#end of summer bash kitten collab

[lorelune]

stone fruit

|| the wanderer x reader || M || strangers to lovers + handfeeding + fluff || wc: 5.6k  || ao3 ||

You and the enigmatic Wanderer become acquainted with each other, an old story, and the best zaytun peaches.

minors & ageless blogs dni

note: the wanderer is referred to as Zerah

✨🍑meet fruit masterlist🍑✨

a/n: !!! here's my piece for the willow's house server summer collab, meet fruit!!! for my fruit prompt i had peaches!!! enjoy this sweet summer treat of wanderer and peaches loves 💕

CWs: hand feeding

“You’re obscene.” 

“What?” You ask, wiping a smear of peach juice from the corner of your mouth. “It’s just ripe.”

Verging on overripe truthfully, but you aren’t one to argue about semantics (not your darshan) or discard an almost-perfectly-fine fruit, just because it has a few squishy imperfections on its flesh. 

Your traveling companion scowls, pulling back his lip to look a lot more like an offended housecat than the right-hand of the Dendro archon. You swallow down your mouthful and hold back a laugh. You’re sure he could be intimidating if he tried, but he reminds you more of a stray kitten than anything else. 

The hill you perch on is grassy, dry from the midday sun but vibrant green with the rain that sprayed down that morning from Apam Woods. You’d avoided the worst of it, and you didn’t mind being a bit damp. Your companion hid under that comically large-brimmed hat of his, perfectly dry. Probably a good thing, given his feline-leanings. You don’t need to learn the sound of his hissing. 

He regards you with an expected scrutiny and thinly-veiled suspicion that you’ve learned he picks everyone apart with. Not even you, his fellow traveler for weeks now, is sparred. It took you some time to not take it personally. Lord Kusanali had warned you of his eccentricities, but she’d had confidence that you would be ‘more than fine’ managing him. 

If she had been anyone other than the Archon of Wisdom, you would’ve questioned her judgment. 

Your companion gives you a tight tsk, “That doesn’t change that you eat like a shroomboar.”

You gasp, “Rude. It’s just juicy, I can’t help it.”

You really can’t. The zaytun peach you’ve been cradling in your palm for the better part of a half-hour has been dripping juice down your wrist. You’ve tried to juggle it to your other hand and lick up what you could, but the noise he made when you sucked on your index finger was far more obscene than the mere display of eating fruit. 

Even now, Zerah’s face is blushed with a pretty pink, just like your peach. Affected, despite his particularities and general disposition. Perhaps you’d toy with him more if you weren’t trying to enjoy your breakfast and the view of the towering, thick straight-trunked trees of the wood. You settle for another bite of fruit that gushes pulp and juice that stickies the corner of your lips.

Zerah huffs, rolling his eyes before pointedly looking away from you. Generally, he’s not childish, but he has moments like this where he’s bashful like a young girl.

You hide a laugh behind the remnants of your peach, held to your lips.

...

When Lord Kusanali assigned you and ‘Hat Guy’ together, to complete some private research on her behalf, you were more than shocked. You’d only recently returned back to the Akademiya following Azar’s fall (personally invited back, by the Lord herself) when you received a summons and an assignment. 

‘Hat Guy’ was introduced to you as Lord Kusanali’s ‘friend’, but you could tell from the way he bristled at the description that it wasn’t entirely accurate. The Lord was all too happy to hand you both stuffed envelopes with her requests. Open-ended things, really. Nothing specific, more of a call to explore with explicit instructions to note what you find interesting. You and your new companion were both from Vahumana, though Lord Kusanali noted that you were certain to have very different perspectives. 

(She wasn’t kidding.)

Your companion was neutrally nihilistic, and believed in the worst of people in most cases. It was shocking he studied within Vahumana and spent his energy writing theses on human nature when his thoughts tended to be so… defeatist. 

It didn’t take you long to put together that Lord Kusanali’s ward is not human.

It’s not just his specific brand of pessimism that gives him around. You brushed your hand against his while walking and it was cold. It should’ve been hot and sticky with the rainforest drizzle, but instead it was cold and wet, like a ceramic glass beading condensation. 

(He scowls when you touch him. Tells you to watch yourself. You are starting to understand why.)

He looks too perfect, you note after a while. His skin is devoid of imperfections, too smooth. Like it was manufactured and not grown cell by cell. He doesn’t tire, and rarely eats or sleeps. Most unsettling is that he can remain motionless for hours. You’ve only witnessed it, on the few nights you couldn’t sleep, and kept yourself entertained by watching the lack of breath in his chest and his rigid, unchanging posture through the night and rain.

Your companion fascinates you.

