had always pushed down and shut away come to the surface.

You made him feel things—things he should not.

When you touched him with your soft hands, everything in him burned. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin ignited a searing heat, a raw and unfamiliar longing that clawed violently at the walls he had worked so hard to maintain. Each touch chipped away at the concrete barriers of his training, breaking them down and leaving him exposed, aching for something he couldn’t quite name.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

Mania. Drake had called it, a wild obsession of his that could consume and devour.

Damian's arms encircled you like a lifeline, holding you close as though he feared you might slip away. His lips brushed against your temple, warm and tender, while his biceps pressed firmly under your chest, anchoring you in his embrace. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and the lingering residue of fear.

And yet, amidst these odors, there was an underlying, almost imperceptible hint of Damian’s cologne—Arabian oudh. It was rich and smoky, with notes of aged wood, a faint earthy sweetness, and subtle undertones of leather and spice.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, the fabric of his suit brushing against your cheek.

A Crush. Todd had chalked it up to puppy love, something that would eventually fade with time.

He lifted you effortlessly from the floor, his strength evident in his smooth, controlled movements. The way he adjusted his hold with such care to ensure your comfort spoke louder than any words could.

Warmth enveloped you—Damian had always run hotter, like a human furnace. On sweltering days, his clinginess (no matter how much he denied it) had been a nuisance, his heat making you feel as if your skin might melt off. But now, that same warmth was a comforting embrace, a welcome shield.

Infatuation. Grayson had suggested, thinking it was just a fleeting, intense passion. But there was something deeper in the way he looked at you, something that felt permanent and unshakeable.

“I am here. I am here, beloved," he spoke to you lowly. "It's alright now."

Love. His father called it.

In an instant, everything seemed to collapse around you. Tears welled up and streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed into his chest, each shudder of your body sending waves of anguish through him. Damian’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of you.

He has seen suffering—he has inflicted suffering. But this was different. Your pain was a torment he was helpless to alleviate.

Face twisted in guilt, he pulled you tighter against him, as though he could hold the world’s pain at bay if he just held you close enough.

A hand tapped at his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to see his father.

“The Batmobile is just by the docks. We can—”

“They're in shock,” Damian scowled. the fire back in his eyes. “Do you honestly believe they're in any state to be moved at this moment?”

Bruce’s gaze was firm. “Damian, we don’t have time to—”

“They need to be stabilized first,” Damian cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. He turned abruptly, striding towards the exit. “If you want them to survive this, we need to take care of them properly, not rush them into a car. I shall be outside.”

Without waiting for a response, Damian moved swiftly, the clatter of his boots echoing as he stepped into the cool night air with you. Once the warehouse door closed behind him, he turned his full attention back to you, his hand gently brushing your tear-streaked face.

He moved to press his forehead gently against yours, the warmth of his skin meeting yours in a tender connection. He could offer no verbal comfort anymore; words seemed woefully inadequate. Your cries gradually subsided as you drew comfort from his presence.

Love.

He lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing a button. As his mask retracted, his eyes met yours. Damian knew that more than anything else, you loved his eyes.

Time and again, you found yourself drawn to them, unable to tear your gaze away. They were hypnotic—an exquisite blend of emerald green, green as vibrant as the leather cover of his sketchbook, flecked with gold and streaked with brown paint.

His eyes were windows to his soul, offering the only genuine glimpse into the depths of his emotions. In them, you could see his anger burning like a stormy sea, joy dancing like sunlight on rippling water, embarrassment flitting like a shadow, and pain etched as deep as his scars.

At times, his eyes grew gentle, revealing something much softer—something that made your heart swell and your knees feel weak. A love so pure and unexpected that it could melt the coldest of hearts.

Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

But in these soft, fragile moments he shared with you, where his heart beat in sync with yours, Damian found an unexpected calm. It was in these rare interludes, away from the brutality and darkness that defined his world, that he could truly be himself.

