#mind the a/n for the content tags

[chickenparm]

Fusillade (Wanderer/f!Reader)

written for @illusory-torrent ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡ – ✧)

---

It was a favor for a friend to let the Wanderer find himself while meandering with you. Two sets of eyes are better than one, and what's lost isn't so difficult to locate if you know where to look.

AO3 Link

Wanderer/f!Reader(not the Traveler) 4,954 Words - NSFW Vaginal sex, mild breast-play, mild dacryphilia, unrequited(?) love confession, sharin' a bed-ish.

---

When first meeting the Traveler, they’d been fresh-faced and ready to face the world. Learning their story had been a shock, but not one that you weren’t welcoming toward. Mondstadt was as good a jumping-off point as any, and after a few days together you wished them luck in all their future endeavors as you parted ways. 

In Liyue, they’d been a little more harrowed, a little more hardened. “A lot of things have happened since we’ve met up!” Paimon had explained in lieu of the Traveler’s own words, and you provided a sympathetic shoulder for the two to lean on as you made camp together in the countryside of the Land of Geo. And if they looked a little happier after spending some time talking and laughing with you, then that works just fine, you think. 

Unfortunately, in Inazuma, the two of you were only able to cross paths briefly. With the removal of the Sakoku Decree, it meant you were allowed into the country, and they were allowed out. There’s a certain air about the two - less so Paimon - that leaves you wondering exactly what happened behind the closed borders of Inazuma. 

You find out, much to your chagrin. 

It isn’t until a few months have passed and you’ve meandered your way to Sumeru that you once more meet your good friends - ones you’ve sorely missed. Of course, another catastrophe was narrowly avoided thanks to their intervention, and Paimon was more than pleased to fill in the gaps while you shared a lunch with the two of them at some cafe you can’t quite pronounce the name of. 

In the middle of laughter at something Paimon has said, a shadow casts over the table - similar to an umbrella blocking out the sun. It’s not quite so, rather the wide brim of an ornate hat as a figure approaches the three of you with a carefully neutral expression. First he looks at the Traveler, then briefly at Paimon, before looking to you. 

Before you can even think about introducing yourself, his interest turns back to the Traveler. “Lesser Lord Kusanali sent me to fetch you. Something has come up.”

“Is it urgent?” You know the Traveler is asking only because this means the two of you will part ways once again. Violet eyes dart to you, tensing for just a moment as a thought seems to cross his mind. The neutrality cracks only a little, and he almost looks interested in your presence. It must be an enigma, that you’d be important enough for the Traveler to put off meeting with the Dendro Archon for a little while longer. 

The male moves, placing one hand on his hip as he gives the Traveler an slightly admonishing look. “Maybe I should have been more specific. Something’s come up about that important information you’ve been wandering all over for? Surely that’s not something you want to put off more than necessary. Even for a… friend.”

With a jerk of his chin, he emphasizes that you are the Traveler’s friend in question. Obvious enough, but if he feels the need to make things clear, then who are you to tell him it’s unnecessary?

After a moment of deliberation, and an apologetic expression toward you, the Traveler drops enough mora for all three meals onto the table. “Sorry, this really is important, then. Will you be around the city for a little longer? I’d like to catch up some more.”

“I’m heading out tomorrow morning, but I’ll be around the country - I’m sure you could hunt me down if you really wanted. It’s not like I hide from you.” You lean on your elbows with a grin, pleased at both the prospect of meeting your friends once more, as well as having your meal so graciously paid for. 

The Traveler and Paimon leave with a wave, and the newcomer only gives you an unreadable look over his shoulder as they leave. Only when they round a corner do those eyes finally give you some peace.

---

You do end up leaving before the Traveler can seek you out again. A trip down to Port Ormos takes a few days thanks to a love of meandering, and how easily distracted you are by every little sight and sound of Sumeru. It’s a beautiful country, and you find yourself quickly enamored with it, despite the persistent heat and humidity. 

After you get your fill of Port Ormos, your trip back up to the city proper is a little longer. It’s nearly a month after your first meeting with the Traveler in Sumeru that the second one comes around. Paimon is with someone named Collei, apparently, leaving you and the Traveler to sit in the grassy hilltops surrounding the city with boxes of takeout settled between you. 

The conversation is easy at first, and then almost as if the entire purpose of this meeting was for something a little more heavy, the subject changes as quickly as you can blink. The Traveler has poor skills in segueing topics from one to another, it seems. 

Picking at the biryani in their lap, golden eyes don’t lift to meet yours as they ask, “Do you remember that guy from last time? With the big hat?”

“He’s not easy to forget, that’s for sure. What about him?”

And then it comes tumbling out. Who he is, what he is, and the biggest puzzle piece of all - why the Traveler is bringing any of this up. “You’re staying in the country for a while longer, aren’t you? Do you think it would be possible to have him tag along with you for a while?”

And there it is. Really, you have no reason to say no, beyond simply not knowing who this guy is. But the Traveler seems to trust him, and you trust the Traveler, so logically you can trust him, right? It’s not the most sound conclusion, but it’s the only one that makes sense, so you bob your head in a nod and laugh at the way the Traveler’s shoulders seem to sag in relief. 

The Traveler is leaving for the desert on an extended trip soon, and the Wanderer - Traveler’s name for him, and yours now, too - was staunchly against the idea of traipsing about in the desert despite being largely unaffected by the traits that make it harsh. 

“I’d rather take a dip in a volcano,” is what he apparently told the Traveler. And while the Wanderer was interested in taking some time for himself, away from the Dendro Archon and away from all the reminders of things you haven’t been made privy to, he doesn’t want to do so in a place he hates. That’s understandable - you plan on steering clear of the desert, yourself. 

And all of these situations are what lead you to this - following a well-worn road North out of Sumeru City, a silent Wanderer at your side as your steps fall into an odd sort of synchronization. Whether he is matching your stride on purpose, or if it’s a subconscious thing, you almost find it comforting. 

From the Traveler’s descriptions, you expect him to be sharp and barbed, but he’s been… oddly polite, if not just a little standoffish. When you explain that you have no destination in mind, he doesn’t seem put off, and when you fall into old habits of becoming distracted, he doesn’t complain when those distractions take you off the path. 

At least, at first. 

Eventually, as the day wears on, it seems as if he grows more comfortable. As you push through the afternoon, his voice grabs your attention. “You should take a break, you know.”

“Hm?” Your steps falter a little as you’re brought out of your wandering thoughts. Absently you answer him, more focused on pulling the lenses from your face to rub a smudge off on your shirt - sweat doesn’t cooperate with glasses, unfortunately. “I don’t really need one.”

“The issue with fatigue in humans is once you start feeling it, it’s difficult to stop. Take a break before you’re tired, so you don’t injure yourself,” Wanderer explains. Just like one would explain that the sky is blue, or that Dendro Visions are green, or that there are a multitude of subtleties that differentiate the two of you when it comes to physical composition. 

The Wanderer isn’t human, but he looks an awful lot like one, and you’ve forgotten until now about that important fact. Beyond that, there isn’t much you know about him, and it’s with a bit of slyness that you try to strike a deal. “I’ll take a break on one condition. Every fifteen minutes of break time, you answer a question of mine.”

And he laughs. It isn’t necessarily cheerful, but it does pull his lips up into a smile that seems unpracticed. Or, perhaps it is practiced, but never in this sort of context. Despite lingering cynicism, he answers, “You could have asked without a break - it’s not like I’m hiding anything. But I’ll accept. Now sit down.”

Once you’re settled in the grass, just off the road and out of the way of any other travelers that might come along, the Wanderer sits next to you with his legs crossed, elbow on his knee, cheek on his palm. “Ask away.”

“Oh, no.” Immediately you deny, stretching your legs out in front of you as you lean back onto your hands. “I’m saving those for while we walk. You dictate the length of the break based on how many questions you feel like answering. I think that’s pretty fair.”

A huff of air leaves him, making his shoulders jolt. It could’ve been amusement, disbelief, or maybe even both, judging by his tone. “That’s how it’s going to be, huh? Fine.”

The sun above is warm on your skin, despite the sweat that just won’t wick away thanks to the humidity. You turn your face skywards, observing the clouds and completely missing the way his head tilts just enough to look at you out of the corner of his eye, calculating and quiet. At least, at first you miss it, but the sensation of eyes on you is impossible to ignore after enough time. 

“Something on my face?”

“Sunburn, if you’re not careful.” Sharp words, but softened by the actual meaning.

With an airy wave toward your bag sitting in the grass, you explain, “I picked up a recipe in Liyue for some balm that helps protect against the sun. I’ll be just fine, don’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried.” Wanderer responds so quickly that it completely defeats the purpose of his denial. His mouth sets in a line as his brows furrow in irritation that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It would just be annoying to listen to you complaining about your face hurting.”