He seems... indifferent about you. Such indifference has been tempered down from annoyance, you think. You don’t think Zerah liked you much at all during the first weeks of your research. Perhaps some of that is his demeanor, and perhaps some of it is your own unfamiliarity with his quirks. You two didn’t know how to walk in step, and in those early days of your travels, your companion didn’t seem interested in learning your rhythm. You stumbled and struggled to keep up with his.

It’s on a single night, you think, that Zerah began to become intrigued with you.

...

“Hey, Zerah? Can you throw another log onto the fire?” You ask, peeling a root vegetable with a paring knife. 

Begrudgingly, he tosses a log into the fire and then frowns, “Why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“‘Zerah’.”

“Because Hat Guy certainly isn’t your real name, and it’s too goofy to fit you well,” You hum and toss the cubes into a simmering pot. “Figured you needed a name that suited you better.”

“And ‘Zerah’ does? That hardly sounds like a name.” He scowls at you as you stir. 

“It is, promise.” You lick the spoon and grimace. Fishing into your bag, you pull forth a block of salt and a small grater on a keyring. “It’s a name from a storybook I used to read when I was little.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” You stir in a few more tablespoons of black pepper. “It was one of several in an anthology my father purchased in the desert. It was falling apart when he got it, and disintegrated by the time I was old enough to do any proper digger about it.”

“I know plenty of old stories.” Your companion huffs as you spoon your dinner into two bowls. “I don’t know any with that name.”

“Would you like me to enlighten you, then?” You hand him a bowl and collapsible spoon with a raised eyebrow. 

He takes the bowl and glares. So, yes. 

“It was this story about a little boy born into a dark world, full of sand and dunes.” You remember the illustrations vividly. Worn, illuminated pages fit with four-pointed stars on the corners. “He was nameless, and so he asked the earth what his name should be, and it said to go out and look for his name.”

“So the little boy traveled his whole world— dark and scary and lonely as it was. He met friends and creatures who he asked to name him, but they all told him to keep looking. Eventually, he came to an oasis with a Heron wading in its center. The boy asked the heron, ‘What am I to be? What will I be named?’ and the Heron said ‘You must ask the sun, it will know your name.’”

“But, there was no sun. So the little boy had to go even further, upwards, until the world turned upside down, and turned right-side up again. There, he found the sun, brighter and more luminous than anything he’d ever seen, and asked it what his name should be. And the sun said, ‘You have traveled the world over for a name, yet you are only beginning.’ The sun took letters the little boy taught him and gave him the name ‘Zerah’, which the sun said is the sound the world makes every morning with dawn.”

“... That’s abstract.” Zerah huffs, and ignores the very delicious bowl of curry in his hands. “And the name doesn’t sound like common. Or any other language I know of.”

“I’ve never been able to find anything on it.” You shrug. It’s not like you spent much time looking. “I figured it was some poor translation of an old Deshretini fable. Regardless, you’re Zerah.”

“... Like dawn.”

“Like dawn.” You nod. “Because you’re always staying up so late until the sun rises. Seriously, don’t you get tired? How does your skin stay so perfect, despite the lack of sleep?”

“You’re insufferable.” Zerah rolls his eyes with a growl. “Is that really your reasoning? How juvenile.”

“I think it’s perfectly acceptable.” You speak around a mouthful. “If it bothers you, I’ll call you Hat Guy, Hat Guy.”

Your companion stares at you, then laughs under his breath and a click of his tongue. “It’s fine.”

“So I can—”

“It’s fine— I’m going to find more firewood.” There’s still a stack next to your camp ground, but before you can grill him more, he’s gone, hovering up over a ridge and out of sight.

Zerah didn’t touch his dinner.

...

It’s another day, later. Sumeru doesn’t have much for seasons, especially as you near the Wall of Samiel and the desert’s sand and heat creep into Sumeru’s jungle. You and Zerah wander over a ridge while you munch on a dried slice of Harra fruit. It’s bitter, puckering your mouth and making you salivate. You wipe at the corner of your lip. 

“You shouldn’t walk and eat.” Zerah says, pushing himself up and over a small ledge. He offers you his hand. 

“Why’s that?” You ask, holding the fruit in your mouth and reach for him. 

Zerah pulls you up, steadying you and then frowns. A smear of spit from your hand shines on him now. He looks disgusted, wiping it away on his shorts with a grimace. 

“Choking hazard.” Your companion grabs you by the wrist. “Wash your damn hands. You’re sticky.”

“A necessary evil.” You shrug as Zerah leads you to a pond nearby. He kneels with you at the water's edge and stares. “A good fruit is worth it.”

“Is it really?” Zerah deadpans as you relent and rinse your hands in the crystalline blue water. You scrub at them with a flat stone you find in the silt and sand. 

“Absolutely.” You respond matter-of-factly. You can feel Zerah’s scrutinizing glare. It dawns on you that, perhaps, he truly doesn’t know of such things. “... Have you ever had a perfectly ripe peach?” 

