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aimfor-theheart · 1 year ago

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|| zhongli x afab!reader || E/18+ || smut/a touch of angst/comfort || wc: 7k || ao3 ||

minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only

You have never been patient enough for worship. Sometimes, he thinks you always expect to be scorned or feared or hated. As a god of hunger, you are not beloved or worshiped by many, if any at all.

You’ve never known the sort of worship that he gives you.

✧ meet fruit collab masterlist ✧

a/n: this is apart of @willowser 's house server summer collab, meet fruit!! i took plums as my prompt!! this really got away from me and i had a lot of fun with this dynamic and i WILL be writing more of godly wife!reader and zhongli. i have a whole backstory. a huge massive fic i shouldn't work on but will fjdkslfdk i also need to give a special thanks to @itoshisoup , @lorelune , and @petrichorium for helping me with brainstorming and riffing earlier! also finding some godly names for the reader! in particular, mao came up with the name Tanai Zhenjun, which i will leave a note at the end about!! i hope you enjoy this sweet taste!! thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts <333

tags: afab!reader referred to as wife, and has several godly titles that mortals have called her, etc., a complicated relationship between zhongli and reader, mentions of past fights/canon typical violence, erotic fruit eating and feeding, finger sucking, biting, oral sex (f!recieving), some over stimulation, praise, maybe a little sex pollen because the reader causes feelings of hunger/lust/etc. but its consensual and zhongli can withstand it if he wanted, scratching, unhealthy godly dynamics, let me know if i missed anything!

In the shadows of his home, he would know you anywhere.

(He would know you even if you didn’t appear to him like this, fully formed, and in the visage of mortals. He’d know you in the thunder and the wolves’ howl. He’d know you in autumn’s bitter wind and the fox’s cry. Across all of time, he’d know you.)

You slip, serpentine, slow and with the easy grace of a predator into the last falling light of the sun; bronzed, honeyed, and appearing before him like you did decades ago, perhaps a hundred of years ago.

Has it been so long already?

The sight of you–perhaps simply you, yourself, spark an ache in his chest. Fierce. Hunger pains.

And after all these years, he welcomes it, savors the pit in his stomach like a sweet fruit.

You, his god of hunger.

You, his divine wife.

He tips his head back, leaning further into the chair at his deep, mahogany desk, as if he could fix his eyes to better see you. As if he could take in more of you, somehow, greedily, hungirly.

“Hello, my Morax.” You hum and the sun catches in your eye as you step into his life again, after so long without.

“Hello, my love.” He responds, as if it could’ve just been yesterday.

As if you are his wife and you’ve come home to greet him. As if he is your husband and he’s been working all day without you.

“It’s been a long time,” he says then, “you’ve been away a long time.”

You meander closer, on the other side of his desk, peering at the scrolls and papers there. His hands are stained in ink. He catches the downturn of your lips, the small quirking of them in displeasure. Such mortal things, he can hear your voice, the little hiss you get when you dislike something.

But then your eyes roam to the bowl of fruit, now untouched, that had been brought to him in hopes of eating;

Slices of plum, gold and orange and tender on the inside, their moon-dark skins still curved to them. One still has the pit attached to it, carefully nestled within its flesh.

Plums always remind him of you.

(In truth, anything with pits, with bones, with something that can be picked clean and left behind reminds him of you.)

In an instant, your fingers, nimble–adorned with his jewels, the jewels of his earth, snag a slice.

He watches as you sink your teeth into it, juice bursting, caught on your lip.

You chew only a moment, swallow slowly as you watch him.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed around Liyue Harbor,” you begin, “I thought I wasn’t allowed around your precious mortals.”

His voice, low and soft, rumbles in affirmation. “Yes, that is true.”

“And yet you speak to me like I’m welcome.” You hold the last bite of your slice to your lips, speaking against it, “like I should’ve visited sooner.”

You bear down into the fruit again.

“You’ve come to pick a fight?” He asks, “I can feel you’re trying to stir trouble.”

And it's true; your ability as a god of hunger, to spark it in others. To sharpen and change it from starvation to bloodlust to desire to despair to greed–to any form of hunger.

You caused whole towns to be decimated, driven mad with just the residuals of you, the feeling of you too near, like a wraith haunting their doorway. You turned tides in the Archon war for him and against him. You have always been one of the biggest threats to Liyue’s peace—to the world. Perhaps even beyond.

You perch on the corner of his desk prettily.

“I can’t visit my husband?” You purr.

He quirks a brow, “you only ever call me husband when you’re trying to kill me.”

Your grin is a wild slip of excitement, a fissure of heat in the clash of your gazes.

“I am trying to kill you,” you agree, but perhaps you have always been trying to kill him. The battles between you two carved the very land of Liyue and at the end of them, no matter what had transpired, he was still your husband. And you, his wife. “But I don’t feel like fighting tonight.”

You pluck another slice of plum from the bowl and bring it to your mouth. He watches your lips part to take the fruit in again.

He thinks of replacing your hand with his own. He thinks of the sticky sweet taste he would find if he licked into your mouth, he thinks of being between your teeth again like the little piece of plum.

Something inside of him yawns open.

You’re toying with him.

“You’re in rare form, then.” he hums and does not deny your draw. He has long since stopped trying not to be swept up in you–he realized it was inevitable at some point. You would always pull at parts of him none of the world had, and like a puppeteer did you play with those strings. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You gaze down at him, almost lovingly, if he didn’t know better.

Then you shift slightly, adjust yourself.

And the first touch he has of you in decades, perhaps a century, is just a brushing of your calf against his forearm from where you sit atop his desk. Your bare skin beneath the pooling silks of your skirts.

Heat rips through him like a tearing wound.

His gaze flicks up to yours.

“Did you know I was in Liyue?” You ask.

“I always know the moment you enter my land again.”

I always know the moment you come home.

You shift your leg again, this time, a steadier press to his arm.

He can’t help himself–he shifts his arm, opens his palm up against the curve of your bare calf to fully feel you, to hold you, in any minute way you might let him. Rough calluses scrape up against the soft skin of your leg, the silk of your dress pooling around his arm, cool and like spun moonlight.

You let him hold you like this, curl against the contour of you. His hand moves, dips down almost to your ankle, and back up to the bend of your knee.

“You missed me,” you accuse, your voice a teasing lilt.

Perhaps it’s you and the heady rush you cast on a room, on him, “yes,” he agrees honestly, “I always do.”

“So sentimental in your old age. You’ve spent too long around these mortals.” You tell him, looking away so all you give him is the profile of your lovely face. The upward tilt of your chin, the haughty way you look down your nose.

“Did you miss me?” He asks and he isn’t looking for you to placate him, but his hand is broad and inching up the back of your thigh. He pulls at you, urges you to the edge of the desk, where his other hand fits around the curve of your waist.

“Don’t get greedy,” you chastise gently, but you still go with the pull of his hold.

You slip into his lap like you were always meant to be there, fitting to him the way the moon fits into the sky, or the land against the sea. It’s an ancient feeling, bone deep, soul-cut.

You let your arms fall around his neck loosely and to have you again in his embrace, after so long, does in fact, make him feel greedy.

“I can feel it,” he says instead, perhaps just to spite you a little–to move another piece in this eternal chess game with you. “I can feel how you ache. I can feel the way you missed me.”

“I always feel like that,” you snip, deft fingers slipping the band in his hair out so that it all falls free, loose and flowing over his shoulders in a wave of inky black. “I am always hungry like that.”

“No,” he says and his voice is low like a wolf’s growling, a tiger’s purr, “I know your hunger. And I know this hunger of yours. You missed me.”

“If you’re looking for a heartfelt confession, you won’t find it in me.” You tell him, proud little god that you’ve always been, “perhaps you’ll find it in your precious mortals.”

Your voice takes on an edge, just shy of a sneer.

He laughs, a low rumble from his chest, amused, and pleased.

“Oh, that jealousy of yours. I missed that, too.”

“Don’t get full of yourself,” you hiss like an asp and now, he worries you’ll bring your claws out. Your eyes glint in the last rays of light, like a bolt of lightning, like a spark of flame in a cold night.

He reaches up to touch your face, thumb sweeping over the arc of your jaw bone in a possessive hold. He forces you to look at him. “Come now, I thought you said you weren’t in the mood for a fight.”

“Then don’t test me.” You snap.

He fights back another fond smile in order to not test you further than he already has.

He leans closer, his nose almost nudging against yours, “if you’re not here to fight. What are you here for?”

“To eat through all your land until it is barren again.” You murmur and he knows it is just to pester him. Your fingers are winding in his long, silky hair and your eyes have gone half-lidded, so he knows you are not nearly as waspish as you’re pretending to be.

“If I could satiate your hunger, I would.” He murmurs darkly, lips brushing against yours as you carefully hold yourself back, a dog on a strained leash. At your best, you have always been a caged beast, pacing and desperate for escape. At your worst, you have been nothing short of desolation, teeth upon the earth in a vicious grasp, shaking hard, tearing it to shreds. Your bite never compared to your bark. You’d threaten destruction and deliver devastation; even you, surprised with your own vitriol, your own capability for demolition.

He threatened to muzzle you once, long ago.

You rear back slightly to look at him, “no, you wouldn’t. What would you have me be? Content?”

He laughs softly again, low and warm, terribly fond of you despite it all, “yes,” he says very frankly, and then, “soothed, for once in your life.”

“I won’t ever be soothed while you walk this earth.” You tell him and he cannot tell if you mean it with vengeance or with love. Are you being romantic? Or threatening him? Sometimes, he felt that your violence was supposed to be more like a kiss, and your kiss the type of violence that leaves him ruined for decades after.

“And you would be after?” He asks, “I don’t think you’d know what to do if you finally managed to kill me in a meaningful capacity. You’d be bored.”

You move to pull away from him with a snarl but he fastens his hold onto you tighter to get you to stay, he touches your face again, coaxing. “I only tease you.”

“I said don’t test me.” You respond, but again, there is nothing nearly so vicious in you tonight.

No, he knows the hunger in you tonight is a soft creature, a warbling, tender one. He’ll be kind to it, he will feed it and tend to it, even if he knows it will only grow larger still. Like caring for a tiger cub, only for it to grow into all those teeth and muscles, to bite the hand that fed it.

“Forgive me,” he rumbles, and this time, he angles your head so that he can skim the strong line of his nose against your jaw, “let me make it up to you.”

“You will not be able to,” you say indignantly and his own smile now feels sharper with the challenge, with your throat so near. He settles himself into a burning kiss against your pulse. Inside of him, something catches and sparks. Your hands curl around the muscles of his shoulders.

“I know,” he coos, low and soft, almost sympathetic. “Then at least indulge the hunger you’ve caused in me.”

This, in the least, you settle into.

He pulls away barely to sit back, to look at you fully in all of your glory a moment.

You look back at him, perhaps taking him in as well.

The smoldering turns into a flame.

The decades of years unspool inside of him and give way to a racing mind, images of what he wants, how he wants you.

It is always like this, he thinks, eternally, desiring you, and never getting enough.

He thinks he must know how you feel.

And then he gives into one of several of his desires that are rearing their large, horned heads inside of him. The beasts of his desire are all chained to you, he thinks. He reaches for the bowl of fruit.

Perhaps it's your turn to be amused as he brings a slice of plum to your lips. You must know how he was looking at you earlier, you must know his desires if you are the one to stoke them.

Still, you accept the fruit easily, minding your teeth as his finger slips against your lips. Sticky and soft and warm. You draw his finger into your mouth briefly, closing around it. He can feel the edges of your teeth as he pulls it out.

The moment you swallow around the piece, he surges up to kiss you.

To finally kiss you.

He wishes he could call it something of a greeting or reunion, but it is too desperate and too vicious for that. Your teeth click together, coming up against one another, like an old key coming up against a lock.

He tastes the plum in your mouth, sweet and a little tart, and can’t help the groan that rumbles out of him.