“Mhm.” Is your response as your eyes close and you wait for him to decide that break time is over. It takes longer than you expect for him to get to his feet, and then almost as an afterthought, reach his hand out to help you up. When he looks surprised that you accept it, you don’t remark on that. 

Maybe the astonishment will wear off with your time together. 

---

“I don’t need to sleep.” Wanderer tells you one day, as the two of you are setting up your tent for the night. When you brought up that he sleeps outside rather than in said tent, he gives you that answer quite easily. “But I can, if I wanted.”

“Don’t you want to? Sounds awfully boring to never dream.” You ask, using the heel of your booted foot to push the last stake into the ground, securing the rain cover to ensure you stay dry in the storm that’s rolling in rather quickly.

There’s no fire to be set up, not while it’s about to rain, so once the shelter is pitched you climb inside and hold the flap open. As he turns around, he starts to speak but then trails off. “That’s two ques..tions…”

Wanderer hesitates. In his eyes, it must be odd - an enclosed room, with someone he likely doesn’t quite trust. But then he looks at you from beneath the brim of his hat, conflicted for only a moment before pulling it off his head and stepping into the tent you offered him. 

It doesn’t take long for the raindrops to begin falling, rolling off the waxed canvas and leaving the two of you safe and dry. Not necessarily warm, but you wrap up in your bedroll’s blanket as soon as the two of you settle in the small tent.  

There’s no extra bedding - he hadn’t brought any, and you’re not about to offer your own when he doesn’t seem to care. As you lay down for the night, he sits with his back to you, cross-legged and leaning back on his hands as he stares at the darkening forest through the mesh of the tent’s doorway. 

That’s the sight you drift off to as you carefully set your glasses to the side and out of the way. A smudge of deep blue and white, the gentle chiming of his vision as he mindlessly runs his fingers along the ornament and feather. It’s almost like a lullaby.

And that lullaby is a stark difference to the smacking of raindrops hitting harder against the tent cover, the thunder rolling above, and the surprising chill in the air thanks to the change in temperature combined with high humidity. You hadn’t realized you were shivering until you woke up to the rustling of your blanket being carefully untucked. 

Immediately, you ask, “What’re you doin’?”

“That’s a third question.” Wanderer murmurs, voice low as if he doesn’t want to wake you further. “You’re shivering so hard you’re going to attract a tiger - they’ll think you’re a wounded animal.”

“M’not-”

“Yeah you are. A wounded animal would make less noise. Just go back to sleep.”

The blanket shifts, and your seal from the chilled air is broken just long enough for another body to fill the small amount of space behind you. Squinting into the dark over your shoulder, you're met with violet eyes telling you silently not to say a word. But so far, you've never really been bothered by any of his threats, and you're not planning on starting now. 

If he's going to give an inch, you're going to try and take a mile. So you shift back, aligning your spine with the way the front of his body curves. It's deceptively easy to slot your back to his chest and glean some of the little warmth he gives off. 

Wanderer's chest expands as if he's going to say something, then he holds it back. Rain drowns out the sound of your quiet breaths, your muscles tensed in anticipation for what his next move might be. It's the one you expect the least, but should be most logical. 

Tentatively, his arm snakes around your waist in a quiet acceptance of how his little idea has unfolded. It's thin, but strong enough that he holds you to him with minimal effort. And despite how obviously nervous he is about it all, it doesn't lessen the effect of comfort and warmth he's providing. 

"Thank you, Wanderer."

"Please don't make this weird." His answer is blunt. "I'm not doing this for you."

"It's not like there's anyone else here." Your voice is thickened by your interrupted sleep, and your eyes turn wearily to the dim roof of the tent, occasionally lit by lightning. Wanderer's breath hits the back of your neck as he makes a huff of amusement. 

"I just don't want to drag your body back when you attract some stray crocodile to eat you with all your shivering. The Traveler would never forgive me. And their floating companion would be unbearable."

"Mhm… you're cuddling me because it makes your life easier then? Why didn't you say so?"

The arm around your waist tightens. Wanderer stammers for a moment before letting out an outraged tsk. "That's not-!...You know what? Fine, believe what you want."

And silence falls. Your eyelids droop, your thoughts slow, and you try to ignore the way you're still cold at the front, despite Wanderer's warmth at your back. The sluggish notion barely crosses your mind before he picks up on it and the flat of his hand presses against your stomach. Through the thin material of your shirt, the warmth from his palm seeps through. 

Despite telling you pointedly to go to sleep, he seems almost hellbent on causing problems for you each time you nudge at the threshold of your dreams. When your breathing slows, his thumb starts to slowly move back and forth, just beneath your ribs. And when you get used to that, his whole hand moves instead, caressing circles against your skin that finally have you asking once more, "What are you doing?"

"I don't know." And he means that - he'd hardly admit to ignorance, especially over his own actions. "Want me to stop?"

And what a loaded question that is. Because you certainly don't want him to, but you also don't know where this is going. It's hardly appropriate when his hand raises a little higher, growing dangerously close to the unspoken line about to be crossed. 

Almost as if on autopilot, your brain making the decision subconsciously when your mouth takes a little too long, you say, "No. I don't."

The sensation doesn't register in your mind for a split second. It's only after he lingers do you realize that he's lifted his hand further and cupped one of your breasts in his palm with a tentative squeeze. The two of you pause; you in stunned silence, him in quiet anticipation for what you'll do. 

As your tension starts to release, he gives another experimental squeeze, dragging his palm just enough to rub the fabric against your hardening nipple. A little laugh leaves him, high and breathy, and he murmurs, "You like this, don't you?"

"Don't sound surprised-!" You cut off as his fingers pinch and roll, your voice cracking before you can rein it in. With a spark of annoyance, you rock your hips back and find satisfaction in how he falters. "Ngh-... it's not as if you're not enjoying it, too."

Wanderer's arousal digs into your backside, growing more persistent as you repeat that movement with precision. In return, you get a sharp pinch that makes you whine under your breath. It feels like you've given him a victory, and he gives your chest one more squeeze before taking the prize he feels he's won. 

"On your back." He directs, pulling away enough for you to follow his direction. With both hands, he shoves your shirt to your collarbone, your breasts falling free for only a moment before his mouth catches one, his hand on the other. 

Instinctively, your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close enough that he couldn't pull away even if he wanted to. With a sharp suck, he takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it in rhythmic motions that match the movement of his fingers on the other. He’s barely even breathing, but rather working himself up into a fervency where maintaining the illusion of being human is pushed away in favor of single-minded desire.

When he gets too rough, you tug his hair, and he lessens the pressure. If he’s lingering too long on one side, a subtle push of his head moves him easily to the other. And all the while, his hips slot against yours, grinding messily as if friction between the two of you is an afterthought compared to how the taste of your skin is making his eyes flutter shut so prettily. His eyelashes brush against high cheekbones, and you fight the urge to sweep your thumb across to see if they’re as soft as they look. 

Instead, you card your fingers through his hair and wonder how it stays so smooth despite how careless you’ve been with it up to this point. In spite of how nice this all feels, it just isn’t enough. And if he’s going to go this far, you’d rather he just go all the way and be done with playing around. 

With a sharp tug, you pull him away from your skin and he looks ruined. Eyes glassy despite his laser-focus on your face, lips swollen, wetness across his lips from how reckless he’d been so far. Before he can question you, your voice comes out - a lower pitch than usual, breathless but still demanding. “I need more, Wanderer.”

Simple enough to fulfill, you think, but his lips twist into a smile that’s almost wry as he answers, “If you hadn’t interrupted me-”

“You know what I mean.” Any annoyance that might have been effective is lessened by the way he’s warmed your cheeks and slickened your skin with his saliva, his fingers still rolling one of your nipples idly. Like he’s not interested in it, like he hadn’t been nipping and sucking and biting you with the sort of abandon belonging to a man starved. 

Starved for attention, affection, simple contact… You’re not quite sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter, in the long run - any of those would be solved if he just stopped fooling around. 

Wanderer does know what you mean, and his tongue darts out to sweep the lingering wetness from his lips before he lifts off you, shrugging enough of the blankets away that there’s room to rather neatly roll yourself once more. From below you, he looks just as pretty as above. Hair against the pillow you’d just been leaning against, skin lit up by the occasional flash of lightning through the trees above, hands digging into the outsides of your thighs as you straddle his lap.

Inhaling sharply, as if he just remembered that perhaps unnatural stillness of a being that doesn’t need oxygen might be unsettling, he takes in the sight of you in the same manner of admiration you’d been giving him. It’ll make more sense in the morning, when the storm has passed and the cover of darkness isn’t enough to hide rational thought. 

Pressing his fingers against your plush skin, leaving little oval marks of red in his yearning, he murmurs, “Take it, then. If you want more, make me give it to you.”

And oh, does that do something inside of you. Setting your stomach afire with a need you don’t bother to control, Wanderer’s challenge is met with your hands on his shoulders, and a slow roll of your hips that wipes the attitude off his face in one smooth movement. 