Here, he was not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

ao3: yenwayne

NOTE: I want to delve into the line I wrote: 'Damian is still his mother’s son.'

It's just to show his trauma, I despise Talia with all my guts.

Talia's control over Damian is a textbook example of manipulative conditioning at its most extreme. In psychological development, early experiences and parental influence are crucial in shaping one's self-concept. From his earliest days, Damian was deprived of a normal childhood. His personality, thoughts, and desires have all been sculpted by the League of Assassins from day one.

His anger, protectiveness, and sense of duty are manifestations of this—a child raised to be a killer, now struggling with the fragments of a humanity that was never fully allowed to blossom.

I'm not saying he hasn't changed!!! He has turned into so much more than the weapon they intended him to be. He is genuinely good. But the impact of such deep-seated trauma cannot be easily overlooked or resolved. It’s not something that can simply be swept under the rug or fixed overnight.

So, this was my attempt at capturing his character! I’m very open to constructive criticism since I’m new to the fandom. Please be kind and gentle with your feedback :)

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prettysweet02 · 7 hours ago

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i know that’s right🗣️🗣️

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prettysweet02 · 8 hours ago

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Red Hood Gets Sleepy Too

[Jason Todd x Reader]

Word Count: 1523

Request: "He forgot to change into civilian clothes. She didn't know he was a villain/vigilante." -🍀

A/N: I'm on my silly goose shit tonight

Jason Todd is absolutely fucking done with this day.

He’s tired. He’s tired of the rain. He’s tired of the smog. He’s tired of people trying to fucking stab him. He’s fairly certain that last guy was at least 78 years old.

He’s done.

Too done to go back to his own empty apartment and cold, empty bed. He wanted warmth and comfort and the sweet orange pillow spray you kept on the nightstand. And snuggles. He wanted snuggles so intense he’d be at risk of suffocation.

It was 3:00 AM, and all odds suggested you’d be very deeply asleep. So Jason decided to take a risk.

He’d never gone directly to you after a patrol before, at a minimum always stopping at his own place or a safe house first to stash his gear and change into something… less terrifying. But he was too exhausted to make any stops. There was only enough energy left in him for one destination, and he couldn’t get the thought of your fluffy duvet and sleep-warm skin out of his mind.

So he was very very careful with your window latch, treating it with the seriousness of a life or death mission as he stepped carefully into your living room. All the lights were off, and the sound of your white noise machine filtered softly through the closed bedroom door.

His boots were discarded immediately, tucked neatly next to your own at the front door. His leather jacket, he thought, would even be excusable. Probably. He layered it beneath several of your own jackets just to be safe. The rest he could stash in a plastic bag from under your sink, no problem. Tomorrow afternoon, he’d just leave in the extra clothes you kept in a special drawer just for him at the bottom of your dresser.

He’d done it before. You accepted he was simply weird about his dirty laundry. He could absolutely get away with this.

But it was getting even harder to stay focused now that he was here, surrounded by reminders of safety and comfort and you. So he got a little greedy.

Your bedroom door swung open on mercifully silent hinges, and Jason worked hard to contain a contented sigh at the image you made, curled up safe and warm in your bed.

Just one minute. He just wanted to watch you for a minute, hold you for a minute. Then he’d get up and change.

Just… one more minute.

*****

You woke slowly the next morning, the sounds of the waking city street outside your window muffled by the white noise machine on the nightstand. That warm, lazy weekend feeling weighed down your limbs and made your eyes slow to open.

After what could have been 30 seconds or 30 minutes, you registered a heavy arm slung around your waist.

Jason must have missed you too much to wait. Again. Something soft and happy fluttered in your chest at the thought, sending your hand searching blindly to catch his.

Your fingertips stuttered across an odd texture, neither the soft cotton nor the bare skin you had come to expect. It was enough to prompt your eyes to open, peering down to investigate.

That… unfamiliar material, dark and thick, almost like it was concealing armoring of some kind.