Your hands disappear into his hair, tangle in the strands so that he can feel the press of your nails against his scalp. He feels the way you arch into the slide of his hands along your torso, bending to them, as if he is a sculptor. It pulls you closer, opens your hips wider in his lap in a way that makes heat rip through him.

When he pulls away, you’re already hazy-eyed, heady with the quick-burn of this sort of hunger, this lust.

It pulls at him like the tide on the shore to drag him under.

This time, when he places his lips to your throat, he sinks into a bite at the tender flesh there.

Sometimes, he wishes he’d treat you more tenderly. As if that might be all you ever needed; more gentleness, and less teeth at your throat.

But you arch and from your mouth spills your own moan finally, fingers tightening in his hair as if to hold him there. He feels your hips twitch forward, into him, an aborted rock of them, perhaps unknowingly or subconscious.

He wishes you inspired patience in him.

(Usually, he claims to have a great deal. Unfortunately, he cannot claim the same with you in his arms again. Forgive me, he thinks again, but I haven’t seen you in nearly a century.)

He stands suddenly with you still wrapped around his waist, hands fit beneath your thighs to lift you and place you on the broad expanse of his desk. Papers get pushed aside, some topple onto the floor in a fluttering mess. You laugh when the bowl of plums rattle precariously, but his mouth covers yours again, and he swallows the sound eagerly.

He kisses you hard again, hitching your hips up to fit snugly to his, fitting his broad hands over the curves of your waist. You respond in kind, though, and twine your leg around his waist to pull him closer, arch your back to press your chest up to his.

When he pulls away this time, he takes you in, splayed out beneath him.

“I did miss you,” he gets out roughly.

“Then show me,” you respond, stretching out beneath him, as if to tempt him.

His hands move over the silk of your dress, bunching parts of it, tangling it. He decides in an instant that he doesn’t actually wish to deal with it, so he sets his hands on the bust and simply pulls. It tears like paper beneath him. And again, you laugh, amused with him now, with what you do to him.

“So impatient.”

“It’s been a long time, my love.”

And this time when he kisses you, perhaps you give into him more, feed what he wants. You mewl into his mouth, arch against him, drag your nails down his covered back.

“Touch me,” you get out, demanding, a little fussy.

“So impatient.” He mocks dryly.

For his trouble, you pull harshly on the hair at the nape of his neck, baring his throat to you.

His broad palm roams up the expanse of your side, your bare stomach, and to your chest. He cups your breast, thumb brushing against the peak in a way that makes you hum and squirm beneath him eagerly.

You bury your face in his now exposed neck, nudge your nose there, which turns into your warm, open mouth.

For a moment, surprisingly gentle, until he feels the quick flash of pain from your teeth. He rolls your nipple between thumb and forefinger with a little more pressure than necessary, just to hear the little noise of pain you make.

He drops his face to the crux of your chest, lips dragging along the skin there, above your beating heart. And for all your bite and bark, you still offer yourself up to him for the taking. You still draw your hands over his shoulders, pushing at the clothes still on him. He doesn’t indulge you, but draws lower, hair spilling over your chest as his mouth opens against your breast.

He nips and marks, sets his teeth against the tender flesh and sucks a bruise into you.

“I miss your sharp teeth,” you admit.

He huffs, breath fanning against your skin. He raises his eyes, molten gold, to meet your own, “there’s no pleasing you.”

And then he captures the bud of your breast in his mouth and at least manages to pull another sound from you, meandering, growing in your own desire. You squirm beneath him again but something inside of him (old and draconic) blinks its eyes open and he seizes your waist to still you the way a predator subdues their prey, sharply, and with a slow rolling of muscle, a flex of their strength. A serpent squeezing down around a mouse. A tiger bearing down on the deer.

You don’t go easily, though.

And the moment you feel his resistance, you squirm and push harder, straining. Arching and impatient.

He nips, he fights back the more base urge to growl, and readjusts his hold on you.

“Stop squirming,” he commands.

“Stop teasing,” you reply, stubborn, and disobedient.

“Let me enjoy you.” Zhongli responds, watching his own hand sweep over your breast, cover it, and toy with you.

“Enjoy me later.” You snip, fastening your legs tighter to his waist, hitching him closer.

And he feels a head rush of your ability pour through him, the tightening of your desire and lust, of your hunger spilling from you. It’s purposeful. He feels the dull thud of his heart kick upwards, the warmth that simmers beneath his skin. He blinks hard with it, but does not succumb.

“You’re so insolent.” He finally gets out, just shy of a growl, “now hold still for me.”

His lips skim the top of your stomach as he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

You sit up onto your elbows, eyeing him, inching your hips to the edge of the desk eagerly.

“I’ve always liked you best on your knees, Morax.”

He sinks his teeth into your inner thigh in a more ruthless bite, forcing your legs open even as they threaten to close with the sudden jolt of pain. Hard enough that you hiss through your teeth, twitching towards or away from him, he can’t tell.

(Images of days long past flash hotly in his mind, in another form, with those sharper teeth you’d said you missed.)

He feels your hunger burst open like a ripe fruit, like the plum between your teeth.

He soothes the bite with a slow, lingering pass of his tongue.

His eyes flick upwards towards you.

You look a little shaken finally, eyes glassy, teeth stuck in your bottom lip.

He drags you closer, pulls you flush so that your hips are almost off the edge. You fall back with the movement and he doesn’t give you a moment. He isn’t feeling generous or very kind anymore.

His mouth opens against you in a crush of heat, eager, perhaps impatient himself.

A groan, low, from the back of his throat, works out of him at the first taste of you.

Again, you try to squirm, and something ancient and vicious in him squeezes hard enough on your waist that if you were a mortal, he might sincerely hurt you. He doesn’t care if you’re trying to squirm closer or away, he realizes, he doesn’t care if it hurts a little, as long as he can have you like this. Open. His.

Ah, he realizes, perhaps he isn’t ignoring your sway as well as he thought he was.

He delves between soft folds, already slick, but he’ll make it worse still.

(Perhaps, at one point, he had ideas of being a gentleman of some kind with you. Perhaps, at some point, he thought he would carefully work you open with mouth and soft tongue. He’d be loving and gentle with you. But you’ve always done something horrible to him, something he can’t tame, something he wishes he feared more.)

You whine a little and the sound pools straight into his own desire for you.

He fits himself closer, keeps your legs wider apart with his shoulders.

“Morax,” you gasp and it’s with more heat and desperation than he is anticipating.

His eyes, heavy and gold, flick up towards your face, looking up at you beneath the dark fan of his lashes.

Oh, you’re closer than he thought, he realizes.

He doesn’t slow or stop or lessen himself, groans a little, and fits himself tighter to you. He digs his fingers into your skin and keeps you close.

To his surprise, that is all it takes.

Your gasp is strangled, perhaps a little surprised, as you arch off the desk in a bow-curve, poised to snap.

You fall to pieces as a cry loosens from your throat.

He feels you pulse against his tongue and without thinking, he growls a little, a pleased rumble, and doesn’t stop.

He tastes you, savors it, and doesn’t let you hide or pull away from him.

Your hips twist and he follows the movement, wrestling you still, so that he can still enjoy you.

You’re out of breath, hiccuping a little, trying to squirm away from him but there’s nowhere to go.

He won’t let you go.

He pulls away to rest his head on your inner thigh a moment, “so quick.” He teases, “you must’ve been pent up for it to be that easy.”

He thinks, I wasn’t even doing that for you yet—I was still enjoying myself. I was being greedy. Hungry in my own way, in the way that you inspire.

“I should leave you now.” You huff, picking yourself up on your elbows to gaze down at him, but your eyes are simmering.

He squeezes at your thighs, “you’re not going anywhere tonight.”

And before he can hear your protests, he dips forward again and flattens his tongue against your folds. Slow, broad licks that make you twist and twitch.

“Morax—“

“I’m not finished with you yet, my love.” He says lowly, somewhere against where you’re most tender and sensitive.

He takes his time teasing now.

Enjoy me later, you’d said, and he doesn’t think this is what you meant.

You have never been patient enough for teasing–for worship. Sometimes he thinks you always expect to be scorned or feared. You were always Deus Inanis, Tanai Zhenjun, and later, Rapax Regina to the people. You have many names from them, none particularly kind or cherished. You were always the ghoulish god, the bad omen, the drooling maw of a starved predator. Your myth is not a beloved one by most.

And some dare not even speak your name at all, for fear of inviting you.

You are not a welcome god in the home and hearth, you are not for protection or courage. You are feared and warded off. You are, at best, used as a condemnation.

(To him you were always softened with affection, even at your worst; little god, my curse, my love, keeper of my heart.)

You’ve never known the sort of worship he gives you.

You struggle with it, keen sharp and broken when he gives it to you.

Sometimes you have all-out tried to refuse him or hasten him, poured your lust and impatience into him to get your way, to sway him to your own will. He can feel it again now but it never manifests in him the way you’d like it to. You assume his desire is one of his own pleasure. But it has always been this;

You, belly-up and vulnerable, only for him, delicate in a way the rest of the world will never know. Pleasure-drunk and hazy. Lost to what he can give you–he wants to gorge you. He wishes he could fill the empty place inside of you.

He’s spent an eternity trying. He’ll spend an eternity more.

He focuses his intentions, strengthens the pass of his tongue with what he wants. He wants your pleasure. He wants it again and again.

You curse a little, an ancient word, from when the land was Archon-less and free.

He lifts his mouth from you briefly, “you are already cursing like that? This will be a long night for you then.”

He opens his mouth again to taste you, to suck gently, your legs twitching over his shoulders as your breath hitches.

This time you curse him, hissing through clenched teeth.

He laughs against you in amusement, low and dark, and smooths a broad hand over the soft plain of your tensing stomach. As if he might soothe you, or perhaps because he wants to feel all of you, have you in his palms, in his arms. Against his mouth.

The next time you fall apart, he doesn’t let up once. His eyes have gone half-lidded and burning, a flint-strike of amber. You try to fight him again, wrestle out of his hold, but he strengthens himself. He steels himself, even, to your pulling of his hair, to your fussing and snapping–all of that melts to whining, to near-crying, as he continues.

You’re too stubborn to cry for him now–there have been only a handful of times he’s broken you down that much.

Perhaps if he were feeling crueler, he would try.

(These instances have always come in the wake of something worse; your largest fights, or worst transgressions where he felt the need to punish. To strip you bare. These are saved, not for his desires, but for your catharsis after all your grief.)

But your voice has gone higher with desperation, more broken, and he is pleased with that.

Pleased enough that when you burst on his tongue again, your nails digging into the back of his hand as he holds you, he finally rises.

Instantly, you twine yourself around him, legs around his waist, arms pulling at the front of his clothes to drag him down into your arms. You are always more desperate for affection like this, softened by pleasure, hungry for more.

He goes down easily for you.

Kisses you hard and open, so that you’ll taste yourself from his mouth, the way he tasted the plum from yours.

You groan weakly and manage to gasp when he pulls away, “please–more. I need more. Need–”

Always need, you say, when you get like this. Never want.

“Need you.”

He hums, the noise lumbering from his chest in a pleased, dark sound.

“You have me,” he soothes, even as he feels dizzy with your own desire, a headrush of desperation–of need that rushes from you to him.

Feed me, need me, fill me, possess me, take, take, take me. Fill. Aching–so empty, I’m so empty. Please, please, it hurts– please, I need more, need, need, need–

He lets out a harsh breath. It aches, almost sharply, almost on the wrong side of pain and pleasure.

He does not torment you any longer. He does not torment himself, either.

With fingers far more nimble than he feels, he loosens his slacks, he pushes his clothes out of the way just enough, enough to take himself in hand and hiss through his teeth as the head of his cock touches your slick folds.

Molten. Fluttering still with sensitivity, with desperation.

Your hips roll, eager, trying to urge him closer, inside–

“Morax–” you cry and the sound twists something in his chest, blooms like a bruise being pressed on.

He presses inside you and fills you in one, deep thrust.