Arching himself to meet you halfway, he chases the feeling of your heat against his hardness greedily. For someone that wants you to take, he seems awfully eager to give.

But he demanded that you take what you want, that you make him give it to you, so you leverage yourself away to shimmy out of your shorts as quickly as you can. Depriving yourself of his body heat for such a short time shouldn’t feel as desolate as it does, but by the time you return it feels as if those few seconds were the equivalent of a lifetime. 

Despite your partial nudity, you really only give enough effort to reach between your bodies and pull him free. While he’s attempted to seem detached - both in this tent and outside, where the world exists despite feeling as if it’s been reduced to only these four canvas walls - Wanderer’s eyes positively glow with a saccharine sort of longing that threatens to pull you in if you stare at it a little too long, a little too willing.

The first stretch of his cock brings you pause. It’s been too long, certainly for you, maybe for him with how his fingertips grab as your thighs all over again, as if he were searching for something to ground himself in this exact moment. You don’t blame him, gripping his shoulders just as hard; bracing yourself against him, pushing him down into the mess of a blanket at his back. 

“Y-you’re so-!” Spitefully, you cut off his words by sinking just a little further, taking a little more inside. Wanderer learns his lesson, relegating the use of his voice to what could only be considered a whine as you move at your pace, not his. Little by little, agonizingly slow until he has nothing more to give and you’re seated fully on his cock. 

You’re far from unaffected, but a need to maintain the upper hand keeps your face tuned to amusement as you watch the emotions flicker across his face. A great many of them you’re unfamiliar with, but perhaps he’ll give you a chance to learn them after this encounter. Maybe this won’t be the last. 

Finally, he looks at you through cracked eyelids, desperation coloring his voice as he pleads for you to take him. Wanderer tries to spin it as an order, but there can be no authority when he sounds so ruined from simply being inside you - no movement beyond the subconscious way you tighten around him for your own pleasure. 

Taking the smallest amount of pity - and growing impatient with your own teasing - you rock your hips forward, then back, and take note of how his head falls back enough to show the pretty line of his unmarred throat, usually so hidden by the high collar of his clothing. With a shaking exhale, pleased by both the sight beneath you and the sensations inside, you ask, “Does it feel good? You look overwhelmed…”

“I-I’m not, it’s just-...” Wanderer trails off, face twisting in a grimace as you repeat your movements, setting a slow and rhythmic pace that could be enough if either of you had the patience to maintain it. The smallest whine precedes his words, “You feel so good, I don’t think I can… I can’t-”

“You can.” You urge, reaching for his hand on your thigh to pry it loose, bringing it to the apex of your thighs with a purpose he clumsily realizes. Just the thought of having him - normally so composed and closed-off - completely pulled to pieces like this has you thrilled in ways you haven’t managed to feel before. 

That, paired with the obscene feeling of being perfectly filled by him, has you close enough that even if he’s a bit too overwhelmed to be precise with the movements of his fingers, you’re inching closer and closer to what feels like a monolith on the horizon. Swallowing around a moan threatening to tumble free, you turn it into words, “I’m so close, j-just a little more. You’re so good, so good, so-”

“Please,” his begging is hoarse as he tries to match your movements, tries to match the pleasure you’re giving him with offerings of his own, “let me feel you, please.”

Another inhale from him, like something is just on the tip of his tongue, but it dies as you tilt back a little. The change is what you need, the last bit to complement the succession of feelings in every sense of the word, and Wanderer gets exactly what he begs for as you find your release at his behest. 

Your hands lessen their grip on his shoulders as you abandon pinning him in favor of prolonging what you’ve found, and like the snapping of a leash he abandons any sense of submitting to you in favor of gripping your hips and jerking himself sharply upward into you. The sound of surprise you make is undignified at best, downright lewd at its most basic, and that only seems to spur him on as he takes on a short-lived viciousness stemming from unresolved desperation. 

One hand snatches yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a sloppy kiss to your palm - a sudden intimacy just before he takes your fingers past his lips and onto his tongue. A wrecked sound tears from his throat as his tongue twists between your fingers and his teeth graze at your knuckles before biting down with enough force to almost be painful.

By the time you’re coming down, he’s taken your place - pistoning with long, sharp thrusts that are short-lived. The two of you danced on the edge as it was, and he’s freely able to throw himself off of it with reckless abandon and his back arching in such a beautiful curve. His tongue stills, but you’ve gained enough faculties back to drag the pads of your fingers along his taste buds, dangerously close to the back of his tongue where it would make him gag. 

In that moment, his eyes open enough to look at you as he murmurs around your fingers that he loves you. 

Maybe he does, at that moment when the entirety of existence loses its deeper meaning, perhaps Wanderer does feel something strong enough that it could be confused for love. But as you pull your fingers from his mouth and fall to his side, head over his chest where no heart beats, you wonder how he’d justify it if you brought it up in the morning. 

You won’t - and he won’t either, even though he says it the next time, and the one following, each growing more frantic as if he were desperate for you to return the favor. If you do, it won’t be in the throes of passion - you want to mean it. It’ll be said in the sunlight, maybe even spoken with a nonchalance he doesn’t expect. 

His expression of surprise would be rather pretty, you think.

[donnydamakkk]

it is actually incredibly annoying to look in the jj tag n it take forever to actually fuckin see jj

[crow-quills]

Nightmare's Grace

Misuta (Ghost in the Machine)/Reader

Summary: Nightmares have become a familiarity to you, though that doesn't mean they're any easier to deal with. Misuta finds his own way to distract you from your frayed nerves late one night.

Trigger Warning(s): None

Rating: G, SFW

Word Count: 1,470

Notes: Ghost in the Machine and Misuta both belong to @venomous-qwille. Some may already be familiar with this piece if you're in the discord server.

Ao3 version can be found here.

You'd lost track of the time long ago from when you first checked it after being wrenched from the tangled grasp of a nightmare. The clock's numbers that had once seared itself into your mind when you first checked your phone was nothing more than a bleary remnant chased away by the steady throbbing behind your temples.

You couldn't say for sure just what drove you from your slumber, only having a vague recollection of a nightmare that once dug its icy claws into your mind. A fading memory turning to nothing more than a ghost, faint and wisping out of your grasp like smoke whenever you try to grab it.

Chasing it is a lost cause at this point though it doesn't negate the dread that has lodged itself in your gut like lead - heavy and unsettling.

Hunched over the kitchen table you try to dislodge the lingering, unnerving feeling within your body from something it can't even remember. At the very least the dim lighting of the kitchen doesn't aggravate the pain blooming within your head, though it doesn't soothe it much either. Eyes screwed shut, you raise a hand to card through your hair with a steadying breath, contemplating whether you should call it a night or bid any further rest goodbye and get to work.

"What are you doing up, Hoshiko?" Misuta's soft voice draws you out of your deliberation. The moon themed animatronic lingering within the kitchen doorway with the fur of his hood shadowing his face. Startling magenta eyes staring at you from beneath it, softened with a mix of confusion and concern.

His eyes flick over your form for a minute, hunched at the table and abandoned drink beside you. Biting your cheek for a moment, you break the gaze you shared with the bot as you shift uncomfortably. "Couldn't sleep," a weak excuse even to your ears as you try to ignore the way Misuta's examination sends a prickle down your spine.

The quiet thud of heavy booted feet sound out and grow closer as he steps further into the kitchen to come up behind you. A hand finds the center of your upper back, resting against it in a barely there touch, as if worried you'd startle from anything heavier. Gingerly, after a brief moment you can feel his thumb move, rubbing circles into clothed flesh. He's silent now, but you're well aware he's watching you carefully.

A broad palm presses further into your back a coolness seeps through the fabric of your shirt and serves as a balm on your frayed nerves more than you'd care to admit. "Restlessness or bad dreams?" Concern bleeds into his tone and stands out amongst the softness of his voice as he finally shatters the temporary lull.

Resisting the urge to cringe at how close to the mark he was you simply shrug though the motion isn't enough to dislodge his hand.

"It's nothing to worry about, I'll be fine." You don't want to look back at him, to see whatever expression may have etched itself upon his face. Staring into your forgotten tea, you opt to study the liquid instead as your tongue presses against the back of your teeth. His thumb stutters in its measured movements, telling you enough about what he thinks of your attempt to dance around the subject of whatever ails you.

For a heartbeat of a moment, worry bites at your mind that he'll probe further on the subject. Instead the questioning never comes as he simply slides his hand up to the right to clasp your shoulder. A tender squeeze follows the gesture as he mumbles something that you don't quite catch, but can only assume it's meant to be comforting.

At least, you hope it is.

Not knowing what to do with your hands you grab your abandoned cup, fingers wrapping around it tighter than you intended. Drawing it to your lips you try not to grimace as the liquid graces your tongue, the warmth having fled from it long ago.

"I'm alright, I promise," your own reassurance sounds almost fake, even to you, as the cup is lowered back onto the table with a solid sounding clink.