“No.” Zerah curls his knees to his chest at the water’s edge. His bottom lip juts out cutely— pouting, almost. As close to such a thing as he would allow himself. “I don’t need to eat.”

“Well do you like eating?” You ask, shaking off the water from your hands and drying the excess with a wipe to your shoulders. You pointedly ignore the expression of mild disgust Zerah wears. “Have you ever enjoyed eating?”

“... I don’t need to answer you.”

“No, you don’t.” You frown. “But, I’d like it if you did. Come on now, don’t be so shy.”

Zerah almost growls at you. It’s cute. He’s so prickly. “I don’t hate eating, but I don’t enjoy it either.”

“What have you enjoyed eating?” You ask, turning to him. “Do you have a favorite dish?”

That makes him pause. He opens his pretty, petal lips, then closes them with a shake of his head. There’s a wistful look in his eye that stops you from prying at such things. Teasing is far different from poking at a past that you know is, perhaps, sensitive.

You don’t think before you act; you reach out a hand to wrap around his and squeeze. Trace your thumb against the too-smooth plane of his palm. 

“Tell you what,” You flash him a smile. “Next chance we get, I’ll find us a ripe zaytun peach and I’ll show you how tasty they can be, okay?”

Zerah looks at you. Really looks at you. With his too-perfect skin wrinkling around his gem-cut eyes. He doesn’t like promises— you’ve put this together. Assurance rarely does anything but make him avoidant and hissy. What you’re handing to him now is something— something more tender than what you, as research partners, were assigned to share.

Your companion flexes his fingers in your grip, “... Fine.” 

Something feels sticky in your chest— like honey and bee’s wax dripping between your ribs. It makes a sweet smile stretch across your face, one that raises a soft blush on Zerah’s face. He ducks under his hat, and drops your hand, grumbling something about your next destination.

Perhaps, you’re a bit smitten with him as you dash after him, half-skipping.

...

Zerah begins to stick to your side more than he used to.

You’re not sure he knows he is— but, he is. He walks a few paces closer, and sits at your side around the campfire each night, rather than across from you. Rather than hovering outside of your tent and tarp each night, he sits just inside, near your feet. 

(You swear, once or twice, that he lays a hand over your ankle. Touches you before drawing away after just a moment.)

One night, Zerah lays down next to you, when you’re half asleep. A drizzle patters against the fabric of the tent as he curls next to you, not touching, but undeniably close. It’s almost unnerving— his lack of heat in this instance. He doesn’t shiver, despite the chill and humidity.

He lays his head on top of his folded hands, nose just inches from yours. You watch him with him with half-lidded eyes, and sleepily debate on whether or not to comment on his... seeking. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A wanderer who isn’t quite human and doesn’t quite know himself, seeking something from you. Though he doesn’t know what.

You’re not sure either.

“‘Come here,” Your words slur and you lift up your blanket. It’s more than big enough for two. “It looks lonely out there.”

Zerah stiffens up, and scowls, but doesn’t move. “I don’t need a blanket.” 

“Not relevant.” You answer, grip slipping. The rain and the darkness of the tent make you so, so sleepy. It doesn’t help that Zerah is so close, always smelling like damp earth and some perfume you can’t recognize. 

“I’ll make you colder.” Zerah frowns. “I don’t produce heat under these circumstances.”

“... Not relevant.” You begin to doze off, clinging to wakefulness. 

Zerah rolls his eyes, “Why would you want me that close anyways?”

That startles you. “... Because I like you? And I meant it, it looks lonesome without a blanket and a sleeping buddy.”

Zerah is looking at you. It’s piercing and almost violent. The aura of it wakes you up fully, along with the whirring of the air around his Vision. He looks angry, pushing himself up halfway in an instant, before caging you, arms on either side of you, bringing you both nose-to-nose.

Your heart hammers in your chest. You grab one of his wrists and your eyes go wide.

His breath is cold against your cheeks— lips.

“... Zerah?” You say, softly. His lip curls and his hand scrunches into a fist near your ear. The lines of his throat bob with a swallow, and you itch with the urge to bring him closer. Offer him something more than just a blanket and some body heat.

(But, you are dealing with a stray cat after all. It must come to you.)

“You’re... you’re something.” He says it like an accusation. It makes your head spin.

“Am I?” You huff, kicking him lightly. “I’m just trying to sleep and offer you a kindness.”

“Sure.” Zerah says, nearly good-natured and joking. He’s not naive, not at all— you sometimes forget this. Perhaps— perhaps he’s too knowing. The facade slips for a moment, and you see something flash in his eyes that you recognize—

Want. 