You gasp sharply, you pull at him, force him to collapse over you nearly, cover you completely. You cling to him, you wrap yourself around him like a serpent, now constricting him–

(He’s never been able to tell who is the serpent and who is the mouse, anyways. Who is the tiger or the deer? Was he capturing you? Or were you always capturing him?)

You hold him so tightly, calves flexing around his back, that he can hardly pull out from you to thrust.

He groans, almost in frustration, or maybe some form of defeat.

“Darling,” he gets out roughly, “my love. My little god.”

The old, affectionate nickname burns through you and he can feel the desire like a knife’s blade in his own stomach. You moan– a soft, warbling sound.

He manages to move his hips, barely leaving the hot clutch of you, to push back in deeper, harder.

“Please–” you gasp, “more–kiss me. Touch me.”

“So demanding,” he scolds, but he kisses you hard, with too much teeth and roughness, and fits his palms over the sides of your body. He takes handfuls of curves, of your waist and your breasts, rough hands bending over the lines of you the way the light of the moon bends over the hills and valleys of his land.

His next thrust is harder, a little rougher. You turn your face into his throat after you break the kiss and your teeth sink down into him hard.

You always draw blood. You always have to leave your mark on him, on all that you’ve touched.

But then you draw your tongue over the wound, licking softly, perhaps in apology. Perhaps to satiate another need that winds around inside you.

Your hand tangles in his hair again and he bites back another raw groan as he thrusts, in and out, on a slow, rough drag. You’re clinging to him, tight and so wet that it’s making his thoughts bleary and clouded. Your lust shadows any rationality; your hunger possesses him.

“Harder,” you gasp, you beg, you plead.

And he thinks who am I to deny you? Who am I to deny the god of my hunger?

His hand slips over your arm, your free one clawing at his clothed back still. He knows you will mourn not getting your nails into his skin after, but he will let you satiate the need all you like later. He’ll savor the way you try to tear him apart, like he always does.

(And sometimes, he swears, you’re just trying to tear down his skin to be closer. Deeper in him. Scratching at his ribs and his sides like you want in, in, in. A bad dog at his door. A wraith that claws at his soul.)

As he pulls at your forearm, flattening it out against the desk beneath you to pin you beneath him, he knocks into the bowl of fruit.

The last of the plum slices tip out onto the desk and the remaining juice at the bottom of the bowl pools in a sticky mess over the wood, some over your forearm and wrist, over his own, too.

He thinks you move without thinking, bringing his wrist up to your lips where you lick up a stripe up into his palm, against his thumb.

You take his thumb into your mouth with ease and he cups your cheek in a possessive hold as he lets you suckle, tongue soft and warm and gentle against the pad of it. You groan, lashes fluttering, and this seems to please some part of you.

His thumb in your mouth, cock lodged deep inside you.

He pushes himself deeper on his next thrust, enough that you whine a little, eyes going glassy, cheeks hollowing around his thumb.

He can feel the spit pooling in your mouth, wet and slick, can feel the way your walls squeeze and flutter around him desperately.

He presses on your tongue, thrust growing a little faster, but still hard, deep–a little ruthless.

But it’s what you need–so it’s what he gives you.

You hold his wrist, little nails digging into his skin, desperate to keep his thumb between your lips. He can feel the press of your teeth in the meat of his hand.

He readjusts, tries to draw his thumb out barely, only for you to latch down tighter on his wrist, and slide it back into your mouth with a noise of protest. Saliva spills a little, slick and messy against your bottom lip, against his hand.

He coos, but it’s too dark to sound reassuring, and sounds more like a rough purr, just shy of a pleased growl.

“I won’t go anywhere,” he soothes lowly, but it sounds like less of a comfort from a husband, and more of a promise from the beast you shouldn’t have let in in the first place. It’s loving in the same way a possession is. “My little god, I have you now.”

Your peak this time makes something inside of him roar open. He feels your inner muscles bear down on him, fluttering desperately.

Your eyes tip behind your eyelids, hiccuped breath against his hand as it twists into a guttural sound that he feels against his palm.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, turning your face so that he can press open mouthed kisses against your throat, suck a bruise there, turn the flesh tender, “I’ve got you. Good girl–that’s it.”

Perhaps he draws blood when he bites you this time, too. Tastes it sharp on his tongue, the blood of a god. He lifts his head from your neck and finally draws his thumb from your mouth, spit slick as he traces your bottom lip. He pulls himself up from you to gaze down at you, slack jawed and messy, near feverish with your lust.

His hips quicken, harder, and you reach out to splay your hand out against his tensing stomach, to push at him a little.

But he doesn’t stop, feels you nip at his thumb, still making a mess of your lips and chin.

Your legs are still hitched tight around him, drawing him in, keeping him close.

He squeezes your hip with his free hand, he loses his rhythm when you draw his thumb back into your mouth, suckling softly on it.

He groans, feels his own pleasure in a rush down his spine, a burst of heat that unfurls like a supernova. Collapses inward. Expands outwards. He buries himself inside of you, as deep as he can manage, deep enough that you make a little noise of pain maybe, but you hold him tight to you. Again, you constrict around him, dragging him back down by his clothes to slot your mouth against his as he fills you.

It’s your turn to hum, pleased, almost purring, tightening your hold around him, locking him against you.

The kiss this time is slower, but dirtier, all tongue, open and messy. He groans into it, holding your jaw, feeling himself twitch inside of you, his own eyes fluttering with pleasure, lashes against your cheek.

When you both pull away, you’re out of breath. Chests rising and falling against each other.

You seem subdued now, heavy-lidded, but your lips drag to his cheek, down to the curve of his jaw.

You roll your hips a little.

“More–” You murmur, “I want more.”

His laugh tapers into a moan. He flexes his hips a little, heat simmering beneath his own skin.

Your hands pull at his clothes finally, tugging at them, pulling at buttons until they snap and burst beneath your fingers, until you reveal bare skin. Instantly, your hands are on him, nails scratching into his chest gently, over his shoulders.

(He’s going to take you to bed after this and he’ll rid you of the scraps of your clothes and the rest of his. He'll get rid of anything between you.)

The ache in him builds again and suddenly he’s rocking into you again, deep and slow, watching the way he disappears inside of you. The mess he’s already made of you, the way he wants to make it all worse. He feels feverish himself now, a little lost to the sight– his desire suddenly feels inhuman. Monstrous. Too big for his own skin.

You always seem to remind him of his divinity.

“Hold me,” you demand now and as if commanded, he goes to you.

He gets his arms around you and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. His desire unwinds. Time unspools from him. He loses himself in the pull of you, in the undertow of desire and hunger. He tries to satiate the ache you have carved in him. The ache you always have nestled inside of you.

You beg him of more–more pain and more pleasure and more of him–until he feels near mindless with it. Gone with it.

Shuddering with sensitivity and feeling you tremble with it, too.

He doesn’t regain himself until another peak has been reached and fallen from, until he realizes the hour; the moon hanging in the window of his study like a copper penny. He forces himself to slow. To lodge himself deep and go still inside of you and let his head fall to your chest.

You cradle his skull, fingers slipping into his hair, catching your breath as the haze fades for a moment.

He picks his head up barely, shifts only so he can catch your gaze.

“Stay for a while.” He demands now.

You let go of a sigh, deep, perhaps tired.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed.” You hum softly.

“Will you behave?” He asks and you lean down to kiss him–sweeter now. Perhaps apologizing. He accepts your affection with warmth, though.

“You know how I get restless.” You respond, fingers tracing along the nape of his neck, one of them trailing down the bend of his jaw.

You are softest now, like this. It’s a rare sight; one he savors, one he will stay hungry for his whole life, he thinks.

“Yes,” he agrees, perhaps fondly, perhaps sadly. “If you could keep mortals out of it, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Even if I tried to kill you again?” You ask, finger tracing the bow of his upper lip.

He smiles faintly and you touch the corner of his mouth, “yes,” he agrees, “even then.”

“Or tried to steal your Gnosis again?”

He snorts softly, picking himself up further to hover over you, to gaze down at you with more love than you have ever known what to do with. “You can certainly try again.”

“Perhaps I should try harder this time.” The threat is fangless this time and you are at least soothed somewhat for now. He knows it won’t last long.

But for now, he takes advantage of it. He cups your cheek, brushes his thumb along your jaw affectionately, and for once, you nuzzle into the touch. You rub your cheek into his palm like a cat.

A flash of your teeth. You bite down into his hand.

He laughs softly, but pulls his hand from you, dislodges your teeth from his flesh.

Slowly, he tries to detangle himself from you. You are reluctant, but he appeases you with promises of more, of his bedroom. Of a bath and whatever you want.

“More plums,” you say, letting him carry you to his bedroom like a young bride, cradled in his arms. “I’ve always loved plums.”

He smiles, “I know. They remind me of you.”

The admittance is a tender one, one that he has held for centuries that has finally loosened from his mouth like a bird taking to flight.

In the morning, when you have slipped from him and his bed and his life once more, all that’s left are the marks you left on him, the deep scratches and latches of your teeth on tan skin–

And the pits of plums you devoured before you left. Not one is spared and he thinks his heart never has been, either.

Not from you, his wife, his curse, his love–not from his god of hunger.

***

a/n part ii: thank you for reading!! here are those notes on the reader's godly names:

There are three titles the reader is referred to. Two of them are latin, similar to Rex Lapis, and the third is from @itoshisoup, and is Tanai Zhenjun, which mao explained as such: "贪爱 (tanai) is a Buddhist term that is often translated as "craving", and refers to desire for both physical and mental things. From my understanding, tanai is sometimes considered a cause of suffering (苦 or ku), but is sometimes considered closely related to suffering in other ways. Given the motif of hunger, I would name the god Tanai, and additionally give them the honorific "Zhenjun" (a title associated with Taoist gods - much like "Dijun", which is the honorific in Zhongli's Chinese title, Yanwang Dijun; however, it is a lesser title than Dijun). Tanai Zhenjun is therefore what I'd call them."

The other two are Deus Inanis and Rapax Regina, which mean "empty god" and "rapacious/ravenous queen" in Latin.

i plan to write more of this reader and use these godly names again soon <3

#zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #zhongli x y/n #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x y/n #cielo collabs!#cielo writes!#cielo's writing!#god of my hunger

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aimfor-theheart · 1 year ago

Text

Act I, Part I

|| kaeya alberich x afab!reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort/fluff || wc: 13k || ao3 || masterlist || Act I, Part II -> ||

When you, a beloved artist and performer of Mondstadt, attract the attention of the Fatui, there is only one person you seek out for help; the infamous Cavalry Captain of the Ordo Favonius, Mondstadt's beloved bastard.

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+ only

❀ for you are the world (as i am in pieces) - @lorelune ❀

a/n: it is finally here!!! this is apart of a lovely collab with my buddy @lorelune that you should check out!! i've linked their fic above!! thank you so much to @acerathia for beta reading this!!! this is the first act of three that will be posted but this act has been broken into two parts because tumblr hates long posts so i will link that shortly as well! everything will also be on ao3!! thank you so much and i'd love to hear your thoughts!! <33

tags: afab reader (she/her pronouns but is rather gender fluid/binds her chest sometimes and presents both femme and masc), alcohol use, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of stalking/full on stalking from the fatui to the reader, eventual smut (not in this chapter), mentions of heartbreak/abandonment issues, bodyguard au technically, fake dating au technically

SCENE I

Our story begins first in the open night, beneath torchlight and on an ancient, well-loved stage in Springvale. And then our world should open up to the wilderness, to the Mondstadt streets, until we end up in Kaeya’s home; it’s as mysterious and stylish as he is. Everything could or couldn’t tell you everything about him, everything might or might not mean something to the Cavalry Captain.

The night sky shudders into shades of endless plum blue, kissed with silver-burnt stars and the gentle curve of a sweet moon.

Kaeya’s eye catches its brilliance, reflects it back like it was made from the very same moonbeam, the very same starshine.

You roar to life in the darkness.

Fire bursts from your mouth in a red-gold crush of heat, swinging in an arc around your head to illuminate you.