A noise resonates within the voice box of your companion, one you can't quite place the emotions behind, as his hand suddenly draws away. A phantom trail is left behind as his fingers linger longer than needed when he pulls away. Rolling back your shoulders, you sit up straighter now trying to compose yourself from the half curled position you once were in.

You intend to dismiss yourself, to evade and hide from any further questioning on just what drew you down here in the middle of the night. However, the sight of a familiar hand held out in offering, filling your peripheral vision, catches you off guard and gives you pause.

Misuta's palm held out and upturned in an offer you're unsure the intention of. Glancing up at his face to read his expression, you see only a soft look of encouragement which is enough to spur you into action.

Placing your hand in his - almost dwarfed in his hold - his fingers curl to fully clutch yours with a surprising amount of delicacy behind the action. Gently, he guides you up to stand without a hint of hesitation in his movement as his free hand moves to your hip, grasping it lightly. The closeness of his body combined with the strangely intimate feel of his touch baits a heat to rise to your face and causes your gaze to drop away from him.

"Look at me, Hoshiko," imploring and soft, the hand he once clutched your own with slips free in favor of rising up. A knuckle comes to lightly tap the bottom of your chin in an attempt to draw your attention once more. The draw of him and the action is hard to ignore. Without thinking you find yourself lifting your head to meet magenta eyes softening at the bone deep tiredness you know must show on your face.

Content, his hand moves to cup your cheek as the pad of his thumb swipes beneath your eye. Gentle as it tugs at the skin, mindful of his claws, tracing the darkness underlining it as worry pinches the corners of his mouth. "You're not getting enough rest."

The worry laced within his tone sparks a defensiveness within you that's spitting like an irate cat. Protest bubbles up in your throat, though its quickly smothered as the hand at your face shifts to swipe a stray hair out of the way. Claws gently grazing against your heated skin as he follows the shape of your face to the curve of your ear.

Mapping out a path as cool digits trail down along your neck, faint and light as he grazes over your pulse, skimming over your shoulder and down your arm. Tentatively, his fingers press into your palm as they slide down to interlock your fingers. Palm against palm, he draws your arm up to bend at the elbow - held out to the side.

The hand at your hip moves, sliding along to curl at your back, resting against the small of it in a brace. His hold, sturdy and pulling you tighter against his form, but with enough give to allow you the freedom to slip out of it. "It's just us, you're safe with me," his voice low and warm, the consolation accompanied by a gentle squeeze of your entwined hands.

He takes a moment to scan over you in search of something - what exactly you're not sure of - but he seems to find it quickly. Tucked against him Misuta steps back with you in tow, not seeming to mind the brief stumble you experience with the sudden movement. Jacket sleeves swaying with the motion, he moves slowly as he guides the two of you back a few steps before moving forward again.

A dance, you come to realize as a hum rumbles from his voice box, a slow tune you can't quite place. Slow steps bringing you around into a circle following his voice as he keeps you steady.

It's a distraction, you know it is.

His own attempt at pulling your mind away from whatever troubles you no matter how unknown it is to him, however it's one you'll indulge in for now. Falling into the rhythmic pattern he sets is easy to do with little worry as you tuck your head against his chest. The melodic hum of his voice box echoing against your ear in a mingled noise of the quiet ticks and clicks of the mechanics hidden within his chassis.

An idle thought of comparing it to a lullaby flicks through your head as he takes you into another turn.

[sttoru]

ima tell u this now : if u hate on x reader fics, block me cus by doing that you r doing us both a great favour 🤚🏽 ion need any of ur negativity on my blog because this is a safe space for people who do enjoy x reader fics goodbye

[manicplank]

do I need to be more generous with the block button or am I just being irrational

[pangolinsandnewts]

A zombie, a ghost, and an oni walk into a bar...

(pspspsps you wanna reblog my art you wanna reblog my art so bad)

[platonic-qpr-selfshipping]

summer am I right

[spotsupstuff]

What happened to suns?

NSH: This man has done irrepairable damage to my mental facilities. That's a crime, y'know?! Messin' up an Iterator's noggin cogs??? They are a *filthy* criminal.

serious answer: a sequence of unfortunate events, basically. idk how long you've been here so i'll start from the beginning

Suns is a very early Gen 2 Iterator. the jump between the 1st n the 2nd Generation went physically very smoothly, but when it comes to the more subtle aspects of a person, it went worse. early Gen 2s r known for bein bad with emotions (the other Iterator that is like that that shows up is Fish. he's rather emotionally crass and unwieldy)

Suns scored the worst possible lottery result while spinning the early Gen 2 emotion capability wheel and their emotional skill and ability to produce the stuff in the first place is in the single digits. they are very conscious of this fault of theirs and instead of doing something more productive with it more often, they rather spend their single digit emotion capability on bemoaning and despising this fault

they do come to Nish for help with it, basically have therapy sessions with him (Nish is the most emotion-capable Iterator in like... Ever) and they do put up a front of this cool, chill, amazing guy persona around themselves to get better accepted by the other Iterators (all of them except Gen 3s know that this cool guy thing is a ruse though. they appreciate the effort however). so they kinda awkwardly fake emotions n go on through their life. this persona is who Pebbles ultimately decided to look up to as his mentor btw. it was never really the real Suns, only maybe some glimpses of it

next unfortunate event shows up first mentioned in my old big headcanon post for the canon Iterators:

(Suns is built quite close to the south pole, though the summer months can still get stupid hot)

at some point i started headcanoning that my Suns has very slow processing time. like absolute Shit reflex time. like

this is canon ☝

n then i put these two headcanons Together ✨ so basically: because of the lack of emotional capability, Suns feels a big need to compensate for stuff. even though the Solis colony is one of the sweetest and kindest colonies out there, they felt like they need to give More. so they started running hotter for the sake of their citizens. but yanno, periodic basically overheating is going to cause damage to hardware shit, not to mention the poor fauna that makes up an Iterator Hivemind. and that's how Suns damaged their processing speed

now as to why i say Suns would go offline in the post-mass ascension off string au: they are falling apart at the seams. torturously slow, but terribly. they are rotting alive- but not in the same way as Pebbles, it's not THE Rot. it's just... a rot. natural decay, not godly cancer. their nickname in DMs between me n shkiki is literally mr. Decay cuz of this

because of a combo of their slow processing time, their location (snowstorms + changing temperatures that go into extremes on pretty much both sides of the spectrum) and their pre-occupation with Pebbles related matters, Suns got yo normal booboo and didn't treat it and when they finally directed attention to themselves, a good portion of them has already decayed including the puppet

yes, they are That wigged that they didn't notice one of their most important parts rotting alive while even using it. this whole thing i refer to as hot girl summer arc btw

after Spears' campaign (they notice they have an infection during the slug's journey back to them) Suns is so fucked up over everything that they just go "Fuck it. why try anymore. i won't fight this. at least i feel *something* rather than nothing, i suppose. i deserve this." and allow their condition to only worsen and don't tell people about it

in the time of the Hunter's campaign i can imagine that they'd be so caked in all of this shit, all physically, emotionally and mentally, that they just wouldn't try at all to save themselves

and fact is, the others will try to help them. especially Wind will. but at some point a person needs to recognize that nothing is going to go anywhere if the other party refuses to put in any effort into getting better too and only drags the innocent one down right along with themselves

[hazelelel]

Snape: You insolent fool! I will find what is in your mind... one... way or another *tries to use legilimency*

Char: *puts on reflective shades*

Snape: ...

Char: wow i can't believe that wor-

Snape: *clocks them in the jaw*

[harukapologist]

Milgrammies! The ever dreaded (at least by me and Haruka-fan friends) birthday tl is in less than 48 hours, Haruka's birthday tl. So

Expand on what you predict may happen in the tags if you want, I'd love to hear your thoughts. I put mine in the tags of the original post but in short, I think he'll talk/be talked to by Mikoto :3c

[shiocreator]

Man do i love oc x canoning and accidentally realizing the oc and canon have genuine parallels and building off that to make myself character deep dive more and also go crazy about

Scarlette has so many issues and like . 3 of the characters i ship her with have genuine fucking simularities i never would have thought about until abit later and then dig i do and oh im so not normal oh boy

[chickenparm]

Reduction (Albedo/Reader)

header GRACIOUSLY and SEXILY made by @drawlypsy. the full version is a bit uhhhhh eyesemoji, so it'll be posted on their patreon here.

---

AO3 LINK

MASTER LISTS

Albedo/Reader (no pronouns or body parts mentioned, but kinda f-coded) 7,693 Words - NSFW (m!Masturbation, consensual voyeurism, semi-public sexual acts, cum swallowing, pining)

---

Windblume has always been a bit of an odd time of year for you. 

Sure, there’s a bit less of your typical workload. That is, your usual duties when it comes to the Knights of Favonius are put on hold since you’re more administrative than the sort of knight that goes out on patrols. That’s just your niche, that’s where you’ve fallen in. 

