premise. you’re good at pretending you’re fine. he’s even better at seeing through you. when pressure and burnout start catching up to you, the way each genshin boy steps in makes it clear you matter more than you realize.

features. xiao, kaeya, wanderer, neuvillette, kazuha, itto, aether, tighnari, thoma, diluc, childe, zhongli

xiao

1. He recognizes the signs because he’s lived them before. 

The shadows under your eyes, the way your breath shortens even when you’re still, the isolation you wrap around yourself in like armor—it’s all familiar to him. He’s seen it in his own reflection, long before he ever learned to name it. Only, your burden isn’t karmic debt, and that makes it worse in his eyes; you’re choosing to endure this, believing it’s the only way. He knows exactly where that belief leads.

2. At first, he keeps his distance.

You stay up through the night, candle flickering low, papers scattered across your table. He watches from the rooftop, arms crossed, silent as the stars above him. He tells himself it’s not his place, that mortals have their own ways of enduring—their own choices, their own suffering—but every time you skip a meal, every time you pull another sleepless night, that thread inside him coils tighter. It reminds him of a past he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

He gives in sooner than he expects.

3. He confronts you not with anger but with a plea.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

You wave it off. “It’s just a busy week.” 

His eyes narrow, frustration and something more fragile pooling behind them. “That’s what I told myself,” he says quietly. “And it didn’t save me.”

It’s then you understand: his worry isn’t about weakness. He’s worried because you’re repeating a pattern he barely survived.

4. He begins to linger, seen or unseen but always close.

Sometimes he leaves food. Sometimes his hand stops yours when you reach for your books after dark. 

If you protest, he shakes his head. “Even the strongest thread will fray. Even the strongest soul has limits.”

He says it less like a warning and more like a memory from someone who has broken before.

5. He finally tells you why.

One evening, after finding you asleep at your desk again, he confesses. “I bore my suffering in silence. I thought that made me strong. But it only made me disappear.”

He kneels beside you, not as the Conqueror of Demons, no mask—just Xiao. 

“You’re not meant to carry pain like this. Alone. Or at all.”

6. He doesn’t want to “fix” you. He just refuses to leave you alone in it.

Xiao knows better than to force healing. He doesn’t ask you to quit or abandon your goals. He just brings you water when your throat goes dry. He moves your hand away from the ink when sleep pulls you under.

And sometimes, when you finally take a break, he simply sits beside you in silence, offering his presence like a shield. Not to fight for you, but to fight with you. Sharing the weight so it doesn’t crush you.

7. When you ask why he’s so gentle, his answer is simple.

“Because I know what it feels like to believe suffering is your purpose.” He looks at you with ancient golden eyes, quiet and unflinching. “And I know how it feels to wish someone had stopped you.”

kaeya

1. He catches on fast, but he doesn’t let you know at first.

Keep reading

premise. fate doesn’t always strike like lightning; sometimes, it brushes your fingers against someone else’s. when you and a certain someone meet by reaching for the same thing at the same time, you both realize you might’ve found something you didn’t know you were looking for.

features. itto, diluc, tighnari, childe, ayato, alhaitham, neuvillette, bonus heizou

part 1. read here [cyno, kaeya, albedo, kazuha, heizou, wanderer, xiao]

itto

The prize is ridiculous—nearly the size of a small child and shaped like a giant, sparkly Onikabuto with a smug little face. You spot it at a summer festival in Inazuma City, sitting on the highest shelf of a street vendor’s prize rack. It’s the sort of thing no reasonable person actually needs…which means you want it instantly.

You step up to the counter and reach for it just as a much larger hand—warm, calloused, and tanned from the sun—knocks against yours.

“Whoa-ho-ho. Hey there, festival rookie,” a voice says, full of cocky amusement. “That there’s my Onikabro. Been keepin’ my eye on him all evening, bonding from afar. You can’t just swoop in and steal a man’s destiny like that.”

You turn your head and find yourself looking up—way up—into the grinning face of a horned man with wild white hair and an energy that practically vibrates in the air.

“Your destiny is a plush beetle?” you ask dryly.

He gasps like you’ve insulted his entire bloodline. “Not just a plush beetle! That’s the Shiny Supreme Super Onikabro. And he’s been calling to me—‘Itto, my dude, win me, take me home, we’ll eat sweet sakura mochi together.’ You know, stuff like that.”

You raise a brow in challenge. “Funny, he’s been whispering the same thing to me. How about we see who actually wins him?”