The audience cheers, hollering and clapping, murmuring excitedly at the way you leap from your pedestal above the stage into a crouch.

Your costume twinkles, shimmery and scale-like, jangling like mora in the pocket. It’s slinky, baring midriff and thigh, the curve of your bare feet, ankles and wrists adorned in jingling, scale-like jewelry. Your hair is wild, horns twisting out from your head.

It’s cute, Kaeya thinks, watching with an amused, little smile.

“The dragon careened from the sky and bore down on the knight!” Your narrator exclaims and with a flash of movement, you and the other actor clash in the darkness. Your fire lights up the stage only briefly, to catch another flash of movement, before plunging back into darkness. And then again, a burst of flames in another sharp picture;

The knight’s sword raised above his head to strike you down.

Darkness.

Before your fire explodes out in a plume to make the knight stagger back. The audience gasps.

You twist and turn and move serpentine, fluid like water, or the licks of your flames.

Kaeya hasn’t seen you perform in awhile, perhaps years, but it brings back memories of childhood.

The way you’d light up a room and perform whether it was to sing or dance or entertain.

As a child, you were bursting with it, with freedom and joy. He remembers nights in Ragnvindr manor, tucked away in smoky parlors with adults who cooed to you, who encouraged you to sing for them, to play the piano or violin. He remembers candlelight and the way it seemed to glow brighter for you as you opened your mouth and let all of that wonder out of you.

Your audience adores you here, too, out here in Springville, at this little outdoor theater which is perhaps just a couple half-hazard pieces of wood nailed together. Nonetheless, you make it feel like the rocky terrain of Dragonspine.

And by the end, your audience is hooting and hollering, on their feet, perhaps a little drunk, but adoring nonetheless.

Though it’s nice to see you perform, that isn’t exactly why he’s here tonight.

He sips at the mug of ale in front of him, leaning back in his chair.

He waits until you appear again in plain clothes, changed from your pretty costume, fresh faced.

And my, my are you popular. Everyone stops to talk to you, to snag you, to hug and hold you and laugh with you. He can tell, though, that you’re making your way to him as the night grows later and longer.

He waits.

Until you are in front of him once more, moon a halo above your head.

“Riveting performance.” He purrs.

“Captain Kaeya,” you say his name like it bursts sweet and sharp on your tongue.

He says your name in return, honeyed and slow, taking you in all your glory.

Then you say, “you came,” and your smile is an infectious little twist of lips.

“Of course I did.” He responds easily, looking up at where you’re standing in front of him, and then as if it was innate, only natural of him, “you asked me to.”

Your eyes flicker just behind him, catch someone in the darkness, before settling back on him.

Call it instinct, but he feels his hackles rise, hair on the back of his neck stand up. Kaeya knows danger well and can feel it now, the way you can smell a storm that is approaching.

You offer him your hand, palm up, and in the firelight of the torches around you, it shimmers in his vision, dancing with shadows.

He quirks a brow at you.

“Your place or mine?” He asks.

“You’re not even going to get me a drink first?” You ask, feigning scandal.

Kaeya feels the corner of his mouth tick up, “call me impatient.” He says, but he finally puts his hand in yours, envelopes it in his and realizes he has not taken your hand in many years. Perhaps not since you were children together. Your hands have grown, but so have his. Calluses rough up against your smooth, soft palm.

So untouched. So unscarred. Soft as–

“Yours.” You say decisively.

And you pull him up and into the fray of people, into the sweet night, turning away to guide him but with your hand still in his. He trails after you and if it looks suggestive, if there are some hollers and calls to you–

“The good captain, even?” A fellow actor of yours crows, ale sloshing in his mug, “is there no one in Mondstadt safe from your wiles?”

“Not a soul,” you vow with a laugh and the group roars with cheers, drinks spilling.

“Don’t tell me you two are leaving already!” Another says, “the night is still young!”

“All the more reason to leave now,” Kaeya sings and there is even more uproar, whistles and suggestive howls.

You seize his hand tighter and pull him closer, pick up your pace as if to show your eagerness, leaving all their laughs and hollering behind.

Your shadow persists, though, and Kaeya doubles his step to get closer, to sidle up next to your side. To guard your back.

“Been awhile,” Kaeya hums, “you must be desperate to have reached out to me.”

“Well, in all of Mondstadt, I could think of no one else I’d rather have.” You grin at him and the trouble is, you’re being honest. He can feel it, or perhaps he just wants to, that you would want his presence beyond this, beyond–

As you wander over trails and stones back to the city, hand always in his, he helps you along, or keeps after you like an eager dog. He lifts you off of a stone ridge you climbed, hands fitting along your waist like they belong there. He laughs when you dart away from him, chasing after you only to catch you around the middle, letting you yelp and twist in his hold, tossing your head back onto his shoulder to laugh up into the heavens.

It feels like he’s a child again, a teenager, stepping through time and into another. Nostalgia rips at him, tugs at the seams of him. He wonders if you feel it, too, but doubts it.

Not with the person loping not too far behind, keeping distance but not too much. Not enough.

The gates of Mondstadt are alight with torches.

You walk backwards to face him and for a moment, he really does almost lose his footing, because there is something so bewitching about you. He can’t stop looking, the curl of your smile, or the raise of your brow. It’s a natural sort of beauty, one born from within, he thinks, something in you that’s just so–

Wonderful.

And then you turn back over your shoulder and take off, pulling him after you. Nimbly, he is your shadow. Footsteps on cobblestone, clattering together, until you yank him into a dark little alcove. You press your back up against the stone curve, pulling him by the front of his uniform so that he crowds you, shrouds over you.

“Kaeya–” you say his name a little breathlessly and it echoes in Mondstadt stone streets, voice throwing so that someone could hear you. Will hear you.

He’s quick to catch on, ducking his head into the crook of your neck, though not close enough to touch.

Your follower has paused at the entrance of this alley. Kaeya can see the shadow in the torchlight.

You suddenly pinch his ear hard enough to make him yelp a little.

You laugh, but it’s warm and sultry, head falling back against the stone like you’ll give him more room.

“Right here?” He asks, but his gaze glances past you, at your follower.

You nod to his real question, but pitch your voice up in the charade, “please–”

The sound makes him flush a little.

And it makes your shadow scurry away when he realizes what you’re getting up to, clearly embarrassed, or in the least, shy about being a voyeur. Kaeya fights the urge to snort.

He does realize your hand is still curled in the front of his uniform. And the column of your throat is exposed, pretty, and open for the taking.

He focuses squarely ahead, listening closely to see where the footsteps have gone.

He only catches the grin on your face out of the corner of his eye, before you suddenly let out a louder, lewder moan.

He shushes you, almost reflexively, but he has to fight the urge suddenly to laugh. You do start to giggle this time and although it still sounds deeply intimate, he covers his hand over your mouth so you can laugh into his palm. So that you won’t blow your own ruse.

You keep this up until he finally takes your hand and pulls you away from the wall. You stumble with him, until he’s got you tucked up under his arm.

You’re still laughing a bit, clearly pleased with yourself, as he takes you a strange, meandering way to his own place. Your follower is gone, perhaps for the night off, assuming that you’ll be in Kaeya’s bed. He wonders if your shadow will find you again come morning or if he’ll scout out Kaeya’s own place for the night.

He leads you into his own apartment building, up the wooden stairs, and into his home. For an apartment, it’s rather spacious. Open. There’s a balcony off the bedroom, one that overlooks a great deal of Mondstadt’s streets. The bustling world below and the peaks of Mondstadt’s skyline above. It’s his favorite part.

Once the door is shut and the lock nestled into place, you finally drop the act.

His hand leaves yours, body leaves yours, for the first time that he’s seen you tonight and instantly, he can feel the rush of cold ease in.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, slinging off his own coat, setting his boots to the side.

He wanders in only to collapse on his sofa, eyeing you as you toe off your own shoes and carefully hang your own jacket beside his.

He forgets sometimes, what it's like, to have someone else here.

To have a coat beside his own, shoes kissing his.

“I take it you figured out my letter?” You ask, padding deeper into his home.

Kaeya smiles, “well, you can imagine my surprise when Jean handed it to me.”

“Jean saw that?” You ask, eyes rounding out in horror. “Does she think–does she know we’re not actually–?”

“Sleeping together? Romantically entangled?” Kaeya asks, standing suddenly to move to his office. You follow tentatively after him, only to watch him rifle through his desk and produce the very letter in question.

The envelope is covered in lipstick marks.

“You could’ve been a little more discreet.” He says, before inhaling a little sharply, “did you spray your perfume on this?”

“Do you like it?” You ask in return, “it’s new.”

He laughs, low and soft, “it’s nice. I think you traumatized Jean, though.”

“I wanted people to be too embarrassed to look inside the letter.” You retort, “clearly, I succeeded.”

“That you did.” He agrees, “and even if they did–”

An excited glow comes to your eyes, “did you figure it out?”

“Well, I knew it was some sort of code since the content of the letter was—fabricated, to say the least.”

“What? You don’t remember our clandestine trysts? I’m hurt—“

“You’re very clever.” Kaeya says then unabashedly and he thinks you melt a little at the praise. Or at least, you quiet down. “And it seems you’re in quite a bit of trouble.”

When you speak this time, it’s hushed, like you’re worried someone is listening now somehow.

“Can you help me? I had no idea who to turn to without tipping them off.”

“Well, if it’s one thing I’m good at, it’s dealing with secrets.” He muses, but then he gazes at your letter again, perhaps scouring the contents of it once more.

On the surface, it seems like a love letter, filled with winding, romantic phrases and memories of old; romps under star bright skies and hurried instances in the library. Nostalgic flashes of youth, when you danced the nights away with him. It details a sort of on and off again fling that neither of you can seem to quit.

But beyond that, there are ciphers, a code to uncover. And Kaeya pulls a slip of paper from another drawer of his desk, lays it out on the surface. Your true message reads very clearly in his messy scrawl;

Help. Fatui watching. Must be careful.

Kaeya gestures to the chair across from his large desk. You sink down into it with a nervous little breath.

“How long has this been going on?” He asks and perhaps the air changes, or the way his shoulders settle back. It’s the voice he uses as captain, twinged with authority and coolness.

“I noticed them following me about a month ago. Maybe longer, though.” You answer.

“Do you have any inclination as to why?” Kaeya asks now and he sets your letter aside.

You take your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment and Kaeya watches the movement, before you release it.

“It isn’t a secret that I’m not their biggest fan.” You finally answer. “I tend to toy with them if they get too close.”

Much like Diluc, you harbor a deep loathing for the Fatui.

You are a vocal and known defender of Mondstadt’s freedom from Fatui and their meddling hands. Notoriously, you’ve openly mocked them on stage and even worse, outwitted them in social entanglements. At every turn, when they tried to use your family’s name, coerce you financially, or corner you with social politics, you’ve managed to weasel by. They have tried endlessly to get you to bend to their whims, whatever they might be, and you have refused.

For the past few years, they have tried desperately to get someone as loved and known in Mondstadt in their pockets.

And for years, you’ve escaped them.

You’ve done much to outwit them. You’ve caused all out personal brawls between underlings, made a fool of yourself at one of the largest balls between nations, led them on wild goose chases that amounted to nothing, and even gone so far as to reveal salacious scandals to get your way.

Socially, in a battle of wits, you are a wicked opponent.

But physically? You are a sitting duck. And as beautiful as those flames of yours are on stage, you’ve never once used them in battle.

Kaeya remembers you as a child, trying to keep up with Jean and Diluc, well on their way to being knights, and all you did was cry and cry and cry.

It was so clear you were never meant for battle, always been more of a lover, in his mind. Crybaby that you were, you were meant for the arts; your sword a pen, your battle cry a song.

“No,” Kaeya agrees, “but many people are not fans of the Fatui, to varying degrees of vocalness. I can’t imagine they’d be so foolish as to target the very Heart of Mondstadt for no other reason than your disapproval or mischief now.”