However, there are certain other tasks you’ve silently taken on for yourself that have gone unsaid and unannounced, but are just implicitly known. Namely that for the past two years or so, you’ve served in an unofficial capacity as the liaison between most solicitors and the Chief Alchemist, Albedo. 

It’s not like you sat down and decided all at once that it was going to happen this way. It’s just that over a gradual amount of time you wound up being the best person for the job. It certainly helped that you got along swimmingly with his assistant, Sucrose, and could discuss matters with her rather easily. 

So, unofficial secretary or not, for better or worse you’re the one most people come to when they need to ensure that something will make it directly to Mister Albedo’s hands.

And that’s really just fine with you. Despite only ever seeing each other in passing and having never exchanged words beyond a few scribbled notes back and forth passed via Sucrose and occasionally Timaeus, maybe you’re a little fond of the man just based on what you’ve heard from Sucrose herself when she mentions him. 

Albedo is kind. A genius, honorable, creative, and patient. Sucrose’s words paint a picture of a man that worms his way into your brain and has made a home for himself despite not even knowing what his voice sounds like. 

It’s as you serve in this unofficial position that it becomes apparent that Windblume is an oddity. Because during most days of the year, Albedo has his admirers but they’re happy to do so from afar. Something about the festival of Love and Freedom truly brings out the boldness in those who hold a torch for the Chief Alchemist. 

The point of the matter is that you wander into your office and your desk is piled high with gifts that aren’t meant for you. Each one holds a little note, explaining that this is their Windblume for the Chief Alchemist and they would so appreciate it if you made sure he received it. Jealousy curls in your gut, before it’s swept away immediately. 

You have nothing to be jealous about. Albedo isn’t yours in any capacity - not as an employer, nor a friend, and certainly not a prospect for romance. 

Sucrose arrives not long after, her eyes widening at the sight of the desk. This was a similar situation to last year, though it almost seems to have doubled in magnitude from the prior Windblume. Nervously, she laughs and says, “I don’t suppose these are for you?”

“No, you know exactly who.” Your voice is monotone and deadpan as you finish piling the gifts into a neater stack so you have a bit of space to work. Officially you’re not required to work today, but you just want to get a little more caught up before you enjoy the festivities. With a little sigh through your nose, you turn to look at her with your hip leaning on the desk. The pile wobbles from your movement. “You might need to hire out a cart to get these up the mountain to him. Let me know when your next trip is, and I’ll get that sorted for-”

“A-actually, um, Mister Albedo is in the city currently. Perhaps he could come get them himself?”

That’s a terrible idea. If only because you’d have to be here to let him in your office, meaning you’d have to likely share conversation. And if he’s as polite and kind as Sucrose touts him to be, there’s no way you’re coming out of that interaction with anything less than a big fat crush. 

As you open your mouth to offer the weak excuse that you’ll leave your office key with her so you can tactfully avoid crossing paths with Albedo, Sucrose seems to remember something and reaches into her coat to pull out a neatly folded envelope. Hesitantly, she offers it, as if she can read your mind and understand the inner turmoil you’re currently wrestling. 

“He also asked me to bring this to you. Before you read it, I’ll have you know that I… assisted him in writing this. I really think you shouldn’t turn it down, if only because he’ll be disappointed.”

That’s ominous, and you really don’t like it, but you accept the envelope anyway. Sucrose shifts a bit as you carefully unfold the envelope - it's on nicer paper, with care put into it instead of the usual hastily-folded scrap papers she passes off to you. This has effort.

Thank you for your help… Appreciate your hard work… get to know you better… dinner, my treat… look forward to your answer-

“Sucrose, what is this?”

It’s obvious, at least to the green-haired woman, but she humors you in her patient way with a smile that feels far too mischievous to ever look at home on her face. You don’t like it. “Just between you and me, it took him three days to write this out. He went through nearly an entire sheaf of parchment paper.”

“That doesn’t answer my question…”

“I don’t mind answering anything asked of me, but don’t you think this one is a little obvious?” Sucrose’s smile morphs from mischievous to simply sweet, like the sort you’ve seen her wear when watching the kittens outside the Cat’s Tail. “Mister Albedo wants to take you on a date.”

A date. A date. A date.

It rattles around in your head, threatening to blow up like one of the Klee’s bombs that shake the panes of your office windows a little too frequently. You lean a bit more heavily against your desk, and the pile of gifts topple and lay forgotten on the floor. Sucrose immediately bends down to begin organizing them again, her voice soothing to the point of almost being missed in the rush of blood pounding in your ears.

“It’s not my place to reveal any of his feelings, but I think you should know that this isn't something out of the blue.” Sucrose decides to just pile the gifts on the floor next to your desk, rather than precariously on top. “He’s rather busy, and tends to get lost in his interests to the point of putting off other matters that aren’t directly in front of him.”

And as she looks up at you from over her glasses, there’s an excited, knowing glint in her eye as she explains, “I just might have… kept putting you in front of him. Mentioning you, making sure he reads your notes, even if they’re inconsequential or meant for me. Maybe it was a little underhanded, and I’m sorry if I overstepped. But if I didn’t do something, then the two of you would just orbit around each other without ever-”

Sucrose stops sharply, realizing she’s rambling. Clearing her throat, she stands straight and folds her hands behind her back in a show of common bashfulness from her. “A-anyway, I really think you should accept. You don’t have anything to lose, and if things work out, well… I think I’ve talked about him enough that you know what I hypothesize the outcome would be.”

Of course she’s planned this out like it’s some experiment. Yet, you know just as well that she’s also done this out of a genuine place of caring. Barbatos knows that she’s intuitive to pick up on the way you eagerly listen to her when she talks about him, and she’s known Albedo longer than she’s known you, so surely she would know his feelings on the matter as well, right?

And that begs the question of if there ARE feelings to speak of, or if this is offered out of some misplaced obligation. 

Your eyes travel back down to the letter, trailing over the words he’s written about how he’d like to “get to know you better” and a part that you’d skimmed over in your panic that details how he’s been interested in you for a while.

Tomorrow. The date he’d like to take you on is offered tomorrow evening. That’s just enough time to overthink things and get yourself in a pretty ridiculous jam, and with only a second longer of hesitation you reach for your desk to find some paper to respond to him with. Sucrose smiles wider than you’ve ever seen her.

—

Sucrose never stays longer than she has to on Dragonspine. Really, if it weren’t for the letter she’s holding in her hands, Albedo is certain that he wouldn’t see Sucrose until their designated meetup time in Mondstadt proper tomorrow. 

But there she stands, at the mouth of the cave his lab is situated in. Bundled up from head to toe, only her eyes peeking out between her scarf and her hat, and in her gloved hands is a letter on paper he shouldn’t be so familiar with. 

Except he is, because it exists in abundance in the locked drawer of his desk here. Pages and pages of it, each one marked with handwriting that he has no right to be so fixated on. But he can’t help it - it’s akin to an addiction, one that he logically could and should detach from. 

Hundreds of years have gone by and not a single one of them has been marred by distracting feelings quite like this. At first, he wanted to discard them, but then his interest was piqued in terms of learning its intricacies. It was when he started to ferret away your little notes - every single one - that he realized perhaps he’s made a misstep.

“They answered!” Sucrose says, tugging the scarf down with a smile that’s wide and brilliant. It’s almost as if she’s more excited about the whole situation than he is, but it only serves to nudge his own heart into a slightly quicker tempo. If Sucrose is excited, that must mean she knows the content. And if she’s happy about the contents, then that surely means…

“Thank you, Sucrose. You didn’t have to hurry back straight away. Tomorrow morning when we were meant to meet would have been fine.”

Sucrose opens her mouth to answer, but then shuts it with a flush on her cheeks. Albedo can see the wheels turning in her mind as she realizes he’s right, and a bit sheepishly she stammers, “I-I was just excited to let you know, is all.”

Albedo can’t fault her for that. Sucrose has done him a great service by hurrying back with this letter, and entirely out of the kindness of her heart and a vested interest in the situation that has unfolded thanks to her prodding.

And he knows she’s had a hand in it. Albedo may be unfamiliar with navigating relationships like friendship, and even more woefully inadequate at anything even suggesting romance, but he’s not blind enough to overlook the way she’d mention you often, or the way she’d suggest he personally write a note back to answer a question you pose rather than send Sucrose along with just his verbal answer. 

For all the mysteries in the world, some of them just aren’t a complete shot in the dark. And Sucrose’s good-natured meddling reveals all the secrets he might want to know. She wouldn’t have bothered with any of this if she wasn’t entirely sure that you were harboring some sort of fondness for him.

It’s with this surprisingly comforting thought in mind that he accepts the letter, then pointedly pockets it to read when he’s alone. Investment or not, Albedo is well aware that perhaps his reactions to your letters should be embarrassing. That isn’t something he experiences often - he can’t remember the last time - but he’s extremely uninterested in testing if today would be the day he learns what that feels like. 