It’s one you’ve never seen him wear. It makes something in your chest tighten and jolt like you’ve been struck by something electric and live. 

You start to say his name, the name you gave him, but he’s already slipped lower. So quickly does he pull the blanket back to bully your legs open and lay between them. He tucks into you with his cheek over your collarbones, cold and smooth. He wraps his arms around your middle. Zerah feels lighter over your chest— or maybe just weighted wrong. Regardless, the move steals your breath, and you’re frozen as he settles on top of you.

He wraps the blanket over the two of you and tangles you together. 

“Zerah—” You try to say something, anything.

“Your heart is pounding.” He says, crumbling the fabric of your nightshirt over your chest. “Calm down and go to sleep.”

“You really expect me to?” You laugh, cautiously brushing your hand over his shoulder blades. Zerah shudders. 

“Yeah.” Zerah never lays down at night, never sleeps or rests like this. You feel too shocked to move, afraid that if you shift or stir too much, you’ll frighten him away. 

Instead, you tentatively stroke a hand over his hair. It’s soft— perfectly silky and shiny. When you scratch behind his ear, his breath catches in the prettiest way. You savor the sound, thrumming on your insides. Zerah buries his nose in the hollow of your throat, the cold wash of his breath fanning over your skin.

“You’re silly.” You laugh, gasping when Zerah drags his nails down your sides. You jolt and squirm with it.

It’s a wonder how you ever fall asleep that night. It must be the motion of Zerah’s fingertips, rubbing over your ribs over your nightclothes. Maybe it’s the odd weight of him that presses over your chest. Perhaps it’s that you’ve become increasingly comfortable with your companion, and his recent proclivity for proximity is something you’ve come to welcome. Enjoy, even.

...

You find the perfect peach sometime later— in the lush valleys near Pardis Dhyai. Zerah is only a pace behind you, and you’ve taken his hand in your own during this part of the trek. His skin feels cool against your own, a blessing in Sumeru’s heat. You want more of him, but you’ll settle for his name, a promise, and the chill of his contact that he’s been giving you more frequently. 

There’s a little market set up with wares from the villages of the jungle and the outposts of the desert, congregating by a stream. You both poke around at stalls for a while, side-by-side, never straying too far from one another.

When you do orbit beyond Zerah’s reach, he’s quick to snatch you back. He grumbles under his breath— “stay put” and pinches the skin of your wrist. When you yelp and bat at his shoulder, he only smiles— the smallest, tiniest thing that’s all for you. He pivots within the crowd, always keeping such a particular amount of distance between him and the next person. It’s intentional; when someone brushes to close, Zerah flinches like he’s been burned.

Not you, though. Never you anymore.

It makes you giddy. 

There’s a fruit vendor on the outer edge of the market. The stall is overflowing with produce from across Teyvat— though the best of it is all Sumeru’s local specialties. There’s a box with beautifully stacked zaytun peaches, perfectly pink and swollen. Ripe with the heat, and still green and lively near where it once grew from its stem. You inspect them carefully, Zerah hovering near your back. The shade from his hat slants enough to keep you cool.

You pick out a handful of them, one by one. Four in total. Enough to snack on for the next few days. The merchant kindly bundles them for you in beeswax wrap and twine and hands them to you with a smile. Zerah bristles behind you and lays a hand on your lower back. If he really was a stray cat, he’d be hissing. Maybe scratching. 

You cow him with a gentle smile before passing the merchant a few coins, throwing in a bouquet of beautiful Sumeru roses and cecilia, all the way from Mondstadt. How could you pass up such a beautiful arrangement? You hand the flowers to Zerah, who fumbles them for a moment before cradling them in the crook of his arm. There’s a flush on his cheek— rosy and pretty.

“We’ve found them.” You tell him as you practically drag him from the market into the meadows beyond, deeper into the jungle. “These are perfect.”

“... The peaches?”

“The peaches.” You blop down on a stump and begin to unfurl the wrapping. “Look how pretty they are— and just ripe enough.”

You poke around in your bag for a knife as Zerah settles next to you. He minces for a beat before you lean into his side. 

He stills.

You unsheath your small paring knife, brushing it flat against the fabric of your trousers to clean it. Zerah watches you with rapt attention as you examine each peach until you find the most perfect of the bunch. Pink like an early sunset, with just a bit of give when you squeeze it. You gently pull off the leaves at the top and discard them.

“... You really got the peaches,” says Zerah with an exhale. His shoulders are drawn up.

“Of course I did.” You laugh and knock your head into his bicep. “I’ve been looking since I promised you. Just took a while to find the best ones.”

Zerah makes a noise, something between a grunt and a whine; it’s one you’ve never heard him make. (He’s— he’s been making more of these little noises lately. The other day he actually whimpered while you were detangling his hair with your fingers.) Half a growl even maybe— like a stray who doesn’t know whether to bite your hand or lick it clean. 