The warm, contented feeling evaporated from your body nearly instantly, all your muscles tensing in preparation as you slowly turned your head to glance over your shoulder.

The shriek left your lips before you could stop it, panic and confusion sending you scrambling, half falling out of the bed as you sought to put distance between yourself and the goddam vigilante passed out in your bed.

But the noise and ungraceful exit had been enough to startle him upright as well, cursing and reaching out as if to help you as you continued a frantic scoot backwards until your back hit the wall. You made a quick lunge forward, just enough to snag the baseball bat tucked under your bed before shoving yourself back again.

“What the fuck is going -”

“Sorry! Fuck! I’m so sorry. Are you okay? What - Shit!”

Goddam Red Hood somehow seemed more panicked about the situation than you were, ripping the gloves off his hands like they burned him and flinging them across the room.

“Why are you in my home? Why are you in my bed?” you yelled over the sound of his continual cursing. Fuck him, honestly. This was your panic time. He didn’t get to be panicked about this.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! Fuck, hold on!”

Your heart was racing as you forced yourself to stand up, adjusting your grip on the bat. He was supposed to be a good guy now. Kinda. Mostly. But he was also in your bed and you weren’t taking any chances.

When he reached for his helmet, you lifted the bat higher.

“No! Don’t you dare! I am not getting killed for knowing too much!” you protested.

“It’ll be fine, I promise. Just - ”

“No!”

You closed your eyes stubbornly, at a loss for what else to do. If Jason were here he would flick you on the forehead for closing your eyes with a stranger in the room. Paranoid little weirdo. Your paranoid little weirdo. Who you’d bet your life would know exactly what to do right now.

You heard a click, the sound of something hitting the duvet. A sigh that made something in your stomach flip.

“Would you - ”

“I’m not opening my eyes.”

“Baby.”

Your brain caught up, recognizing that voice now free of distortion.

“What the…” You opened your eyes, blinking hard at the sight that greeted you.

Jason Todd, ruffled and panicked and, yes, very definitely wearing armor, on his knees in the middle of your bed. His hair, recently freed from the helmet and currently being tousled to hell by anxious hands, was sticking up in at least twelve different directions.

“Um…”

Your attention dropped to the helmet, bright red and intimidating against the plush duvet.

“Are you… still gonna hit me with that?” Jason asked softly, pointing at the bat in your hands.

“I’m…” You looked at it, twisting it uncertainly before looking back at him. You were pretty sure your brain was broken. “I haven’t decided.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Your preference is noted.”

You stared at each other a bit longer, both scrambling for the right words to navigate the situation and coming up totally empty.

Someone on the street below leaned hard on their car horn, jolting you back into the present.

Jason Todd. Red Hood. Kneeling on your mattress with the world's worst bedhead. Armored and armed and looking at you, a half-asleep woman with no pants and a child’s aluminum baseball bat, like you were the most terrifying being in the universe.

You cracked. He definitely broke your brain.

It started as a shocked giggle.

“Oh my god,” you gasped through the laugh.

“Are you okay?” Jason asked carefully, started to shuffle clumsily towards the edge of the bed.

The baseball bat dropped from your hands, and Jason darted forward to catch it before it could deal damage to your bare feet, tossing it behind him onto the bed.

“Sweetheart?”

“Jason…” You laugh grew in intensity, and you fell forward against his chest, throwing your arms around him. “This was the dumbest possible way for me to find out about this.”

Jason felt himself begin to smile at the sound of your laughter, couldn’t even bring himself to be offended by your comment. Because you were absolutely right.

“You thought I would just wake up to find Red Hood in my bed and instantly understand what was going on?”

“No, that was an accident,” he said, still slightly in awe of your reaction, trying to hold in a laugh of his own as you continued to giggle in his arms.

“You slept in a helmet on accident? How does that even happen? That can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“I just wanted to hold you for a minute… didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

You lifted your head then, receiving the full force of the Jason Todd puppy eyes.