Sucrose does her best to not seem put-out. But she knows that he knows what the contents of the letter are, and Albedo humors her by at least averting his eyes to the ground with a smile. She can interpret it as one of gratitude, or she can see it for the happiness it truly is. Neither answer would be wrong, he supposes.

After a short time, Sucrose returns to Mondstadt. Albedo is left blissfully alone, and for good measure he makes sure to wait a sufficient amount of time before striding with purpose across the cave to all but force the lock of his drawer open. 

Inside are the stacks of paper he’s grown fond of. Some of them are worn, as if he picked them up and looked over them often. Setting the letter on the desk, he reaches for one of the most worn pages, where the creases have grown thin from being folded and unfolded, over and over. 

Enclosed is the shipment of Cor Lapis you asked me to source from Liyue. I took the liberty of opening it to ensure all was accounted for. Everything seems to be in order. 

And just after you’ve scribbled your signature, there’s an addendum that he favors with almost reverence. 

Sucrose told me it’s your birthday tomorrow, though I should say today by the time you read this. So… Happy Birthday, Albedo! I hope you have a wonderful year, and that my well-wishes keep you fortunate until I can offer them again on your next birthday.

The addendum is longer than the original note. Perhaps it’s because you lost track of yourself as you wrote, or maybe you considered your wishes of happiness to him to be more important than the report on Cor Lapis that has since been used up. Albedo likes to use his thumb to cover the top of the note, and imagine that you simply sent this without a purpose beyond you thinking of him on the day of his birth. 

For all the kindness and honor that people seem to tack on to him when describing his traits, he wonders how they’d react if they knew how incredibly greedy he was for a speck of your attention.

With a steadying breath, his exhale releasing in a chilly cloud, Albedo places the letter back in the drawer and reaches for the envelope. With a steady, practiced movement, Albedo unseals the hasty wax melted against the flap and is well aware of how ridiculous he must look with the way his breath comes in short little pants.

Albedo, the letter starts, and his throat is already dry. I was surprised to read your letter that Sucrose brought. I’ll admit that this is sudden, but I’m far from displeased or uncomfortable with the offer. In fact, I find myself smiling even as I write this. Is that silly?

No, it isn’t, but only because the corners of his own lips threaten to upturn into a smile as well. 

I’ll admit that I’ve been curious about you. I’ve heard a lot from Sucrose as well as idle chatter that I’m sure you know all about, but I don’t think that paints an accurate picture. I’d like to learn these things for myself, and directly from you, if that’s not too forward.

Albedo pauses, a short huff of amusement leaving him as he closes his eyes. The tips of his fingers press against his forehead as the letter falls to the desk. Forward…? If only you were aware of the things he’s done before, the action he’s about to repeat yet again with this letter clutched in one hand while the other is occupied. 

Shakily, he sits at the chair that’s been pushed into the desk, taking the letter up again in his right hand. Once more, he reads over your opening words, pausing at how you tell him you’re curious about him - how curious, he wonders? Curious enough that you’d overlook the way his hand curls against his thigh, his thumb brushing against the tip of his hardening cock through the fabric?

Or perhaps you were curious enough that you’d participate. The very notion makes his mind screech to an abrupt halt, his thoughts falling stagnant as his eyes drift down and he squints at the space between his parted knees. 

For a moment, he can imagine your hands wrapped around his thighs, just above his boots. Albedo can picture how you’d slide your hands up, up, up to the clasp holding his pants together so you could take his cock in your hand. As his own fingers wrap around his length, he shamelessly imagines that they’re yours instead, and that the latent chill in the air is from you blowing your breath across the precum smeared along his tip. 

With shaking, barely-focused eyes, Albedo continues to read that which he hasn’t gotten to, yet. 

I’ll gladly meet with you tomorrow evening for dinner. It will be the highlight of my Windblume festival. Albedo’s eyes flutter for a moment at the reminder that you’re willingly spending time with him during a festival notorious for its connotations of both friendship and romance. Your next words cause him to tense, his hand curling tighter around himself as he strokes slowly. 

I hope it’s not too forward, or that I’m reading too far into things, but I can’t help but think of this as a date, and I’d like to treat it that way if you’re open to it.

A date. A date. A date. 

Albedo lets out a choked sound as he hunches in on himself, his shoulders rolling forward as if to protect his body from an incoming blow. Instead, the rise of sensations come from the inside, centered on the way his hand increases its pace and he desperately wishes that he knew what you sounded like so he could recreate these words in his head with your cadence and tone. 

And that he could imagine what your moans might sound like as you take him into your mouth and onto your tongue. 

Admittedly, I’m not the best at reading people and their intentions, so I hope that you will be honest with me about what you’d like from me, and I’ll be frank with you in turn. I think that’s fair, don’t you?

Albedo is rather skilled with multitasking. It takes all of that built skill for him to not crumple the paper in his hands as a sharp breath leaves his lungs like a punch. If only you knew what you were asking, if only you knew what he was doing right now. Albedo can’t imagine you’d want to be in the same city as him, much less sitting at the same table. 

Whether you ask for honesty or not, Albedo wouldn’t dare tell you about the depravity that’s conjured in his mind. Not that he’s ashamed, far from it. At its basest level, this is just a normal bodily function that he managed to pick up despite not being quite entirely human. No, what he would be ashamed of, if he could manage that, are the exact thoughts going through his head. 

Thoughts of you kneeling between his thighs, pleasuring him with your mouth until tears prick at your eyes and your breath is stifled in your throat. Images behind his clenched eyelids of you sprawled across some bed in some room where neither of you will be bothered, naked and willing and looking so alluring that it stirs feelings in his gut that he wasn’t sure he was ever created with the purpose of experiencing. 

Perhaps the only shame in any of this is that it’s really all just superfluous and selfish. That there’s no purpose in this. It’s not like he can naturally reproduce, and being swayed by things such as feelings of affection or desires of the carnal sort are little more than a distraction to the purpose laid out for him by his master.

Anyway, I appreciate your invitation. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow - I can’t wait.

Albedo’s teeth grit as he bends enough to press his forehead to the desk harshly. With a sharp hiss between his teeth, the sound in his throat being strangled by his own refusal to let loose completely, his hips jerk into his hand one final time before his hand grows slick with his own release. It promptly cools on his hand as he falls back in the chair and focuses his gaze on the ceiling of the cave. 

With a clearer head and the looming thought of tomorrow on the horizon, Albedo can’t help but realize for the first time that he would get this close - both to you, and his own form of insanity.

—

You really shouldn’t be as nervous as you are. He is the one that approached you, meaning he must already be interested. But writing that letter had felt like displaying your internal organs under a microscope, especially with the little bit of gall to tack the label of “date” onto the whole affair. 

But Sucrose said - promised - that you weren’t misinterpreting anything at all. That Albedo wasn’t asking this of you as an acquaintance or a friend but a… romantic prospect.

The mere thought of it makes your skin warm and your hands shake just a little as you straighten out your clothes before lacing your hands together on the small table in front of you. This was the place he mentioned - a balcony just off Mondstadt’s main square, attached to Good Hunter. It’s a private place, with a cloth-covered table and little flowers laced around the balcony’s railing. A candle sits in the middle of said table, lighting the area enough that it would create a warm atmosphere if you weren’t alone right now. 

Those nerves come and go, and for now they’re here in full force as you fight the urge to pick at your cuticles and bounce your leg to release the built-up energy. Certainly he wouldn’t stand you up. At the very least, he’d somehow get word to you if he couldn’t come, right?

But how do you know that? Because you certainly only know hearsay and conjecture based on the words of others and Sucrose. Maybe he secretly is the sort of man who would stand someone up, and his unfortunate “victims” never say a word because they’re just as embarrassed as you-

“I apologize, I hope you weren’t waiting long.” Albedo sounds almost breathless as he steps through the balcony’s door, shutting it with a quiet click behind him. When he turns to look at you, it’s with a small, apologetic smile. Guilt settles in your stomach for ever thinking ill of him. 

Internally, you grab yourself with both hands and give your brain a good shake to manifest some sort of response to him. “No, I haven’t been here very long at all.”

Albedo’s eyes shift to the candle sitting on the table, and you follow his gaze. It’s the staff’s usual protocol to place a new candle for each patron that sits down, and this one is burnt a quarter of the way through already - nearly an hour since you’ve arrived, it seems. But you’re not about to let him feel bad about it, and gesture with a hand for him to take the seat across from you. 

“Seeing you now makes it feel like I was never even waiting in the first place.” Internally, you absolutely cringe at the cheesiness of it, but Albedo’s expression goes slack for a moment, before he averts his eyes with the faintest blush.

Gingerly taking his seat, he answers, “I’ll endeavor to make any future waits a little more bearable, nonetheless.”