You feel woozy with it.

Maybe your companion has been getting under your skin more. Vulnerability is a hell of a thing, and receiving any of it from someone as drawn up and closed off as Zerah is an intoxicant in and of itself. The little glimpses of him you’ve come to covet, revel in— catalog and keep. Your research for Lord Kusanali is paramount, yes, but you find it far easier these days to moon over your companion— regardless of whether or not he knows. 

“You there?” Zerah asks, taking the paring knife from your hand, then the peach. He cradles it in his palm. 

“Y-Yeah, I’m here,” You laugh, shaking your head. You’re lying. 

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Zerah says and it sounds like he’s pouting. “Tell me how to cut this.”

“Sure,” You respond; you feel like you’re dreaming. It must be the heat getting to you. “There’s a pit, you have to cut around it.”

Zerah digs the blade in. Juice squirts from the incision, stickying his fingers. He frowns, grimacing, “Like this?”

“Just like that.” You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you do anyway. You smoosh your cheek into his bicep.

“You’re being weird.” Zerah snaps, but the bite of his words doesn’t reach you. 

You lean closer to him, a smile curling your lips. You feel mischievous, you want to get under his skin— he’s gotten better at holding his own against you, rather than running he tends to contend with you. You can’t ruffle him like you used to, which is truly tragic. Wretched, even. 

“Am I?”

Zerah rolls his eyes, huffs, but he can’t hide the flush that’s traveling from his cheeks to his neck. He doesn’t push you away. If anything— he leers closer. He’s combative with you, he always has been, but this feels different. He’s not sparring with you, he’s not running off when you take a joke too far or rib him too close.

He’s retaining proximity, and handing you a slice of the peach.

“Is this right?” Zerah asks as he passes it to you. It’s— it’s juicy, and drips down in between your fingers.

You eat the piece whole and nod, turning away. Your stomach is in knots— it’s almost unpleasant. 

“You don’t look like you enjoyed that.”

“I did—” You lie, then tell a truth. “I’ll be honest, it’s not really what I’m focused on. I want to know what you think about it.”

Zerah’s grip tightens around the peach, bruisingly. The flesh gives way around his hand, and you jolt to try and save it. 

Zerah jerks it out of the way with a scowl, but keeps his face close to you. Nose-to-nose. Cold breath washing over your lips. 

“... Why are you so invested in me eating a stupid peach?” He asks with a lilt in his voice you’ve never heard him use before. 

“Because they’re tasty.” You lunge for the peach again, and Zerah pulls it out of the way. “You should enjoy something that tastes good and makes you feel that way.”

You hike yourself up on the stump, on one knee, and stretch to try and grab the fruit from him. The peach bursts with the pressure of his grip, pink flesh spilling from between his fingers. Liquid nectar slicking his palm, trailing down his wrist. 

Zerah frowns down at you— you’re sprawled out across his lap— you— you must look obscene.

His cheeks are so red. There’s heat coming from his— chest. Lower abdomen, but only there. You can feel it against his side, feel the thump and whirring of parts that are surely not entirely human.

“Why do you care if I care, Zerah?” A grin curls across your face when you say it. 

“Shut up.”

“But, Zerah—”

He’s shaking. Trembling. He tears a chunk of peach from the mess in his hand, intact enough to not fall apart when he shoves it against your lips. He presses, pushes— all you can smell is ripe, sweet fruit and that perfume he always carries with him. You almost kick your feet.

You open your lips, just barely— enough for Zerah to push the morsel inside, and for you to give the lightest suck to his fingers when they withdraw away. 

If Zerah were human, he’d be panting. You are.

“Is this fun for you?” He asks, voice sharp. He rips another piece of fruit and repeats, not giving you the time or the space to get a word in. 

You’re not sure what response you’d give him, if you could. Fun, isn’t quite the right word. It’s diminutive, perhaps derogatory to him in some way. You feel nothing less than adoring. You’re basking in the attention he gives you, in the quiet but entirely mutual aware of the feeling that’s metastasized from begrudging research partner to this.

Zerah feeds you like that for long enough for your limbs to grow heavy. The chunks he’s tearing out of the peach are getting smaller (like he’s savoring this too, lengthening whatever this exchange is by drawing out the length of time that he can feed you this single peach). They’re more messy.

Juice and pulp coat around your lips. You feel sticky— you’ll need a bath after this. Or at least to wash your face. Zerah’s armguards glisten with the sap they’ve soaked up. He’ll need washing up too.

“Wait—” You catch him by the wrist and force yourself. “You haven’t had any, have you?”

“No.” Zerah swipes over your lips with his thumb. “You’re filthy.”

“It’s your fault,” You lean closer, crawling into his lap.