His grin widens. “Ooh, I like you. You’ve got guts. Alright, lil’ challenger, we’ll make it a ring toss showdown. First to five rings takes Onikabro home. Loser…” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a playful drawl. “…has to buy the winner dango milk.”

The match draws a small crowd, mostly thanks to his running commentary about how you’re “surprisingly scrappy” and “not bad for a newbie,” which makes you throw even harder just to make him eat his words.

When you land your fifth ring before he can get his fourth, he goes completely still. “No way… No. Way.”

You take the beetle from the vendor and hug it to your chest. “Looks like you’re buying the dango milk.”

He recovers quickly, flashing a grin. “Alright, alright, you win this time, lil’ beetle champ. But next festival? I’m winning you—uh, I mean, winning against you. Yeah.”

You smirk and walk away with your prize, feeling his eyes on your back. Something tells you this won’t be the last time you cross paths…or the last time he tries to rope you into another “totally fair” competition.

diluc

You had never been to Angel’s Share before. The tavern’s glow was always something you passed by from the street—too loud, too crowded, too full of people who seem to belong. But today had been unbearable, and against your better judgment, you push open the door and step inside.

The noise of conversation presses in, the air thick with alcohol and laughter. You slump onto a stool at the bar, keeping your head low, and order the first drink that comes to mind. The glass sits mostly untouched in front of you as you stare down into it, hoping the warmth of the tavern will dull the day. It doesn’t. Instead, your vision blurs, and you realize with horror that tears threaten to spill over. You try to blink them away, pressing your lips tight. You are a stranger here. No one will care, but no one should see.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a plain wooden box of tissues sitting at the far edge of the counter, the kind kept there for careless wine spills. You reach for it quickly, desperate to hide the crack in your composure. At the same moment, a gloved hand slides it toward you.

You freeze, your fingers brushing the edge of the box just as his do, warm fabric against your skin for the briefest instant.

The bartender clears his throat quietly and lets go first. “Here,” he says, low-voiced, as if speaking too loudly might draw more attention than you want.

You mutter a thank you, pressing a tissue to your eyes. The silence that follows isn’t the oppressive kind anymore but something gentler. Still, it unsettles you how steady his gaze feels even when you refuse to meet it.

“Rough day?” he asks finally.

You give a watery laugh. “Something like that.”

He nods once, as if that answer is enough. Then, in his hesitant way, he reaches behind the counter. A moment later, a small plate of pastries appears in front of you. “On the house. It…helps sometimes.”

You look up, startled. There is no trace of teasing in his expression, only a quiet sincerity that somehow makes your throat ache more than before. And for the first time all day, you feel a little less alone.

tighnari

It’s the last packet of flowering true indigo seeds in the Grand Bazaar’s apothecary stall, destined to unfurl into delicate, spindly stems crowned with clusters of dusky pink blossoms that thrive in dappled forest shade and enrich the soil. You’ve been hunting for them for weeks. Your fingers brush the paper just as another hand reaches in.

“Ah, pardon me,” a man says, voice even but polite. “I’ve been looking for these for a specific restoration plot in Avidya Forest.”

You look up and immediately recognize his uniform, the Forest Watcher insignia at his shoulder, the green scent of rain-damp foliage that clings to him. “You’re a Forest Watcher.”

His ears twitch, and he inclines his head. “Tighnari. And yes.”

You hesitate only a second before sliding your hand back. “Then you should have them. You’re out there taking care of the forest every day, making sure it even has plants like these. I can wait.”

His hazel eyes soften in clear surprise. “That’s…rare. Most people would argue their case. Especially if they’ve been looking as long as you have, judging from the way you lit up when you saw them.”

You laugh faintly. “I just figure you’ll make better use of them. I care about nature, but you’re actually protecting it.”

He takes the packet, then sets it back on the stall counter. “Then I’ll propose something better. There’s a small grove near Gandharva Ville where these seeds will do the most good, but I can spare a section for cultivation training. If you want to help plant them, you’ll get more than you would from a garden plot here in the city.”

Your eyebrows rise. “You’d let me help?”

“Only if you listen to instructions,” he says, but the edge of his mouth tilts upward. “And if you can handle the trek. It’s humid, there are fungi everywhere, and I might quiz you on leaf identification along the way.”

You smile. “Sounds fair.”