“Damn it,” you whispered, reaching up to hold his face. “That’s fucking adorable. How is anyone scared of you when you’re this cute?”

“I’m not cute.” His brows furrowed a little. Still cute.

“Yeah, you are. Can’t even help it, can you?”

You chanced a quick kiss, barely a brush of your lips but it had the same effect as always. Your man practically melting against you even now, even in his uniform. Still yours.

“Don’t tell anyone. It would be terrible for my street cred.” He said it in the tone of a joke, but you knew what he was really asking.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

His eyes grew more serious, searching your face carefully.

“You sure? This is - we’re okay?”

“Mhmm. One condition?”

“Name it.”

“Don’t ever wear your street clothes in my bed again, or I will forcibly remove you from my apartment. Gotham is disgusting and the bed is sacred. Clear?”

“Clear,” Jason laughed, leaning to steal another kiss.

*****

A/N: First request complete! Not to be dramatic, but please tell me what you think or I shall simply cry for 14 hours.

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prettysweet02 · 20 hours ago

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Jason Todd x Reader | His World

warnings: a child, reader isn't as big of a character | rating: E

summary: jasons wife just gave birth.

soft, untouched grubby hands gently feel along jason's bare chest. a small face burying against the warm skin. the nurse said skin to skin was beneficial, but jason honestly couldn't tell for whom.

evangeline, his beautiful evangeline. a baby girl who's heart is unbroken, eyes unseeing of all the horrors the world offers. and he'll be damned if that ever changes.

she let out a soft coo that had jasons heart constricting, his big hand moving to cup the back of her head and gently tilting her so she was able to look at him, dwarfing the little girl who stares up at him with his blue eyes.

he never thought he deserved this, his beautiful wife, their house, their cat, and definitely not their daughter. he was a monster, with the blood of countless people on his hands. but holding that baby girl, he feels clean.

he looked up to his wife, gaze transfixed on her. he'd always known she was the most beautiful creature on all worlds, but laying there, in the sterile room, covered in a paper hospital gown, eyes sunken and lips dry, she'd looked more beautiful than ever.

he smiled down at her, then their daughter, before opening his mouth and softly saying. "if she's anything like you, my love. nearly as stubborn and smart, the world would be a better place."

she smiled, tired gaze looking from jason to evangeline, her hand gently extending to touch her soft hair, her messy brown curls just like her father. "Jay?" she asked.

"yes, dear?" he slowly said, still transfixed by the little life in his arms. who gurgled softly at him.

"do you see the little bit of white in her hair too?" she said, bringing a hand to evangelines hairline, gently twirling the small white lock of hair. jasons already soft smile softening, his beautiful girls.

his world.

a/n: tried my hand in dad jay. what do we think?

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prettysweet02 · 20 hours ago

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You: You look good in that hoodie.

Jason: You know where else I'd look good?

You, zero hesitation: My bed.

Jason, at the same time: By your side- wait, what?

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prettysweet02 · 20 hours ago

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“It’s currently—” Jason leans back on the counter’s edge to glance at the clock, “—five in the morning.”

“We talked all night?”

The refrigerator’s light glows in the kitchen, casting its hue on you and Jason. You stay seated stubbornly on the counter. The cool surface biting into the bare skin of your thighs.

“I’m freezing.” You groan.

Jason coos. He moves to stand between your legs. Your head instinctively falls to his shoulders.

“Poor baby.” You can imagine the smug grin on his face. “Weren't you the one who decided not to sleep tonight–”

“But–”

“–to eat, what is this again?” He picks up the Ice-cream carton placed next to you.

“Ice-cream. I was craving something sweet.”

“No wonder you're freezing. Plus, we need to address your sweet tooth.” He laughs.

“I have a weakness for sweet things.” You place a chaste kiss on his cheek. Jason snorts. The corners of his lips curled.

You snatch the carton from his hands. Grabbing the spoon you take another bite. You can feel your mouth freeze as the cold spreads in your mouth.