He stiffens. 

For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far. Perhaps the line for him is at ‘lap sitting’ and not at ‘hand-feeding fruit’, and you’ve misjudged the situation. Is this exploratory for him? You don’t know enough about him to make confident assessments of his experience, but perhaps... Perhaps this business with the peaches was innocent. Perhaps the proximity you now have, settled in his lap with your hands on his shoulders, is passing something you hadn’t anticipated.

You’d only been close to cuddle for warmth, right? He only touched you out of a kindness or ease— perhaps a favor to be repaid. Sitting in his lap, sticky and panting—

Before you can backpedal, recant, disengage, Zerah wraps his peach-soaked fingers around your jaw and drags you to kiss him. 

It shocks you; a little gasp slips from your lips that Zerah swallows in kind. His hand that was holding the last remnants of the peach and its pit slides along your waist, around your waist to drag you closer. He licks into your mouth and it becomes abundantly clear you panicked assessments were horribly wrong.

He licks the inside of your teeth, sucks on your tongue— it’s obscene. It’s messy, in a way that makes you bury your hands in his hair to tilt his head at a better angle. Bring him closer— hands still frigid but the center of abdomen feels scorching against your own. 

You feel drunk when he pulls away, gasping and bracing yourself on his arms. Zerah’s exhales feel too-hot against the skin of your jaw as he drags his lips there, biting, as his nails rake down your sides.

“Is that really the most effective way to eat a peach?” You ask him. 

Zerah pulls away, grabs your cheeks, and stares. When you try to speak, he tightens his grip so your lips squish together. 

“Really?” 

“It’s an honest question.” Your words are garbled. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but perhaps I make a fair point.” You fish to the side, within the discarded beeswax wrapping, and grab another peach. “I’m sure kissing me— pardon, ravishing me—”

“Shut up—” Zerah kisses you stupid and quiet again. 

“You’re interrupting.” You speak through your headrush and hold a fresh, untouched peach in your palm. “As I was saying, I’m sure ravishing me as you have decided to isn’t the prime way to get a taste of this peach. Get it from the source.”

You hold the whole peach, squeeze it lightly, and take a chomp out of it. No knife required— not slicing, nothing pretty. Just flesh parting around teeth and the juice of it dripping down your chin and wetting your palm. You chew, swallow, and hold the untouched side to his lips. The fruit is sweet, so sweet— the flavor if it lingers on your tongue. You’re sure Zerah can smell. Even if he doesn’t need to breathe, you can feel his heavy inhales and exhales. Maybe his breath is where that smell of his comes from, like incense and crushed petals of a flower you can’t identify clearly.

His hand squeezes around your hip. Hard enough to bruise— harder, and it makes you remember your companion’s strength. He doesn’t have muscles that match with it quite right. It makes you forget. 

You gasp when he tugs you closer and takes a bite from the peach, all the way down to the pit. His cheeks remain flushed, stained seemingly, as he chews, and swallows. You watch the bob of his throat as he does. 

You’re entranced by him. It’s lovely to be so overt about it.

“... How did you like it?” Your voice sounds dreamy and half-there as his hands slide up and under your shirt.

He thinks for a moment— studying you. Palm skimming down your ribs, stopping to count them. You can feel him do so. The other presses fingertips over your lips, pushing inside your mouth to run over your teeth.

“It was good.” Zerah tugs the fruit from your hand and sets it aside. “I’ll have more of it later.”

“‘Weally?” You exclaim, around his fingers. He jabs the inside of your cheek and your squeal.

“Yes, really.” He sounds softer, for a moment. It makes something in your ache in the best way. “I understand why you wanted me to try it.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, then.” You goad him on. “Why?” 

“You’re insatiable.” He groans, bouncing his leg and you subsequently. “Is this not enough?”

“It is ‘enough’,” You assure him (you want to eat him alive.) “Call me greedy, I suppose. I’ll take whatever you give me, Zerah.”

“Are you a glutton, then?”

“Only a scholar. Perhaps a foolish, lovesick one, but nonetheless.” 

“... Lovesick?” Zerah’s voice trails, awed. His eyes shine as he grips a hand over his chest. He looks like he might throw up if he’s even capable of such a thing.

“Of course.” And sweetly, you press your sticky lips to his cheek. “I thought that much was obvious, I apologize.”

“Lovesick?” He repeats, this time more incredulous. “Don’t toy with me.”

“I promise, I’m not.” You want to reassure him. “Do you think I’m this shameless with everyone I meet?”

Zerah deadpans. You bat at his chest with a smile on your face that hurts, it’s so wide and full and carefree. 

“I can’t be sure.” He huffs.