The world has coined you Mondstadt’s Heart. It’s Light, it’s Shooting Star. You are as close to an adored princess (—and you’d scoff at the idea of royalty, like a true Mondstadtian—) as you can get in this nation and though you carry the bloodline of Imunlaukr, you have spent your days with the everyday man. You traveled and performed and dined and drank with those far from nobility.

As soon as he and Jean and Diluc had joined the knights, you had already joined an acting troupe. You were already off, free as a bird, to compose and write and perform and sing and dance your way across Mondstadt. Across the world.

But you always flew back home.

At one point, he’d been close to you perhaps, in his youth. You’d grown up alongside him and Diluc and Jean.

He always assumed, actually, that you and Diluc would—

Well, you’re both the beloved figures of Mondstadt.

It’s light and dark, truthfully, blessed by the Pyro Archon.

But everything had fallen apart when—

Kaeya had assumed you’d sided with Diluc and never wished to see him again. Or, in the least, you had nothing good to say to him. You’d never been rude to him, but he’d kept his distance nonetheless.

Perhaps for fear of your scorn. Perhaps he couldn’t face it. Of all the people who could scold him or reject him, yours felt particularly hard for him. He blames it on your otherwise playful and loving nature; to be despised by one of the sweetest of Mondstadt would be hard to stomach.

You used to write to him, more than just coded letters when you were in grave danger. But slowly, the letters stopped, and he assumed Diluc must’ve said something or—

Your paths were easy to keep from crossing.

Kaeya deals in secrets and shadows and is busy with the knights.

And you deal in brilliant light and open-hearts, your whole life on a stage.

Nonetheless, he’s surprised by your warmth.

“What are you thinking?” You ask softly and the way you’ve said it makes him think you could tell his mind was spiraling.

Kaeya sets down your letter, “that you’ll have to stay here for the night if you’d like your little shadow to believe your ruse.”

You open your mouth, perhaps to protest, to ask again—what are you really thinking about?

But you don’t.

“I suppose I’ll have to crash on your couch.” You answer, before a wry smile curls at your lips, “unless you’d like to stage a grand argument where I storm out.”

“You’re still trouble.” Kaeya hums, eyeing you perhaps more fondly than he should.

“And you were my partner in crime once! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t now—“

“I would, if it benefited us.” He assures you, smiling himself, “but for now, I think keeping up a false relationship for the eyes of others may help us a great deal.”

“Is this your way of asking me out?” You tease.

“I think it would give me an excuse to be around you frequently to protect you. No one would think twice about two lovers recently rekindled.”

“Surely, I don’t need—“

“In the least, I’d like to observe your observer.” Kaeya says smoothly, and then, “you’re not seeing anyone else, are you? We won’t have to worry about your real lover, do we?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment, suspended.

“No,” you say then, something strange in your voice, a little shake of your head, “what about you?”

“I’m far too busy with the Knights of Favonius for a relationship.” Kaeya says flippantly, forcing his voice to remain even. “At least that makes things less complicated.”

“Right,” you agree and there is a moment of silence as the situation settles around the two of you. There’s a shyness in the silence, a sudden uncertainty. Kaeya does not do well in it. And apparently neither do you, because at the same time, you both try to say;

“You can take my bed for–”

“I’m sorry to intrude on–”

You both laugh a little and try again;

“You’re not intru–”

“I can’t take your–!”

Silence again.

Your eyes meet and there is a smile in the corners of them, laughing eyes, crinkled with their life.

He opens his mouth to speak again but this time, you lurch forward and beat him to it, “I can’t take your bed!”

“I’ll change the sheets, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He says easily.

“No! It’s your bed and I’ve just–dropped in on your life!” You exclaim, voice pitching upwards. Dramatic little thing that you are.

But Kaeya can’t help but feel as if it’s a little true, not in any horrible way, rather in a way that is worse;

It feels poignant.

Right, even.

To have you fall back into his life the way you used to fall as a child, reckless and with wild laughter.

“Not at all,” Kaeya says and he finds, surprisingly, that he means it, “besides, the couch is comfortable–”

“Then I can take it.” You counter.

“No, I’m afraid it’s my home and I’ve already decided”

“Kaeya.” You say, as if to scold him.

He says your name in return, in the same tone, as if to mock you.

Eyes locked again, Kaeya takes you in fully.

After all these years, you have only grown all the more beautiful. Everyone knew you would be, but somehow you’re more than he remembers, a full bloom, a perfectly ripened fruit. A fledged angel. You’re more than he could ever fathom, somehow in his home, after years, and showing him a warmth and kindness he perhaps doesn’t deserve.

Faintly, he wonders if he should work up the courage to apologize.

For what exactly, he can’t name.

(But for years now, he has felt the urge to apologize. To everyone. For everything. And yet it will never loosen from his throat, lodged there, down deep.)

“Would you like to borrow clothes to sleep in, too?” He asks and if his eye skips down to your body briefly, he is quick to avert it.

Sheepishly, as sweet as ever, you smile and say, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he purrs and then he stands, stretches a little, hands raised above his head. “Shall we?” He asks and begins to move towards the door.

You stand to follow him.

“Kaeya,” you say suddenly, his name flying from your mouth like a freed bird.

He pauses in the doorway, the arch between two places; where you are and aren’t. One foot in and one foot out.

He can tell by the look on your face, so painfully expressive, shuddering with several emotions, that you want to say much. You’re like an open book for him to plainly read, so vulnerable.

He hopes you won’t say a thing, doesn’t think he can quite bear to hear it.

“Thank you.” Is what you settle on and it’s soft, painfully earnest.

Kaeya swallows, hides it all behind an easy, flippant smile, “of course.”

And he turns away from you, turns his back on your seeking face because he can’t be what you find, doesn’t want you to pry. Your eyes are too searching and he has to be careful, so careful–

He gives you soft, worn clothes of his. He is careful not to look too long at how you fill their shape, or how you look with your hair undone or your face free of stage makeup.

He is sure all the world wishes to know you this way.

He tries not to make you laugh or smile and is certainly careful not to hold your gaze.

He sleeps with his eyepatch on, shirt carefully buttoned and irritatingly twisted up over his body.

He stares up at the ceiling of his living room as you lay in his bed and he forces himself to think 0f anything but, to think of his duties in the morning, or the look on your face all those years ago.

Why are you being so kind to him?

He turns the question over in his mind like a coin, over and over and over, as if it may land on a side and reveal to him an answer.

He hardly sleeps.

And in the morning, the birds sing and so do you, humming under your breath as you dorn your clothes from the night before.

“My great walk of shame,” you sing with a laugh. “Hopefully all of Mondstadt notices.”

“Wait,” he says and the morning sun makes him lighter, your laugh brightens his whole home, and he disappears into his room momentarily to fetch his bottle of cologne.

If he were a worse man, he would dab it onto your neck with his own fingers.

But instead, he hands you the bottle, “if you’d like them all to really talk.”

You laugh again, full bellied and beautiful. So beautiful that you put the morning bells to shame.

You dab it on your neck, against your pulse points, the smell of sweet mint and amber, something boozy, almost like bourbon, hangs in the air and–and you smell like him. And your own perfume, the crush of vanilla and dark berries.

They’d almost compliment each other.

And then you hang in his doorway like the light beams that linger as the morning turns to day and finally you say, “it was good to see you again.”

“You’ll be seeing much more of me now,” he replies breezily.

“And I’m glad for it.” You tell him, “at least something good has come of this.”

He swallows hard. He averts his gaze from you and onto the Mondstadt streets beyond. The birds that flutter and coo as the day blossoms and grows.

“Go,” he says gently, “and spread your rumors about us.”

You laugh again and promise to do just that, skip in your step, as you turn to take on the world as if not a thing could touch you.

And he shuts the door quickly–to his apartment and home, and to his heart.

He doesn’t dare think about it as he throws the lock into place.

But he’ll hum the tune you were singing this morning for the rest of the day and well into evening.

When he sleeps that night, it is with the thought of your form burning in his bed the night before and he thinks if he prayed much, he’d say oh Archons, what have I done? What have I gotten into?

What does the world have in store for me now?

***

SCENE II

In Angel’s Share, warm and glowing, a love shared between the patrons.

You— have the uncanny, incredible talent of prying open all that is around you, so that it bursts sweet like a ripe fruit into your waiting hands. You have known this since you were a child; if you listen, the world will reveal its secrets to you. If you sang, something sang back. And when you danced, all was moved with you.

And now, all that world seems to hang on your every breath, the tavern hushed as your voice carries over the sounds of a lyre. All the patrons’ faces are relaxed, open for you, as you sing.

Venti plays beside you, fingers plucking carefully, stroking into a fuller sound as your voice carries and rises.

It’s a slinky little song, playful and flirtatious, heart-warming as the room coos and sighs. Not a soul is spared–and they never are, Venti always tells you with a laugh. You can feel it, the energy that simmers, that you manage to reach for and control.

You’re singing about love. You don’t do it often.

But the song is an old one, about young lovers, and petal blossoms. Spring fevers and moonshine. You trill and chirp like a bird, voice soaring and floating above the room.

Until the last note blooms from your mouth and the patron’s of Angel’s Share erupt into applause.

You hadn’t planned on singing tonight, only sitting with Venti and Diluc at the bar. But, as what often happens on lovely, slow-warming nights of spring, the tavern fills and the customers beg for a song as they grow drunker and louder.

You know they will likely ask you for one more—a rowdier one that you will kick up your feet to and dance. You will clap and stomp and pull a drinking man into your arms briefly and everyone will hoot and cheer as you teach someone clumsier than you how to dance to your tune, for a moment so that he might see the world the way you do.

Or hear it with your ears.

They never quite can keep up, but it’s fun nonetheless.

And then, for Diluc’s sake, you will play a slow, soft tune with a violin perched on your shoulder. It will be an old drinking song that you have slowed and made into a minor chord so it rings with melancholy and not cheer.

But it will lull the patrons and urge them to leave for the night, arm and arm, bumping shoulders.

You will help Diluc clean up and he will urge you to head home, too. Venti will linger, though hardly lift a finger.

For now, though, you retreat from your place of spotlight to take up your stool at the bar once more. Venti perched up beside you.

“Another round, barkeep!” He announces.

Diluc looks flatly at you, before his eyes shift to Venti and drawl, “with what money?”

“I’ll pay for it, Diluc.” You pipe up and he sighs and shakes his head like he always does.

(He never charges you for them, anyways. You’ll still try to leave money for the both of you at the end of the night.)

Instead, he says, “that was quite the song.” As he sets a glass of valberry wine in front of you; it is one of your favorites.

For Venti, an ale.

“A love song!” Venti adds, waggling his brows as he loops his hand around the mug of ale. He takes a large sip, throat working, gulping it down far quicker than he should be.

“I was in the mood,” you say breezily, lifting one of your shoulders in an easy shrug.

Diluc cocks an eyebrow but otherwise does not press you. He returns to wiping down the bar.

Unlike Venti, who slams his mug back down onto the bar (sloshing some of the ale and Diluc, the poor man, sighs as he runs his rag over the splash) and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before saying, “you’re seeing someone!”

Now, technically, you are supposed to be sharing this little rumor in hopes of it spreading like wildfire.

But lying to Venti? To Diluc—

About Kaeya, no less.

So instead, you say, “I wouldn’t say that, per se.”

Venti pounces excitedly, “but there is someone! Who is it? Do we know them?”

You swallow. Though you are an actor, you are hardly a liar and even now, it turns your stomach over itself to do it. You’ve never been good at lying; your heart has always been on your sleeve, emotions written so plainly across your face. Lying makes your skin itch, you can hardly ever do it, even rarer can you pull it off.

“Well,” your voice goes high.

“We do, don’t we?” Venti asks, impish grin hooked onto his lips. .

He mistakes you for shyness or awkwardness over a crush, rather than nerves or guilt. You let him.