He pays for the seeds, tucking them into a pouch at his waist. “Meet me at the eastern bridge to Gandharva Ville tomorrow morning. We’ll see if you still think so then.”

You walk away feeling oddly light, already wondering what other rare plants might grow in that grove and what it might be like to see the forest through his eyes.

childe

You’re killing time in a small tea house on the quieter side of Liyue Harbor, savoring a cup of jasmine tea and watching the harbor cranes swing against the setting sun. At the next table, a man in civilian clothes lounges with an easy posture, idly tapping his fingers against his porcelain cup. His reddish hair catches the light, and though he is dressed simply, there is a strange sharpness to the way his gaze tracks people coming and going.

You don’t have long to wonder about him before the front doors bang open. Four Treasure Hoarders storm in, weapons drawn. 

“Empty your tills and hand over the lockbox,” one snarls at the shop owner. “Now.”

The room tenses. You scan the room for something—anything—you can use to defend yourself and maybe help the poor owner. Your eyes fall on a sturdy wooden serving tray leaning against the counter.

You lunge for it at the exact same moment the redhead does. Your fingers collide, the wood trapped between you. He looks at you with a flash of surprise that quickly melts into a crooked grin.

“Oh? Didn’t think anyone else here was about to join the fun.” Before you can answer, he pushes the tray into your hands. “You take this. I’m better up close.”

The Hoarders are already moving. You swing the tray at the nearest one, smacking his weapon clean from his grip. The redhead—who clearly hadn’t been bluffing—is suddenly a blur of motion, driving an elbow into another’s stomach and sweeping his legs out from under him. One lunges at you from the side, but the redhead intercepts, twisting the attacker’s arm until he drops his blade. The last one tries to make a break for it, but a well-aimed kick from your newfound battle companion sends him sprawling.

When the dust settles, the four groan on the floor. The tea house owner peeks out from behind the counter, wide-eyed. The redhead saunters up to you, brushing a fleck of dust off his sleeve. 

“You fight well. Not bad for a first-time tag team.” His tone is light, but there’s appraisal in his eyes.

You smile faintly. “Thanks for the assist. Though I’m starting to think you didn’t actually need me.”

He chuckles. “Maybe. But it was more fun this way.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small calling card, sliding it across the table to you. The name reads simply: Tartaglia.

“Next time you see trouble,” he says with a wink, “save me a seat at your table.”

ayato

The garden lanterns glow warm against the evening, casting shifting shadows over the polished stones of the Inazuman noble’s estate. Guests stand in neat clusters, voices low and careful. Every laugh is measured, every smile calculated. You aren’t here for the wine or the polite conversation; you are here to listen. Rumors say negotiations between several noble houses have soured, and something is about to give.

The sharp chime of porcelain breaking cuts through the air. Several guests turn in time to see the host’s wife gasp, one hand rising to her elaborate coiffure. A delicate hairpin—a slim, antique piece inlaid with mother-of-pearl cranes—has tumbled loose, glinting as it spins across the stone. You step forward instinctively, only to realize someone else has moved at the exact same moment. Your hands reach the hairpin together. His touch is cool and precise, withdrawing just enough to let you grasp it first.

But the instant your fingers close around it, you feel something wrong: a sliver of metal beneath the decorative head, sharper than it should be. It is a narrow blade, spring-loaded into place, with the faintest trace of an oily sheen along its edge. Not a hairpin—a weapon.

Your eyes flick to the man beside you. His expression is unreadable, but the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests amusement, or perhaps warning. Without a word, he extends his hand. You hesitate before placing the hairpin into his palm. His fingers close over it smoothly, concealing the dangerous edge from view.

“I’ll see it returned to the lady,” he says in a voice pitched but carrying the weight of one accustomed to obedience. Then, with a polite bow, he slips back toward the host’s wife.

You expect him to hand it over immediately. Instead, you notice, just barely, that he palms the hairpin into the wide sleeve of his kimono before producing a different, harmless ornament from somewhere else and presenting that to her instead. Her relieved smile suggests she has no idea.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze of cautious conversation, but when you glance toward him again, he is gone. It isn’t until you are leaving that you find him waiting at the outer gate, hands folded loosely behind his back.

“I suspect,” he says lightly, “that someone as observant as you won’t be able to resist wondering why the host’s wife was wearing an assassin’s blade in her hair.”

You open your mouth, but he steps closer, lowering his voice until only you can hear. 