“Zerah—”

You gave him that name. He lets you use it. That should speak volumes, but perhaps you’ve been negligent to what that means, how he thinks of you. Perhaps you should’ve realized, earlier, what his increased proximity has been communicating to you now.

Fools, both you. Both learning the steps, the lay of the land, just as the Lord of Dendro requested of you. Perhaps not for Sumeru’s changing, cleansed, landscapes, but for each other. An outcast and an inhuman stray. 

You kiss him again, just as he leans closer to give you the same, grabbing at the cloth over your heart.

[zbops]

Usually I'm all over the end of Summer. Not this time, friends 🥺 Kitten's collab couldn't have come at a more perfect time 😂

This is very self indulgent and so personal 🥰

Word count: 1,890ish before last minute edits lol

How Do We Win?

Momo x GN!Reader, college dropout to returning student!Reader

Warnings: comfort, anxiety, flowery language maybe lol

🍃🍂🍃

Finally, out of the car and into the woods, you run your hand across the bark of a nearby tree. You’re taking the beaten trail, trodden down by countless strangers' boots over years and years of wandering up and across the large mountain you considered your second home. The humidity has already begun to bead against your neck, even with the sun still barely peeking over the horizon, but you don’t wipe it away yet. You let it settle, warm you. A brief, soft breeze chills the standing water particles, making you shudder. You wipe the water away with a stained, but still pretty, embroidered handkerchief.

“Darling,” a voice calls.

Looking ahead, on the trail stands a dark haired angel, her khaki shorts rolled up and held in place on her thick thighs with cute fabric bows, her red tank tight and tucked into her shorts. Her skin has gotten tan over the course of the summer, not only from your frequent hiking, but from her job as well. She’s smiling at you, one hand leaving the strap of her blue hiking bag to motion for you, like a spirit of the mountain beckoning a saint on their journey.

You smile back at her, stuffing the handkerchief into your back pocket of your own hiking shorts, jogging up the slight incline to join her. Her hand slips into yours easily and feather-light, like the breeze itself. Her skin warms your palm and you forget for the moment about that light chill nipping at your heels.

Sunlight filters through the treetops as the two of you walk, your hands only leaving each other's skin when absolutely necessary. Fingers slip into belt loops through the small spaces between trees, hands bracing low hanging branches and pressing gently into the small of the back, chins resting on shoulders in small breaks to catch the breath that the mountain has stolen away.

Breaking away from the heavy forested area, the mountains open up for you. Smatterings of trees and wild grass and flowers. The sky is deeply blue, sporting many, many fluffy white clouds.

Before you could spot the gray nimbus cloud crawling over the very tips of the far mountain top, you swung around to find your partner sitting on a fallen log taking a long drink of water.

“Momo, are you tiring out on me?” You chuckle at the smile she tries to hold back as she swallows a, very ladylike, mouthful of water. “You, the woman that runs across the city and fights evil the likes of which the world could never know, are getting tired halfway up the mountain?” You nudge her legs open, which she willingly parts for you.

She wipes away a drop of water with her thumb, lowering her heavy red bottle to sit on the log beside her. “Running and fighting aren’t the same as trekking up a mountain, my love.” She smiles. She wipes the stray droplet on her bare thigh before taking your hips in her hands. “I’m not built for these endurance climbs.” Her little laugh and uptick of her brows makes you laugh.

Momo was right, she wasn’t built for a life of upward climbs, having been born at the top of the mountain already.

The clouds shifted behind you as you roped your arms around her neck, sunlight baring harder on your back, darkening the shadows that you bathed Momo in. The clouds shifted again, quieting the sun’s rays. There was a cool that washed at your calves, as if the coastline were rising around you.

“Do you want to keep going?” You asked, playing with her thick black hair that danced in the breeze. “We can stop here again, have our snacks, take the long way down through the trees?”

Even in the shade, her dark eyes glittered like stars. She gave your hips a little shake in her excitement. “No, I’ll make it up there this time.” Her smile turned confident, radiant, a challenge made that must be won.

The two of you share a kiss as the sun makes itself known again. She tastes like heat and cool water and mint.

Taking one last long drink of water, the two of you keep up the hike, early morning turning to midday, though the sun doesn’t shine as much as it had earlier. The higher you two got, the more you saw, the cooler it became. Such is the way of mountaineering, you thought. Watching your step and Momo’s, warning of any gouges in the lush terrain, your eyes only seeing what could possibly cause a stumble for your city-going partner. Greenery transitioned to gravel, to stone. You lead the way still, holding Momo’s hand tightly, instructing her on balance and breathing, reassuring smiles keeping her moving, keeping her eyes alight.

A plateau jutted out from the mountain before it became pure hand over foot scaling.

This was your finish line.

You helped Momo to the edge of the plateau, holding her hand as she sat, though she, in her line of work, didn’t need the assistance. She began to remove snacks from her bag when you noticed the view.