Venti is a dear friend of yours and has been for several years now. It was a sort of instant connection with him; even stranger and more wonderful than that, once the world had given him to you, it had felt like he’d always been in your life, at your side. Your bard. Your drinking and dancing partner. Your confidant and mischievous accomplice. The games the two of you play are far beyond anyone else; you send each other all over Mondstadt with scavenger hunts and puzzles–for new sheet music he’s written for you to sing or exciting news you wish to tell him– tongue twisters and poems, cherished clues and inside jokes. Your letters are often in code or riddle. The two of you are always disappearing to secret places and hiding spots.

He’s your dearest companion.

Lying to him troubles you greatly.

You’ll have to ask Kaeya if you can tell him, if you could explain to Diluc that–

Still, you swallow, “you do, yes.”

“Let me guess!” Venti then says, tapping his chin in contemplation. And for a moment, you have half a mind to lead him down a riddle, instead of this guessing game. The wine is muddling your head, though. “Is it Franz?” Venti asks.

You laugh, surprised, shaking your head quickly; Franz is a fellow actor. He’s great fun but—

“Franz is seeing Emil!”

“It’s not Rosaria, is it?” Venti then asks, “I thought you said that was a one off sort of—“

“It’s not Rosaria!” You cut him off, cheeks suddenly blossoming into an embarrassed heat as you glance at Diluc. Venti had been the only one who knew about that.

Until now, of course.

You smile sheepishly.

“Rosaria?” Diluc questions, surprised as well.

“It was a one off sort of—“ You begin to repeat Venti, laughing nervously.

“I just had to be sure!” Venti then cuts you off, before taking another long sip of ale. He makes a show of mulling over his thoughts.

“Is it…” He trails off, before his eyes suddenly sharpen and pin you to your place. You swallow because you know him and you know that look. Sometimes, you think Venti knows too much. You don’t know if it’s intuition or–

“…Kaeya?”

You freeze.

“It is!” Venti crows.

“What?”

You wince.

“It’s just—it’s nothing—really!” You squeak out.

“I had heard you went home with Kaeya!” Venti continues, loud enough that, yes, this rumor will certainly spread now.

And more importantly, you believe it’s loud enough to reach the ears of the man who has been following you all day; the undercover Fatui member sits not far off, keeping his eye on you. He pretends to drink alone.

“You went home with Kaeya?” Diluc repeats and if he sounds as if he might scold you, you suppose you wouldn’t exactly blame him.

You lean in towards them and instinctively, they do the same, the three of your heads ducking close to each other.

“It wasn’t like that,” you whisper to them, “but if anyone else asks, it was like that.”

Diluc’s brows furrow and a frown settles onto his lips. Venti throws his head back and laughs.

“What are you two up to?” Diluc asks scornfully, eyeing you.

“Nothing!” You chirp but it isn’t very convincing.

“I knew you had feelings for him,” Venti continues, perhaps a little too loudly again, and somehow, it’s as if his voice could carry. Like he’s thrown it playfully, caught it on the breeze from the open window.

Venti has always been rather magical to you. In the same way it feels as if you’ve always known him, it feels as if he could have always been here, in Mondstadt, even before he appeared. There is something in Venti that sings to you, the way the wind does on a beautiful day, rushing through your hair and into your heart. You couldn’t name it, but you know it as well as you know the streets of your home, as well as you know your favorite sonnet or song.

You make a show of shushing him and he laughs heartily again before he throws you a wink.

You grin mischievously yourself this time.

“Has Kaeya ever taken a lover?” Venti asks now, perhaps wondering out loud.

“Too many.” Diluc grouses.

“He’s strange that way, isn’t he?” You muse, taking a slow sip of your wine. You consider your next words. “He somehow has the reputation of taking countless lovers, but I couldn’t name you a single one.”

Venti’s eyes twinkle, as if he knows something you don’t. Like a child, you sometimes wish to beg him to tell you what he seems to know, what the world has given him, but you know that is no way to learn.

“Diluc?” You question.

Diluc gives you another flat look, “I am not privy to Kaeya’s romantic life.” He puts away a glass a little more forcefully than necessary, the glass twinkling, “and I have no wish to be.”

“You can’t name a single paramour of your brother’s?” Venti presses and the two of you lean against the bar in intrigue now, excited, shining eyes turned to Diluc.

“No, thank the Anemo Archon, I can’t.”

Venti snorts at a joke you can’t seem to grasp.

But then you and he share a look, and this time, you can read very plainly what is in his face. You wear twin smiles, impish, and all trouble.

Diluc shakes his head, “don’t look like that in my bar. If you’re going to cause trouble, do so elsewhere.”

“You’re such a grouch,” you snip back at Diluc, taking another sip of your wine, the sweet burn settling deep in your belly. Warmth blossoms. “You’re not curious at all?”

“No,” Diluc says again quickly.

You narrow your eyes, “liar. I know some part of you cares, no matter how badly you pretend not to.”

Diluc huffs, “if I cared, I’d know.”

Venti hums, “then you do know.”

“I just said–”

“I think it has more to do with Kaeya, don’t you?” Venti then says lightly, perhaps too lightly, “if Kaeya wanted you to know, you’d know. Kaeya keeps his cards close to his chest.”

Another sip of wine has you feeling flushed. Open.

“Well, I’m just going to ask him the next time I see him.” You declare to the two, to the bar, perhaps to the whole world.

As if maybe it was you who asked for the truth, he’d answer.

“Good luck with that.” Diluc says dryly.

“Good luck to you!” Venti cheers, jerking his mug of ale out to you so that you may clink your glass of wine against his. You do so, just as he laughs;

“Good luck on your endeavor to capture our Captain’s heart! If anyone could, it would be you!”

***

SCENE III

The Mondstadt streets, early morning; bustling and lively. A flourish of colors as people pass to and fro. Our lovers meander, as if in another time entirely. Kaeya is often shrouded, by people, by vendors, by the world.

You walk beside Kaeya, shoulder to shoulder, past vendors of food and flowers and jewelry. Children yell and chase each other past you, mother’s hollering after them. The smell of fresh food and perfume floats on the breeze.

Kaeya swaggers beside you, sword at his hip, in his full knight’s uniform. You, on the other hand, are in simple skirts; white ruffled fabric beneath an outer layer of peach. A corset of flowers, woven, but hardy and loved, with silk ribbons in the back all tied up and tangled in your hair. Despite the dress, you’ve decided today to bind your chest. Some days, you bind, some you don’t. Some days you are more masculine and others feminine.

And often, you live in between, perhaps around the two. Both and neither all at once.

Heads turn as you pass but this is what Kaeya wanted.

He ducks his head now to say, “your shadow is certainly persistent.”

His voice is low and soft, kept hidden from prying ears.

You look up at him, “they always are. I swear, one day, they’ll follow me into the bathroom–”

Kaeya snorts, casting his eyes back outwards at the moving streets.

Now, he says, more obviously, “what have you got left on your list?”

You look down into the basket on your arm; the loaf of bread that is still warm, the couple of fruits and vegetables that fill in with color around it like large jewels.

“Milk and eggs,” you respond, “but I like to look at the flowers, too.”

“As you wish,” Kaeya smiles and you feel his hand at the small of your back, leading you through the crush of people, towards where you will find your milk and eggs.

“Kaeya,” you say, soft as the breeze.

“Hm?”

“I have questions.”

He quirks a brow at you now, intrigued, perhaps even wary. It’s hardly a flicker of his expression. But still, he asks, “of what kind?”

“Mostly the secretive kind.” You answer; you’d like to ask who you can share this false relationship with. You want to know if he’s informed Jean.

You step up to the vendor for milk and eggs with Kaeya at your back.

“You should save those for later, when you’re in my home.”

“Oh?” You ask, head turning over your shoulder to look at him,“I’m coming over later?”

Your eyes meet and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the tension is real, the little fissure of heat that kindles inside you makes you flush with warmth in the face. Along the tips of your ears.

Kaeya really is handsome. A true knight in shining armor or–he looks like a prince from a fairytale, you think. The regal line of his nose and pretty dip of his cupid’s bow lip, the depth of his blue eye; you swear it could be a shade of blue you have never seen before. One that you could give a new name to.

“If you’d like,” he says breezily, his smile sharp and handsome, “I’ll provide dinner.”

“And wine?” You ask, a smile of your own tipping up into a mischievous curve.

“Always wine.” He agrees and this time, you think his smile is more sincere.

You purchase your eggs and milk with twinkling coins that you press into the warm, wrinkled hand of the old farmer who sells them. And then you are on your way again, meandering the streets at Kaeya’s side.

“I do have a question that can be asked now, though.” You return, cradling the basket on your arm filled with your goods, letting it rest against your hip.

“By all means,” he replies, as if he’ll be that easy to give you an answer. He gazes back outwards, at the world around him.

And before you can lose an ounce of courage, you look up at him and simply ask, “have you taken many lovers?”

He laughs, surprised, and his head turns sharply to look at you again. “Is this a trick question?”

You laugh now yourself, “not at all! I’m being earnest.” You implore him with your eyes now, expectant, and honest.

He laughs again, softer, shorter, as if he can’t believe you. He returns his gaze to the street in front of him. “I’ve had a few.” He answers simply.

“A few?” You prod.

“My, you’re nosy.” He teases.

“I’m curious. I want to know!” You defend, nudging him a little, “I want to know more than just the elusive rumors about the casanova of the Knights of Favonoius.”

“Is that what I am?” He purrs, “a casanova?”

“Don’t change the subject!” You respond with another laugh and it’s almost a little dizzying, watching him work in real time to slip from your grasp. You feel heat in your cheeks, up along the nape of your neck.

But you adjust your grip, you try again.

“I’ve had quite a few.” He amends sheepishly, boyishly. “I hope you’re not the jealous type.”

“I am.” You snip back playfully, honestly, but still, “were any of them serious?”

You can tell he is weighing how to answer as he lapses into a brief silence and then, as if he’d manufactured it, he urges you suddenly to a vendor for flowers, with her large bushels of them, beautiful and bright and fragrant. He ducks behind a burst of them, appearing around the other side with one in hand, which he offers to you.

His grin is lopsided, handsome. “For you, my lady.”

It’s blue and beautiful, full of fragrant petals and blooming a deep purple at the center.

You snatch the flower from his grasp, “you’re avoiding my question.”

Still, you bring the flower up to your nose and inhale deeply.

Kaeya meanders around the other bunches of them and you follow after him, keeping the one in your hand close to your face, by your nose. It’s sweet smelling, soft and mellow, and fresh.

“What do you define as serious?” He returns your question with one of his own finally.

“Have you been in love?” You ask now.

“Sure,” he answers with a secretive slip of a smile.

You don’t know why, but you almost think he’s bluffing.

“So it was serious?” You encourage, trying to ease more out of him.

He shrugs gracefully now and gives you another, “sure.”

“Did you think you would stay with them forever?” You pivot now, knowing you have to be specific. The question bubbles from you without thought, as if you are asking if the weather is alright, or if he’d prefer the red or gold flowers this morning.

He stops up short.

He looks at you very strangely for a moment.

And perhaps it is one of the first straightforward and honest things he’s said to you, “nothing lasts forever.”

“No, but you could promise your own forever to someone.” You respond, letting the petals of his flower brush up against your cheek, soft and silky.

“Well, what about you?” He returns smoothly, carefully avoiding what you’d just said.

You smile, because you know now, you can tell he is an expert of avoidance. You smile like you’ve caught him.

And as if to teach him, you answer very honestly, “I have been in love many times, but I only promised forever once to someone.”

Now it’s your turn to meander around the flowers, turn over your shoulder and wander away from him a little.

He follows tentatively.

“And what happened?” Kaeya asks carefully.

You pull another flower out of the bunch to admire it next to the one he gave you, a wispy white one, twinged peach at the edges.

“I got stood up,” you admit and pick your head up from your flower searching to look at him briefly, “we were going to elope.”

The look in his eye is perhaps a little too delicate for your liking.

You return to fiddling with the flowers, pulling another, and another, to create your own, small bouquet of them. It’s easier when your hands are busy to speak about this still, which even years later, feels raw and prickly.