Future waits. As in, more occasions to meet with him in the future. Meaning he might want to continue this. Your heart skips uncomfortably, and you mask it by hiding a smile behind your fingertips.  Despite the attempt, Albedo’s eyes are trained on you with a single-minded focus, as if he were committing the sight of this to memory. 

From anyone else, you’d feel uncomfortable with such rapt attention being given to you. Albedo is an exception, it seems. Rather than anxiety prickling over your skin at what your viewer might see, it’s almost immediately apparent that with Albedo, he’s entranced down to the very way his gently-curved smile seems distracted. 

Sara brings up your meal not long after, saving you from having to think too hard about small talk. It’s the daily special, though you’re far more interested in the man across from you than any sauteed matsutake or bolognese. As the two of you tuck in, you take a moment between bites to venture, “Can I ask you something, Albedo?”

“Of course. I’m an open book - read at your leisure.” Albedo’s answer is nonchalant, showing no signs of the nerves you feel. Perhaps because he’s naturally calmer, or this sort of thing doesn’t bother him. Confidence must come rather easily to him, you think. 

Taking a moment to arrange the words in an order that makes the most sense of your rattling thoughts, you pose your question. “Why did you choose now for us to meet like this, rather than sooner? I suppose I’d just like to know what the turning point was. We’re strangers, but we’re at least tangentially known to one another.”

Albedo hesitates, his fork mid-spin around the noodles on his plate. His face falls vacant for a brief second, as if he were deeply considering what to say. It’s a little concerning; this shouldn’t be something to think so hard about. But far be it from your place to dictate which things he puts importance on. 

He doesn’t keep you waiting much longer. 

“Sucrose speaks of you often, and if I had to make a claim, it would be that the same is true in that she’s brought me up to you many times.” Albedo places the fork down against the edge of his plate, carefully avoiding any sauce getting on the handle. Even off-handed and distracted, he has a deliberate sort of grace to what he does. 

At first, you think he’s going to reach for his glass or water, or to lace his hands together on the table. But instead, he slowly, slowly reaches to where your hand rests on the surface. It’s as if he’s giving you time to deny it, to deny him, and you hold your breath and go still in fear that any single twitch will give him the wrong impression. 

Through his gloves, he’s warm. Albedo seems to inspect your hand for a moment before cradling it oh so gently in his palm, his fingers curled around securely. All of this is done with a stiffness that speaks of lack of practice, as if he’s trying something so simple for the very first time. Thankfully, his words are a little more smooth and even. 

“Relationships aren’t easy for me to navigate. I find it troublesome that they have the potential to deteriorate so quickly without regular upkeep in the form of spending time or effort on one another.” Albedo’s eyes are trained on your hand, on the way his thumb presses into the back of it and makes a slight indent on the skin. “My few friendships are made through necessity or close enough quarters that it’s no extra burden to attempt to cultivate closeness.”

Teal eyes snap up to yours with a sharpness that nearly makes you flinch. A breath leaves you, fingers curling around his hand, and he thankfully doesn’t misinterpret this as you wanting to part. Instead, he finally makes it to the point he was trying to make, and the answer to your original question. “I think of you often, and I realized that perhaps the version of you in my head is inaccurate to who you might truly be. In short, I simply thought it time to attempt to get to know you as a person, and not an abstract concept in my head that I’ve grown fond of.”

A few things stand out to you. 

First, that ultimately the turning point was… nothing? Just a whim, it seems. That’s just fine, considering he’s a busy man with a lot on his plate. Really, your only gripe is that he could’ve said something sooner but… so could you. 

The other is that he thinks of you often. Often. Perhaps it’s overstepping, or pushing a boundary, but your curiosity is too strong for you to hold back the question of, “How much is often?”

A question like that comes with the expectation of some form of embarrassment. For both you and Albedo, except between the two of you, you seem to be the only one that’s flustered in any capacity at this line of interrogation, as light as it might be. Albedo is under no obligation to answer nor even tell the truth, but he draws his lower lip between his teeth to stall for just a moment until he decides that the best answer must be the truthful one. 

“All current dating systems use a three-hundred sixty-five day calendar spread across twelve months, with approximately thirty days in each of those months. With twenty-four hours in a day, and while I don’t require much sleep, it should still be accounted for… I’d give a rough approximate guess of sixteen instances in a given day?”

Your mouth falls open in undisguised surprise, but Albedo is simply staring at the table with his free hand on his chin, as if he truly were puzzling out the answer to this. As your mind tries to comprehend the audacity of such honesty, Albedo drives the point home. 

“I suppose it depends on a given day. I’m reminded of you plenty and it’s not as if I’ve made any attempt to not think of you. Though on a slower day I’d say the frequency is increased, perhaps it could be counted as a single instance stretched over a long period of time rather than smaller segments.”

“Albedo…”

“Even things that hold no connection to you somehow spark thoughts when I’m not engrossed in something else, but when I’m not focused on my research it’s almost as if it’s become my default thought, especially when I’m alone-”

Albedo stops, you stop, the world holds its breath as the very poignant implication is laid out on the table. Weakly, he attempts to remove his hand from yours, but your fingers squeeze his palm enough that he can’t pull away with an attempt so meager. He doesn’t try again. 

Breath leaves your lungs in a little exhale, one that sounds almost like amusement but more close to disbelief, you ask in a quiet voice. “What sorts of things do you think of me?”

“How you smell.” Albedo answers without hesitation, possibly without even a second thought. “What you’re doing at any point in time. How your day has gone. Whether you’re taking care of yourself, or working too hard. The exact color of your hair, what your eyes would look like if you smiled.”

“And… when you’re alone?”

Once more, his breath catches in his chest mid-inhale, and he looks at you without embarrassment or fear. It’s almost suspicion. Like he couldn’t understand why you would pose that question, or why that would even interest you. 

Or… he doesn’t believe that you’d be amenable to what comes next. But, he did say he was an open book, and that implies he’d answer any question. After finishing his breath, he uses that very air to answer, “That’s not something that should be discussed so openly. That’s a sufficient enough answer that you should understand exactly what it is that crosses my mind at those times.”

Oh, you certainly do. Your throat goes dry, your fingertips go numb with how hard you’ve been gripping his hand without realizing it, and you struggle to put your rambling thoughts in an order that makes sense to even yourself. Night has fallen, the only light coming from the half-burned candle on the table, and the breeze makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. 

Amidst everything jumbled in your head, you’re only able to procure one solid image, and that’s a conjured-up scene of this man sitting in a snowed-in cave on Dragonspine, surrounded by alchemical tools and sparse furniture, sitting in a chair just like this one with his head thrown back and his hand around his cock. 

Would he be silent? Or would he carelessly make sounds while knowing that no one is close enough on that mountain to know what he’s doing? And then, a second thought wheedles its way out next to that picture of a ruined Albedo, a silent whisper wondering what he imagines you doing to put himself in this state.

As if on autopilot, your mouth moves before you have any chance to stop it and think about what it is that you’re asking. Dread creeps in as you say, “Show me.”

“...Show you?”

Too late to back down now. It’s all or nothing, though you find yourself not quite as bashful as you might’ve been, considering he technically approached this topic first. Your subconscious mind just took it where you both seemed to want it to go. Albedo’s eyes dart to the right, then to the left, almost as if he’s making sure no one is on the balcony with you. 

Of course, there isn’t, and you realize that he’s not simply doing that. Albedo is checking vantage points, looking for prying eyes, making absolutely sure that there’s not one single soul that could catch a glimpse of the two of you. Then, those pretty eyes lock back on yours, suddenly serious in a way you haven’t seen from him yet. 

“Say it outright, or I won’t believe you.” Albedo grips your hand just as tightly as you do to him. And when you take a little too long to make your voice cooperate, he leans in closer. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

Any number of things cross your mind. Admittedly, you’re not entirely innocent in that you’ve never had thoughts about Albedo in more compromising positions. You’ve definitely thought about him before, in a number of different ways, in a variety of situations. 

None of them have ever been quite like this, and of all the requests you greedily want to make of him, you simply wet your lips with your tongue, just a subtle movement that catches his eyes, and you request the most prevalent thought in your mind. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me, Albedo.”

The breath squeezes from his lungs in a quiet laugh that is tinged with partial amusement, partial awe. Like he hadn’t expected you to hold on to your nerve to ask this of him. But he’d mentioned it, he brought it up, he was the one that planted this thought in your head. So really, it’s up to him to rectify the problem. 

Albedo’s hand slips from yours, moving to his lap to work at the fastenings while his left hand rises to his face. Using his teeth on the middle finger, he tugs the fabric off to reveal his hand - smooth, just as pale as the rest of him. With his index and ring finger, he pinches at his tongue for a moment before reaching over to snuff out the candle, sending the two of you into relative darkness. 

The legs of his chair groan against the wood floor of the balcony as he shifts himself to the right, just enough that you have a view of exactly what he’s doing with that ungloved hand of his. His index finger and thumb wrap around the base of his cock loosely, the remaining fingers cupping the rest of him. A single bead of precum wells at his tip, barely visible in the light of the moon, and it takes everything you’ve got not to bunch the fabric of the tablecloth in your hands on reflex.