The dark cloud had begun to cover the near distance, trees at the foot of the mountains were already changing colors, and a nagging reminder made your arms tremble just as another cool wind, stronger now at this height, pressed against your stomach washing upward.

Momo heard you sigh over the gust, a bluster of wind you didn’t even know you produced, turning to watch you stand above her looking out at the horizon. She looks out as well, noticing the dark rain clouds headed your way. “It’s okay, I can make us some raincoats and umbrellas. I’m sure I can make some covers for our shoes too, if it starts to get muddy.”

“It wasn’t supposed to rain today,”

Momo raises her hand for you to take, but you don’t. You don’t even see it in your peripheral vision. She notices the grief pool in your eyes and hooks a couple fingers in your pocket instead, tugging you lightly. “It’s going to be okay. We had a lovely hike, we still have time to eat - Sit with me, love.”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, letting yourself sit beside Momo, frustrated and sad at the bitter cold reminder you were being given. The dark haired woman takes your hand in hers, kissing the knuckles. You lean your head on her shoulder. She tries to feed you one of her snacks, but you’ve lost your appetite. In the distance, you watch the rain start, a sheet of blurry water making all of the vibrancy of the green and red trees turn dull and masked.

Momo chews on some nuts and dried berries. She sits in your silence for a moment before placing her hand on your thigh. It was warm against the icy feeling that had settled there.

“Your classes will be starting soon, won't they?”

“Momo, please,” You whine, on the verge of a sob at the suggestion.

Momo is silent for a moment, not knowing how to comfort you without enabling the bad feelings you were already feeling. She had said before that you didn’t have to go back to college, she’d made it known early on in your relationship that she had no qualms paying for things, but you made it very clear that this was what you wanted. She knew she needed to be supportive of this choice, and so did you.

“You’ll be packing up soon to leave, right?” She tried to rub the cold from your thigh and you wrapped your arms around hers, holding the warm appendage close to your chest.

“This is a bad idea. I’ll be starting all over, Momo.”

“No, it’s a wonderful idea. You’re going somewhere that specializes in the future you want. That’s wonderful.”

“It’s expensive.”

“I can pay for it,”

“No.” You say, jutting up to look at her. “It’s not right to lean on you for everything, I don’t want that to be our relationship,” You hold your face in your hands. “And I know I couldn’t pay you back for something like that, it’s too much.”

Momo leans in close to your face, her hand softly holding your wrist, hoping you’ll uncover your face. “You don’t have to pay me back at all, you know that I-”

“I know.” You run your hands across your face and down your neck to massage it, brushing off her hand unconsciously. “But it’ll feel like I do. I’ll feel so guilty, Momo.”

Her hands take their place back on your thigh. “Then you’ll get a job. You can pay for everything you need.”

“If I can find a job. Things are hard right now. So many places are hiring, but none seem to actually hire. What if I can’t find a job before my savings run out? I still have to buy books, I have bills,” You wipe a tear from your eye and sniffle.

Momo looks from you, to the clouds, and back. “I can-”

“Momo,”

She sighs. “What about your parents then? Or your friends? I’m sure they would help you, they adore you. And it’d be less money so you shouldn’t feel burdened.”

“You know my parents aren’t well off. With all of the repairs they’ve needed to make this summer. . . They’d help, but it’d put them in a bad spot, same with my friends. I can’t do that to them.”

Momo’s eyes run back and forth as she tries to think of something else to say, to reason away the fear you’re feeling, fix it for you, but knows it wouldn’t help. That isn’t what you need right now. So she scoots closer to you, glancing out at the clouds, wraps an arm around your shoulders. Her other arm hovers over her thigh, sparkling light emitting from her skin. She produces a large umbrella and holds it over the both of you moments before the rain hits. Your breath comes choppily in and out of your lungs as you hold back a sob, leaning into Momo’s neck and shoulder.

She forces the hilt of the umbrella into the earth just behind her so she can use that arm to pull your legs over hers to hold you tighter.

“I’m scared to start over, Momo. It was hard enough the first time around when I had no idea what I was doing. Now, it feels like torture.”

“I know,” She says softly, her cheek pressed into the crown of your head, her body heat fighting the chill of the impending Fall. She wished she could make life easier for you, remove the burden from your shoulders, and maybe she can within reason, but she knows that this is something that you must tackle yourself, perhaps the two of you can make a plan together later. Of one thing, though, she was certain: “I’m here for you, my love. I’ll always be here, no matter the season.” You wipe more tears from your eyes. “I’m a hero, remember? Call for me, and I’ll be there.” She kisses your forehead, lingering there, pouring every ounce of warm love over you that she can in the pouring rain. “I’m so proud of you, angel.”