“It was while I was touring in Liyue–we were supposed to meet at some old ruins–an altar�� and be married at dawn. I was going to leave the acting troupe, leave Mondstadt behind forever, and disappear with him.” You say, carefully arranging your flowers, delicately shifting and changing them. You offer a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and try to joke, “it was all very romantic at the time.”

You let out a breath, admiring your bouquet, “I waited all morning. And then all afternoon. All night. I thought something horrible happened to him but–”

You pick your head up again and this time Kaeya offers you another flower; one to match your bouquet. You accept it and it fits beautifully into the bunch of them, carefully placed at the center. It’s another blue one, soft and lovely and full to bursting.

“It turns out he just got cold feet. He married a Liyue girl a year later.”

“And what did you do?” He asks softly.

“I went on to perform in Sumeru, Fontaine, Natlan, and Snezhnaya. And then I came home to Mondstadt, licking my wounds, and haunting poor Diluc and Venti at the bar. Singing too many heartbreak songs, drinking a little too much–you know, the whole spiel.” You say and this time, you do smile, because despite how hurt you were, memories of Venti trying to cheer you up, causing a ruckus, and poor Diluc trying his best to help you as well flood to you.

Jean taking you out on girls’ nights and your fellow artists banding together to keep you afloat. Lisa finding beautiful copies of your favorite plays and stories. Good people who came back into your life and tried to put you together again. Good moments, despite it all.

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Kaeya begins smoothly, reaching out to smooth a petal a certain way, “I think that is perhaps the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of any man doing.”

You snort and Kaeya continues, “I’m serious.” But you can’t tell if he means it or not, “Imagine losing the very Heart of Mondstadt.”

He suddenly takes the bouquet from your willing hands and goes to pay for them with shimmering coins. He returns the flowers moments later, settles them into the crook of your arm, but not before stealing one and tucking it carefully behind your ear.

“There,” he murmurs, eye flickering over your open face, unreadable as always, “perfect.”

And with that, he saunters away and you are left staring after him, on his coat tails for a moment.

But he pauses, he waits for your skip of a step to come back into place at his side.

The flowers fill the space of your kitchen with the color of blue you can’t name, the one that is caught in his eye, and the one you dream about in Mondstadt skies.

***

PRELUDE TO SCENE IV

Late afternoon. Outside the monumental Cathedral. Once inside, light pours from stained glass windows in a kaleidoscope of color. The way it touches you is almost a mystery, a vision. The audience should never fully see Kaeya’s face as he turns and moves, always partially shadowed.

“I need to check on something before we see Jean.” You tell Kaeya and he hustles to keep up with your steps.

“In the Cathedral?” Kaeya asks, brows rising over his face in surprise.

“Sort of!” You chirp and then you glance over your shoulder, throw him a smile he knows means trouble, and say, “it’s a secret.”

Kaeya masks his face well as he follows you around a sudden stone bend that veers away from the main room. He assumes it will go up, to the spires, but instead, it goes down. He stares at curled stone steps that lead into darkness. He glances around for a moment as if someone might stop the two of you, but no one does.

You disappear into the shadows and Kaeya follows behind quickly.

Now at a door, you turn, press your back to it and Kaeya comes up short. It’s a tight space, this narrow crook, and if Kaeya were to step away, he’d have to take another step up above you.

“Will you guard the door?” You ask sweetly.

Kaeya can’t help but laugh, a little surprised, “are you supposed to be doing this?”

“I have a key.” You protest, fishing out a necklace from beneath your buttoned up shirt–today you are in trousers, with your chest bound, but a pair of heeled boots. You hold it up and a gold key shimmers in dull light. It looks old and perhaps once illustrious, with a whirling, intricate design.

“Who gave that to you?” Kaeya asks.

You look perfectly innocent, “I found it myself.”

Kaeya can’t help the smile, “does anyone know you have it?”

You narrow your eyes, “you’re not going to tattle on me, are you?”

His smile turns into a fond laugh, warm and softly echoing in this little hallway, the arch of the door. “No. Should I be worried?”

“No,” you respond and he’s fit to believe you as you turn back to the door and fit the key into the lock. With a gentle, easy click, the door creaks open. “I’m just going to fetch my diary.”

“Your diary?”

Without an answer, Kaeya watches as you disappear behind the door, which leads to another, darker hallway. You lift your hand and light fills the space, a flame of yours licking to life. There is another door at the end of the hallway. He assumes you’ll go on, push through that one as well.

But instead, you turn to the side to face a bookshelf lining one of the hallways. There’s plenty of them. You push on what appears to be a small statue fastened to the shelf and use it as leverage to begin sliding it over.

Your eyes flick to Kaeya only briefly and you lift your finger to your lips as if to ask him to keep your secret.

The door shuts before he can stop it, sealing him away.

Instantly, he frets.

He pushes against the door but it’s locked now. And you have the key.

He tries to remain calm. He feels suddenly foolish or tricked. He just thought–

Well, he assumed you were a goody-two-shoes. Mondstadt’s proper, most beloved girl. He thought you didn’t have a rebellious or secretive bone in your body. He assumed, for all intents and purposes, that you were something of a prude in this way. A rule follower.

Huh.

Kaeya glances back from the way he’d came, to the door.

Perhaps he doesn’t know you as well as he thought.

He tries not to worry the longer the minutes grow.

He doesn’t want to call for you because he doesn’t want to attract attention but if you don’t return shortly–

The door suddenly creeks again and Kaeya has to step out of the way as you reappear behind it.

And in your hand is a small, leather-bound notebook.

You shut the door behind you, sealing your secrets away.

“Diary found.” You tell him with a smile, holding it up. Then, you tuck into the crochet bag on your shoulder.

He stares at you, still rather surprised.

“What?” You ask, brushing past him, to head back up towards the curved stairs.

“What secrets do you have in that diary that warrant such a hiding place?” Kaeya asks, still astonished.

You laugh, warm and bubbling, as you return to the main floor of the Cathedral. The colors of the stained glass in the afternoon sun shimmer on you, dancing over your skin in a wash of violets and peaches, blues and crimsons. Emerald colors your shoulders. Gold along your face. You look like a wonder. A fairy. Part god–

“Nothing so important–just my feelings. Songs I’ve written. Snippets of poetry.” You tell him and he wishes he could believe you. You say it so earnestly. “Secrets of the heart, I suppose.” You joke.

Kaeya glances behind him, then back to you, “and where did you–find that place? How did you–?”

“I know many places in Mondstadt that others don’t. I’ve stumbled upon them ever since I was a child.”

You catch his gaze over your shoulder, shimmering in his vision, and smile, “maybe I’ll show you more of them sometime.”

The afternoon light almost blinds him as you swing the massive doors open once more. He dumbly follows after you, taken aback, enamored, in awe.

“Come along, Captain!” You sing like a bird, “Jean is waiting!”

***

SCENE IV

Jean’s office. Golden hour. The light turns the wood of her desk and floor and the walls bronze. Papers are scattered around her desk, haphazardly organized. Her hair is a halo glow in the last rays of the sun. Kaeya’s back is turned, towards the bookshelves and away from the audience, like he might be searching for something. He is careful not to look at you.

You sit across Jean’s desk as the afternoon wanes into evening, the sun dipping you in honey rays, soft and dreamlike. Kaeya busies himself with the rows of books, keeping his back carefully turned away from the two of you. He listens closely, though, even as he pretends he doesn’t.

“So you’re not actually…seeing each other?” Jean asks.

“No,” you laugh, “did I scare you with my letter?”

“Yes.” Jean says seriously.

Kaeya fights the urge to turn and offer her a cold look. Still, she continues, “I thought I was going to have to lecture one of you. Though, I’m not sure which one–”

You laugh now, fuller, warmer.

It’s a lovely sound, it fills the space with warmth.

“Who else knows? Kaeya, I don’t appreciate you withholding this from me at first.” Jean says and Kaeya can feel her eyes touching the back of his shoulders like the tip of a sword might.

“You know I deal in secrets.” He responds flippantly.

“This is different.” Jean responds and perhaps he does know that.

You and Jean are childhood friends, he knows Jean cares a great deal for you. Or harbors some sort of over protective, sisterly feeling towards you. And even when you went away, even when you hardly saw each other, he knew the feelings didn’t wane.

No, he knows how childhood bonds are.

“It’s alright, Jean, we’ve had to be careful. We needed to establish a believable cover.” You are quick to mediate, perhaps defend him. “I started this, anyways.”

Jean won’t get mad at you, nor will she blame you for much.

“Currently, we’re the only three who know.” Kaeya pipes up, allowing his finger to trace over the spine of a book gracefully.

“I’m trying to convince him to allow me to tell Diluc and Venti.” You quickly add and Kaeya knows now that he’s lost that battle.

Jean will side with you.

“Diluc doesn’t know? Wouldn’t he be a useful ally now? She spends a lot of time at the tavern; he could keep an eye on her when you can’t.” Jean says.

Kaeya takes a moment too long to respond, he knows it, senses his mistake, because Jean pounces–

“You two are a pain.”

“Now, now,” Kaeya begins smoothly, “I just think the less people know, the better.”

“You know you can trust Diluc.” Jean scolds.

“Diluc is a terrible liar.” Kaeya snips and his head snaps to the side to glance at Jean over his shoulder. He quickly rights himself and shields his face once more, returning to his perusal of books.

“I’m sure if he knows what’s at stake, he could keep it together.” Jean responds, tone firm and unmoving.

Kaeya sighs heavily, but his next reply is cut off by your own voice, “I don’t like lying to him or Venti.” And then, because you’ve never been one to shy away from the truth, you add, “especially about you.”

“I think both would readily help us. The more eyes on her, the safer she is.” Jean agrees.

Kaeya can not explicitly express why this makes him bristle— or perhaps he simply doesn’t want to admit it. He knows it, somewhere inside of him, knows that the thing that claws and scratches looks a little too close to jealousy. It is perhaps just a little too green. Maybe, he wanted to keep you to himself just a little longer.

But he knows, logically, Jean is right. And if it’s for your safety–

Kaeya finally turns to look at the two of you. Which is foolish, because the sun is setting, and you are in its window. You are caught in its light, warm and relaxed, with your chin in your hand as you turn to look at him.

“As you wish, Acting Grand Master.” Kaeya says evenly and offers a (frankly) rude little bow. Jean will know he’s mocking her a little and that he doesn’t particularly like the decision made. And then he says to you, “shall we? I’d like to get you home before sundown.”

You prick your head up, concern and surprise on your face, “am I staying with you for the night?”

Kaeya is careful to let the tone of your voice roll off him and not take it or covet it.

“No,” he muses, “I thought I’d stay with you for the night.”

He pretends he doesn’t notice the way you brighten or the way you jump up from your seat to follow him. He doesn’t turn to look at you, but he hears your soft goodbye to Jean, and her murmuring something in return. Your sweet little laugh. And then your quick steps to catch up to him once more.

When you exit the Knights of Favonius headquarters, taking the steps with a little skip, you suddenly sidle up to his side.

Right underneath his arm, attaching yourself.

He is careful to school his features, dropping his arms around your shoulders easily. Yes, he supposes it’s wise to look like a couple heading home together.

“Sorry we ganged up on you,” you say and the way you peek up at him would be enough to send any foolish man’s heart into a tailspin.

Kaeya is desperately lucky he’s never been a fool.

“No,” he soothes, “Jean is right. And you shouldn’t have to lie to your friends.”

He feels your fingers flex at the bend of his rib, in the fabric of his clothes like you’re tightening yourself to him. He walks in step with you, with your side pressed to his.

Has he ever done this, he wonders, so openly with someone? Walked through the cobblestone streets with a lover under his arm? Or has he kept everyone in shadows and secrecy?

It doesn’t matter. This is a secret, too. It isn’t real.

And still, the question flies from his mouth before he is prepared for it, “why didn’t you ask for Diluc’s help?”

You stop walking and as he continues for a moment, you slip from his embrace.

He turns to look at you. The sun is a crimson flare, catching on your ruby Vision, on the look in your eyes.