“If you’d like an answer,” he says, “come to the Kamisato estate tomorrow at noon. If not…” He steps back, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Then I’ll assume our paths will simply cross again…in less favorable circumstances.”

And with that, he turns and vanishes into the night, leaving you with a choice and the unsettling certainty that you’ve already made it.

alhaitham

You slip quietly through the towering shelves of the House of Daena, hand trailing a row of paper spines with a purpose not entirely scholarly; today, you weren’t hunting knowledge but a book thick enough to press a handful of blossoms you’d collected earlier on your morning walk. Nothing fancy—just a practical volume you could carry back to your desk without attracting attention. At last, you spot it. A slender, unassuming book, tucked neatly among tomes of far heavier consequence. Your fingers graze the spine just as another hand closes over it from the other side. You glance sideways. 

Tall. Sharp eyes. Slate-green hair catching the light from the library’s stained-glass windows. His Akademiya uniform is immaculate, and something about his composed presence makes him stand out even here. 

For one fleeting moment, your brain rehearses the polite, academic response: Oh, you can have it. You hadn’t needed this book specifically, after all. But then the stranger tilts his head, assessing you with the faintly dismissive air of a scribe cataloguing a particularly unremarkable footnote, and states, “I’ll be needing that.”

Any civilized instinct you had vanishes. You tighten your grip on the spine. “I got here first.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, almost imperceptible. The silence stretches, charged, his eyes locking with yours in a quiet battle of wills until, at last, you relent with a huff. 

“Fine, take it. See if I care.”

He slips the book free with disarming ease. “Wise choice,” he murmurs, not smug so much as matter-of-fact.

You’d just managed to convince yourself to brush it off and search for another suitable book when his gaze snags on the flowers peeking from your satchel. One blossom slips loose, tumbling soundlessly to the floor. His brow creases. 

“Botanical specimens. You intended to compare them against the taxonomy in this volume?”

You stoop quickly, plucking the flower back into your palm. “Not exactly.” Then, because honesty had always been your downfall: “I was going to press them with it.”

The effect of your admission is immediate. His composure cracks for a single, glorious second, eyes widening, mouth parting as though you had announced an intent to burn the Akademiya’s archives for kindling. Shock, disbelief, and something that might even be personal offense wage battle across his face.

“You…were going to use an Akademiya manuscript as a botanical press?” His voice, usually so steady, pitches upward. “Do you even realize—”  He cuts himself off, drawing in a slow breath as though the act of restraint costs him dearly.

The corner of your mouth twitches. “What? It’s heavy. Flat. Reliable.”

He blinks at you like he’s visibly recalibrating his entire worldview. For someone so famously composed, the disbelief written across his features is nothing short of priceless, and for reasons he probably doesn’t care to examine, he’s just a little intrigued.

neuvillette

It rains the way only Fontaine can: fine mist one moment, sudden downpour the next, the whole city glistening as if it has been dipped in glass. You are not sure why the weather turns so suddenly; the sky was clear just an hour ago.

You duck into a small, book-lined shop, shaking water from your coat. The place smells faintly of ink and salt air, and at the very back, tucked high on a shelf, is exactly what you are looking for: a rare, illustrated compilation of Fontaine’s aquatic folklore. You reach up just as another hand—graceful, long-fingered, and gloved—extends from beside you. Your eyes follow the sleeve of his dark coat up to a tall man with silver hair that catches the lamplight like rainwater. His gaze lowers to you, unreadable but courteous.

“Ah,” he says softly, as if the word is an exhale. “It seems we have similar tastes.”

“Looks like it,” you reply, fingers still touching the book’s spine. “First come, first served?”

His lips curve in the faintest ghost of a smile. “Ordinarily, perhaps. But this particular volume is not for casual reading.”

You tilt your head. “You think I’m a casual reader?”

“Only that most people,” he says with deliberate slowness, “don’t seek out myths of the sea unless they’re…invested.” His eyes flick toward the rain-smeared window. “Or, unless they understand the weight of what’s in them.”

Without thinking, you remark, “Sometimes the rain feels like it’s crying for you.” It isn’t something you mean to speak aloud—just a passing thought you’ve had on days like this, when the downpour seemed almost sentient.

His gaze widens, the faintest ripple of surprise breaking through his composure.

You let go of the book, curiosity outweighing your claim. “Did I get it wrong?”

“…No,” he says at last, his voice quieter now. “It’s not often I hear someone phrase it that way.”