“Oh no, poor baby–”

“Shut up, Jay.”

“Want me to warm you up?”

You give him a faux glare.

“How do you stay warm, anyway? You hog all the blankets, maybe that's why.”

He gasps. “No, I do not.”

“Take responsibility, Jason Todd. Warm my hands for me.” You reach out your hands in front him, fingers wiggling. The smile on your face reaches your eyes.

With a tender grip, he wraps your hands in his, the warmth of his palms spreading slowly into your cold fingers.

“I spoil you too much.”

“Kiss me,” you whispered.

He smiled, a pearl-iridescent grin that lures you in. “You always order me about.”

“Kiss me.”

“Now you want a kiss? Are you sure?” The corners of his smile curled, turning into a teasing smirk. “Because once I do, I might not be able—”

Your hands grasped the fabric of his collar and yanked him down.

His lips danced around yours. The taste of him seeped into you akin to honeyed nectar. His hands encircled your waist. Calloused hands fleetingly ghosted over your skin.

“I love kissing you.” You murmured.

“Spoiled.”

“Shut up. You love me.”

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prettysweet02 · 2 days ago

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Yeah, I won’t ever get over him standing like that.

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prettysweet02 · 2 days ago

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Imagine being able to see people’s elemental aura. If they bear a vision, the energy around them takes the color of the corresponding element. So Pyro users have a burning red-orange energy flickering about them while Dendro wielders are draped in a calm deep green. Only you can see their aura, perhaps just a special (but mostly useless) gift you were born with.

Which is why when you start working for Wangsheng Funeral Parlor and are introduced to Zhongli, you’re freaking out that you can’t tell anyone he’s actually the Geo Archon who is supposed to be dead.

Shimmering golden rays with a glare so intense they may just be exploding stars suspended in sunlight…yes, the aura around him is simply unmistakable. The Dendro Archon’s wavelength was of a similar intensity back when you attended the Sabzeruz festival. The appearance of the Raiden Shogun during Irodori had you beholding a similar feeling.

Zhongli’s every action only confirms it, not that confirmation was ever needed. His knowledge is too vast to be that of a young man, his mannerisms more ethereal than worldly, his gait steadier than stone.

Soon enough, he takes notice of the way you’re always so jittery around him – but he chalks it up to you being a naturally skittish thing. So he tries to alleviate your nerves by talking to you any chance he gets…not that that helps because his every word has you even more on edge.

“So true, bestie!” you blurt out after he’s told you something that’s gone in one ear and out the other. “Speaking of, isn’t it so sad that Rex Lapis is dead?”

Zhongli pauses, eyeing you curiously. “My dear, this is the third time this week you have brought up the topic of the Geo Lord’s death. Has it affected you so? Please take comfort in that He remains in all our hearts, watching over us common folk from the afterlife.”

He’s mocking me, I just know it! you think, your cheeks heating up as you try not to stare at the divine golden aura crackling around him.

One time, as (un)luck may have it, you accidentally bump into him and spill coffee on his beautiful suit. “Oh gods! Forgive me!” you wail, getting onto your knees. This time…this time he’ll certainly show you his godly wrath…maybe skewer you with his spear…or summon a fissure to swallow you…

But Zhongli is chuckling softly, dabbing at the stain with his lovely embroidered handkerchief. “Please do not fret, my friend. This is nothing a wash will not fix.”

You then insist you’ll cover the cost and get it cleaned, to which he eventually accedes. Holy…when he takes it off to reveal his cream-coloured shirt underneath, it’s like his aura gets even more blinding. It takes everything in you not to just throw yourself at his feet and sing his praises.

(How gorgeous he looks as he works the rest of the day with his coat off.)

He warmly invites you over to his place for tea when you come to return his coat, now cleaned; the house is as well-kept as he is. As night falls, the glow around him only strengthens in response. You can’t stop yourself from asking, mid-sip of your well-made tea:

“What’s Rex Lapis doing working a salaried job?”

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