You smile like a cat that’s caught a canary.

“Kaeya,” you say his name like a melody, “are you the jealous type?”

For a heartbeat, he almost feels harpooned, caught, suddenly struck in place. It’s frightening to be picked apart so effortlessly, with that smile on your face. Earnest. Horribly lovely.

What a strange creature you are, he marvels.

But then he laughs and lies, “not particularly.”

You hum and begin to saunter towards him, walk on past him, and he is caught in your shadow. He follows.

“It would’ve made sense to ask him.” Kaeya continues.

“But I asked you,” you say simply, “you’re who I thought of.”

Carefully, he reaches for your hand, the brushing of his pinky to yours. As if to ask, may I play pretend with you? As if to ask, may I take up the role of the one who gets your hand?

You readily accept it and the part, too. And then you smile at him again, impish, filled with mirth;

“Besides–can you imagine how scandalized Diluc would’ve been if I’d given him the same letter I gave you?”

Kaeya truly laughs now, deep from his belly, and you laugh with him as you pull at his hand, as you press up against his side. Your fit of giggles fills the sky.

And the world must watch as you stroll through Mondstadt together and wander up to your home on the hill. He thinks the world must watch as he slips through your door, through your fingers, like a serpent in a garden.

Like a sweet sinner, a non-believer, slipping into the back pew in the house of a love-spun god.

***

SCENE V

The trail from Springvale to the main city should feel familiar to us. Though lonelier now, shrouded in darkness that was easily chased off with two. Later, Kaeya’s apartment; a rapidly growing safe haven.

After your rehearsal on the stage in Springvale, you meander back to the city. Kaeya said he would meet you halfway, but currently there is no sign of him. As the hush of night descends, a feeling of wariness overtakes you. You hear the owls begin to hoot and the distant, far off call of a wolf. The wind rustles the bushes.

You turn to glance over your shoulders, again and again, half afraid that one of the times you may find someone staring back.

You try to calm yourself. You swear you’re being paranoid; you have taken this road countless times. There is little to fear.

And still, the feeling persists. It grows.

You turn fully to look behind you, allow a burst of flame to erupt in your palm to illuminate your darkening world.

“Is someone there?” You call out.

With everything in you, you wish to hear Kaeya’s voice reply. Or Diluc’s. Maybe a fellow actor lollygagging behind?

Your heart thuds hard in your chest, quickening.

And even before you see the rush of a shadow, something instinctive, something ancient in you, tells you to run–

You take off as you plunge yourself into darkness, fleet-footed and desperate.

You run hard and know certainly now that someone follows. You can hear it, feel it, the press of them behind you. The city lights of Mondstadt in the night sky are your beacon.

If I can just get to the city, to the light, to my city of light–

You run harder, more wildly. Fear sharpens and quickens you.

A flash of silver ahead of you.

Your heart knows it before your mind;

“Kaeya!”

You nearly collide with him but he’s got you, hands on your shoulders to steady you, eye flying over your face desperately.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” He asks before looking past you.

“There’s some–” you turn to look with him.

But the forest behind you is quiet. The darkness is hushed. Almost unnaturally so. Goosebumps erupt over the nape of your neck.

Your words die, dwindle in your mouth.

You swore–

You try to catch your breath, try to quell your racing heart. “I thought there was something behind me.”

Kaeya has gone inhumanly still, too, listening, watching. You think he senses something, too. He must know danger, know its call, no matter how silent.

He’s got his hand on your lower back, corralling you closer to him protectively. He doesn’t stop eyeing a spot ahead, though, in the darkness.

He hums. “Perhaps it was an animal.” But he seems to know differently.

After a moment, when you have your breath under more of your control, you manage to get out, “must’ve been.”

“Let’s go,” Kaeya turns you away, hand slipping around your waist for support.

You lean into him.

Belatedly, you realize you’re shivering. Hard. Trembling all over.

He ushers you into his apartment above the city once more. The moment the door is shut and locked tight, he moves with more urgency to guide you to his couch.

He disappears momentarily and you almost want to call him back, like a child, you want to reach for him. He returns with water and sets it on the coffee table.

He kneels in front of you now, like the knight he is.

“Are you okay?” He asks first and again, he searches you. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, the movement jolted, unsteady.

“I just feel–strange.”

Kaeya’s eye softens fractionally, “probably an adrenaline crash. I’ll grab a blanket.”

Again, he disappears and you want to stop him. You want to grab his wrist before he can slip from you, you want to sink into his arms. You want to be held.

But you sit and you tremble.

When Kaeya gently fixes the blanket to your shoulders from behind, you jolt, startled.

“I’m sorry,” he says then, “it’s just me.” He comes around again to kneel in front of you. He pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders, affixing it to you, bundling you in it.

It smells like him. You try and take in a deep breath to still your trembling.

After a moment, you say, “there was someone.”

“I believe you,” Kaeya agrees softly, “someone was chasing you–I heard the second pair of footsteps and came running.”

You inhale shakily. Tense silence fills the space.

You can hardly speak, “do you think–do you think they were actually trying to–?”

Kaeya inadvertently answers your question, “I think we should be more careful from now on. I want eyes on you always from here on out.”

“I thought it’d be fine–I always walk home from rehearsal and–”

“I know,” Kaeya soothes, “I thought I’d get to you sooner. I should’ve been. I’m–”

“They’d just followed me around before.” You say uselessly, almost in disbelief, “why would they–?”

“We’ll find out,” Kaeya says gently, “but for now, you should rest. How do you feel?”

“Shaky,” you answer, “I’m not sure how I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“I’ll be right out here,” Kaeya promises, “they won’t try anything now. It’s clear they’re waiting until you’re alone.”

You want to beg him to allow you to stay on the couch with him, or for him to sleep in bed beside you. You feel needlessly clingy, like a scared child. How silly, he must think of you, to be so frightened of a little chase. You’re sure he’s seen so much worse, faced danger you can only conjure in storybooks.

You bite your lip, catch between your teeth so it won’t wobble. You nod.

Kaeya studies you for a long moment before you feel the careful press of his hand on your knee, the delicate swipe of his thumb in a soothing caress.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?” Kaeya asks softly.

For a moment, you’re surprised by him or perhaps his attempts at soothing you. A bath does sound appealing though being alone doesn’t.

(Instantly, an image flashes hot in your mind, of you in the bath, and Kaeya leaning against the counter to chat idly with you. Or seated beside the basin, his sleeves rolled up, or–)

“No, I don’t need–” you’re quick to try and assure him.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he stands with grace and ease and makes his way to his bathroom. In a moment, the water is running and steam is filling the small space. The scent of iris and eucalypts.

You force yourself to stand on trembling legs, astonished with how thoroughly adrenaline has riddled your poor body. You’d think you’d be used to adrenaline in some way, the sharp plummet of your heart because of stage fright.

But performing dangerous tales is significantly different from being a part of one.

“Thank you,” you say gently, catching Kaeya’s hand to squeeze momentarily.

“It’s nothing,” he brushes you off and slips from you, allowing you to disappear behind the door to the bathroom.

All alone you can hear the drum of your heart again.

Your reflection looks strange to your own eyes in the mirror. Everything feels different; unreal, almost. You look away quickly, towards the running water, the filling bathtub.

You try not to think, to strip yourself bare, and to leave the jitteriness on the floor with your clothes.

You slip into the warm water.

Kaeya left you clothes of his, a towel.

You want to call for him. You want your heart to quiet. You want your fear to dissipate like the steam.

You force yourself to take deep breaths. You force yourself to wash and scrub at your face and neck. You are okay. Kaeya is outside the bathroom and you are safe.

Still, your feeling of unease doesn’t leave you.

Even after you have donned Kaeya’s clothes and stepped from the warm bathroom.

You linger in the archway of his bedroom.

He looks like he’s about to speak but you beat him to it, “will you stay with me? In your room?” In your bed?

You watch Kaeya’s brows raise in surprise before he quickly schools his features. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“I’m asking you,” you respond and perhaps there is a note of vulnerability, perhaps there is a wobbling, small part of you that sounds a little too desperate to his ears.

You find some form of embarrassment in the press of heat in your face. But you don’t retract it, let your honesty hang between the two of you like a pendulum.

“I’ll sit on the armchair in there until you fall asleep,” Kaeya compromises, “how does that sound?”

Relief is sweet and cool and winding around you. You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding tightly to.

“I’d appreciate that.” You say and you turn to try and make yourself comfortable in his bed once more.

There has been several nights now where you have slept in his bed alone while he sleeps on the couch. Each night, you offer to take the sofa, and each night, he denies you.

Tonight, he drapes himself over the lovechair in the corner of his room.

He settles deep, eye flickering over you as you turn the covers over and crawl into bed.

In the silence, you can hear your heart again, “I’m sorry for making you do this.”

“There’s no reason to apologize,” Kaeya says smoothly, waving away your concern, “I’m glad I could help.”

You wonder if he means that or if he’s saying it because it is the right thing to say. You don’t dare ask him. You don’t dare press; some truths you would rather not be revealed to.

“You look like you’re about to tell an incredible bed time story in that arm chair.” You joke instead.

Kaeya snorts, head rolling a little onto his chest. He looks tired, too, disheveled a little in a way that he rarely is.

But he’s still so buttoned up; you wish he’d show you the defenseless side of him. The one not in perfect ruffled blouses or knights’ coats. The one without the eye patch or the carefully charming smile.

“Would you like me to tell you a story until you fall asleep?” He asks dryly.

But when you laugh a little and say, “yes, actually,” you mean it.

Kaeya’s brow quirks upwards.

“I don’t have many bedtime stories.” He tells you.

“That’s okay,” you reply, “I’m going to fall asleep soon, I’m sure.”

Kaeya hums lightly, letting his head fall back against the back of the chair. He hangs there for a minute, revealing the lovely brown shade of his exposed throat.

Finally, he says, “I’ve got one.”

“Please share,” you encourage.

Kaeya draws in a slow breath, allowing the silence of the room to be sucked in, too. He holds it so the only thing you can do is wait, watching him in the near-dark.

Finally, he speaks and his voice is nothing like you’ve heard it before;

“Once, there was a prince from a far away, forgotten land…”

The soft cadence of his story, hushed, and almost tentative, lulls you. It eases your heart and your mind. It reminds you of the wash of the waves against the shore or the wind as gentle as can be.

In no time at all, you are drifting off into strange, plum-darkened dreams of lost princes and beasts in the night.

And unknown to you, Kaeya gently pulls the covers of his own bed up over your shoulders. Gingerly, he tucks you into bed and watches your sleeping face for a moment.

With a breath loosened, he finally leaves your side and finds his place on the couch.

And in the morning, for once, you are awake before him and find him on the couch.

Carefully, you tuck the blanket he’d thrown over himself up around his shoulders. You brush a strand of his long hair from his face. You let loose a quiet breath.

He sighs in his sleep and turns towards your touch, chases it in his dreams.

And though you linger, you don’t bother him again, but turn to begin making coffee for the two of you.

You hum softly, an ancient little melody from a faraway land, and it stays in your head the entire day, with thoughts of a lost prince who, in your mind, surely looks like Kaeya; handsome and refined and beautiful. He must be noble and kind and charming like him, too.

And more than anything, his eyes must be stars like his, too, and his hands must be calloused and gentle.

And his voice must be like his, too, when he murmurs sleepily, rubbing at his eye, “where did you learn that song?”

“I don’t remember,” you reply and you set a steaming mug of coffee on the table beside him, “I think from a traveler, a long time ago.”

“I haven’t heard it since I was child.” He admits.

“You know it?” You ask.

“Thank you,” he says softly, voice still rough with sleep, “for the coffee.”

“Thank you,” you respond, “for staying beside me last night.”

“It was nothing,” he assures gently. And then he finally answers you, perhaps in a way that you know is personal to him, “it’s a lullaby.”

You smile behind the lip of your own mug, gentle and sweet, and say;

“Then the coffee is nothing, too.”

***

Act I, Part II –>

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