At first, you think his lengthy pause is for some sort of anticipation, or delayed gratification. That perhaps he’s teasing you with this, now that he’s got you where he wants you. But then he looks at you through eyes that have suddenly gone dark and half-lidded, with just the faintest hint of desperation wavering just out of initial sight. 

Albedo is waiting for you to say something, to confirm that you’re still comfortable, or to tell him to put himself away and never bother you again. It’s some convoluted way of verifying your want for him, though perhaps done a little too late. Regardless, you most definitely do want him, and your voice feels as if it’s not your own. 

“Show me what I’ve been doing to you.”

It’s nothing like a thread snapping, but more of a gradual unravel as his fingers curl around his length and his upstroke is done with agonizing slowness. His thumb sweeps across the tip, sweeping away that bead of arousal and spreading it with a lazy, practiced movement. Albedo has done this before; you’re certain that it must be numerous with how easily he relaxes into the chair.  

He’s not embarrassed in the slightest. Not about himself, not what he’s doing. If there’s any shame to be had, it had solely been concerned about your feelings on the matter, and your request had all but dissolved those reservations into thin air. Now he’s looking at you unabashedly, first at your eyes, then down your shoulder, across your chest where he lingers for a little too long to be anything but lascivious. 

There’s very little you can do to force yourself to look him in the eye. Not when the movement of his hand is so fluid, and the first little sound leaves the back of his throat before he can strangle it. 

That one slip-up on his part has you so distracted that you nearly miss how he murmurs beneath his breath, shoulders pressing against the back of the chair. “This is it. Here’s what you reduce me to.” Albedo’s voice is barely above a whisper, intimacy lacing his words with the darkness surrounding you. 

He’s barely started, and he already is flushed from the stimulation, his chair creaks as his hips jerk up toward his fist. “You’re all I can think about, this is the first-... the first time I’ve been so enamoured.” A huff of air, that turns into a low, throaty sound. Then, “Do you understand now?”

Mutely, you nod. Your tongue feels as if it’s stuck to the roof of your mouth, your hands stiff from how hard you’ve clenched them into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him. All that’s in your mind is an endless deluge of desire and hunger and greed toward what’s being displayed so wantonly before you. 

At the sight of your acceptance, of your stunned and hungry silence, Albedo is spurred on to squeeze harder, to go faster. Even as his head rolls back, just like that image your mind conjured not so long ago, his eyes remain on yours as if that’s what’s doing this to him more than any action he could picture in his mind. 

You want to do something. Passively observing is far from satisfying for either of you. Maybe it’s a little too bold, or too fast, but Albedo doesn’t make a single move to stop you when you slide from the chair to your knees, then across the smooth wood floor until you’re right between his parted knees. 

The dryness in your mouth is gone, replaced with pooled saliva at the thought of how easy it was to come over here and take what you want. Albedo is offering it so freely, willing enough to do what you want that he’d openly touch himself in front of you like this. 

Low, nearly inaudible, you ask, “Have you imagined me like this?”

“Countless times.” Albedo’s voice is sharp as it grinds through his clenched teeth. “And in… as many other ways as you can think of.” 

“Do you want me to-”

“No.” He says sharply, his free hand finding a place at the top of your head, as if he expected you to go against that demand and do whatever you pleased with him. Surely he wouldn’t mind too much, but his next words hammer home his intentions. “Next time. You asked me to show you. So, just observe.”

Inches away from him, you can see the little details of every stroke, the prominent vein growing more stark as he gets closer, the little ways he shifts his fingers to catch on the edge of his tip where he likes it the most. More than anything, you want to cross the small gap and drag your tongue along him, if only to verify that the way he tastes correlates to how pretty he is when his mouth opens again to ask, “Open your mouth for me?”

Not even a first thought crosses your mind, much less a second as you open your lips and push your tongue past your teeth, just in time for the first rope of his release to land squarely on your tastebuds. As much as you want to close your eyes and relish it, you stubbornly look him in the eye and memorize the way his subtlety is preserved down to the very way he simply bites his lip and furrows his brow as he comes undone with such little effort. 

Albedo’s hand trails from the top of your head, down your cheek, then to your chin to encourage you to keep your mouth open for a moment longer. As if he were imprinting this moment to his memories, he openly marvels before he lets your chin go in a silent command for you to do as you wish with what he’s given you. 

A simple swallow clears things up easily, and if it wasn’t what he wanted, he doesn’t quite show it with how his exhausted expression turns pleased and stays that way. 

Sweeping your thumb across your lower lip, you remove any excess before shuffling back and away from him. Silence lingers for a moment, almost awkward with how heavy it feels, before Albedo haphazardly puts himself away and kneels in front of you. Without warning, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

It strikes you that you’ve done things a little out of order, but that doesn’t stop you from nodding just enough that he can see it in the darkness of the balcony. His gloved hand curls around the back of your head before he pulls you into him, a bit clumsy in the dark but he finds a rhythm that works for both of you soon enough. 

You don’t particularly have many prior experiences to go off of, but if what he says is true, he’s as unpracticed as you. But it’s almost intrinsic the way he shifts a little to the left, lets you take a moment to breathe, matches your pace when you go faster or back off. If you were a little more sentimental, you’d nearly think the two of you were made for one another - but it’s too soon to be making any claims like that. 

For now, you just accept this push and pull for a moment before he finally lets you gently push him back and away from your embrace. Short of breath, your voice is thin as you murmur his name in a question. That one word could hold any number of subtexts about what exactly you’re unsure about, and it’s serendipitous that he somehow picks the exact one you meant. 

“I want to explore more of this.” And almost as if he realizes he’s getting a little ahead of himself, he adds, “If you’ll have me.”

If you’ll have him. Such a ridiculous thought, considering you’re kneeling on the floor of some balcony in Mondstadt with the taste of him on your lips in more ways than one and his hand still cupping the back of your neck like you’re something fragile and worthy of being coveted. 

It’s not dark enough that he doesn’t see the way you nod in response. Something akin to relief passes over him, palpable enough that even you feel its effects. “That’s… that’s great to hear. To be honest, I hadn’t thought of the outcome if you’d said no.”

“You… didn’t think any of this through?” Bemusement laces through your words, and for the first time you actually see some semblance of real embarrassment in his expression. 

“No, but I admit that this wasn’t exactly how I expected this to go.” His hand on the back of your neck squeezes, almost as if he’s trying to reassure you rather than himself. “Should we get you home? It’s getting late.”

Without the candle, you’re not sure how much time has passed. But the bustle of the city below has dulled, and the moon sits a little higher than you remember it being the last time you looked. At first, you want to say that you’ll be fine getting home on your own, that you don’t want him to be wandering the streets so late himself, but then the most secretive part of you whispers again of the possibilities. 

It’s late, it’s dark, it’s getting a little cold out. Surely Albedo wouldn’t be averse to walking you home and coming inside for a while? And if you lose track of time and he needs to stay for the rest of the night, well… Will he really complain, when this is so obviously playing right into his hands? 

When you nod, accepting his help to your feet, there’s a knowing look in his eye stating quite clearly that perhaps you share the same motives concerning his offer.

[wholemleko]

because i'm projecting onto him so much i've figured i'm headcanoning that simon is a half slav half southeast asian trans guy

[killa-trav]

things i did today:

woke up screamed about tayvis in my room whilst still half asleep

met w my diss supervisor had a lil therapy session w her and talked ab my diss

went to the library worked on my diss

took a break went on bird app saw more tayvis pics n internally screamed bc i'm in the library

finished two chapters of my diss and the conclusion

[charliespringverse]

rewatching house led to me infodumping at my mother about ao3 and gen z purity culture and honestly . if she didn't want these things to happen to her she shouldn't have had children with a man so incredibly neurodivergent

[rashi-en]

hello! just wanted to stop by and ask how that omo week is treating you. the individual days seem doable but all 7 in a row seems like a real enduranc

It's honestly been mostly inconvenient, haha. Drawing out everything for the comic I wanna do takes a while, and I've been mostly regressing back into old dehydration methods, drinking not even half what I did on Monday (since Tues had personal stuff as stated, and I just had to send my car in for work today meaning I had exactly 1 public bathroom chance at 3 pm n can't go anywhere else for the rest of the day). As a result my bladder has kinda just been perpetually at a slightly achey 4 or 5, noticeable but manageable. Also I know things are just going to get worse so I've been takin it a bit easy (Thurs n Fri are gonna be a challenge lmao). On the plus side I've already learned more about my limits n abilities, just little things I probably wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't on a 24/7 challenge like this, and I might look into those a bit more :3

I will say that even though I've cut the occasional corner, I'm still going strong, and I'll be posting Monday's comic a bit later I think! It's been the most interesting day so far, hehe!