When you step back, he takes the volume, but after a moment’s thought, opens it to a page adorned with a watercolor of a great dragon weeping over an endless ocean.

“This one,” he says quietly, as if speaking of something personal, “tells of a guardian who watched over the waters for centuries, unseen and unthanked. The people forgot his name. They say when he mourned, the skies mourned with him, and the rain fell until his sorrow eased.”

A soft, almost imperceptible note of sadness lingers in his voice. Outside, the rain continues, steady and unrelenting.

He glances at you. “If you’re willing to walk with me to the Court when the weather calms, we can read the rest together. I believe the discussion will be enlightening.”

Something tells you this won’t be a quick exchange of trivia over tea. It will be the kind of conversation that stays with you, the kind that might explain, one day, why the rain sometimes feels like it is falling for someone.

heizou (bonus version)

The busy chatter of Ritou’s morning market fades beneath the thud of something hitting the cobblestones. A cream paper envelope sealed in red wax skids to a halt between your boots. You bend at the same time as a stranger on your right, nearly knocking foreheads. He catches himself with a grin, quick as a fox.

“After you,” he says, though his gaze is already dissecting the envelope.

You pick it up, turning it in your hands. Thick paper, expensive; no address, no name, just an embossed Windwheel emblem in one corner.

“Not Inazuman,” you murmur.

“Foreign import,” he agrees instantly. “Probably Mondstadt. But see the faint smudge of salt on the wax? It’s been carried by sea recently.”

You nod. “And the faint citrus scent means it spent some time in a crate with fruit, probably to mask whatever else was in the shipment. Which suggests…”

“The sender wanted it to pass customs without inspection,” he finishes, his brows rising slightly.

The merchant who had dropped it is now halfway down the pier, walking with a subtle limp.

“Right shoe sole is worn more than the left,” you note aloud, “and the knees of his trousers are dusty. Either he kneels a lot, or—”

“—he’s been prying open crates,” your new associate supplies. “The ink on his fingers wasn’t from bookkeeping, then.”

You hand him the envelope, but instead of pocketing it, he tilts his head at you. “You’re good at this.”

“And you’re wasting time,” you return, already stepping toward the pier.

His grin widens as he follows. “What’s your name, partner?”

You don’t answer—partly because you aren’t sure why you’re getting involved, and partly because you enjoy the spark of curiosity that flickers in his eyes when you keep him guessing.

premise. You are a spy from Mondstadt sent to tail Childe undercover in Liyue…except he immediately figures it out and decides to mess with you. Cue: fake diary entries, suspiciously loud “top secret” conversations, and every ridiculous tactic he can think of to throw you off—and maybe win you over.

word count. 1.6k

You were blending in perfectly. Your posture was casual, garments slightly frayed from continual wear as you appraised the produce at the market stall. You selected an apple and held it up to inspect it. You were, in your entire essence, completely discreet amidst the other shoppers in Liyue Harbor. 

Then Tartaglia looked up from across the street, caught your eyes, and winked. You dropped the apple. It rolled into a storm drain. Your career might have gone with it.

There are three overarching rules in covert surveillance, as drilled into you by Mondstadt’s Intelligence Division: stay quiet, stay unnoticed, and never—never—let your target know you exist. Unfortunately, no one warned you that your assignment, Tartaglia, eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers, would not only catch you in the act within three hours but also decide to turn the entire mission into a personal game. You should have aborted the operation the moment he winked at you. Instead, you doubled down, which was exactly what he wanted.

The next day, you were seated at a quiet teahouse in Liyue Harbor, inconspicuously sipping chrysanthemum tea and pretending to read a merchant bulletin. The door slammed open, and in walked Childe with all the subtlety of a treasure hoarder raid.

“Can I get your most incriminating-looking tea?” he announced to the baffled waitress. “Something dark, ominous. Preferably with secrets.”

You nearly spat out your drink.

He took the seat directly across from you and offered you no words but a slow, obnoxious sip and a smile that said, I know. Then, he got up and left, leaving a single sugar cube behind like some kind of post-espionage calling card. 

By day three, he began carrying around a leather-bound journal with TOP SECRET scribbled across the front in red ink. Every hour or so, he’d stop in full view of you, pull it out with theatrical flair, scribble something furiously, and then glance around to make sure no one was watching him. Except you. Always you.

Once, you caught a glimpse of a page:

April 3: Spy is cute. Must stay vigilant. May try to poison me with feelings.

You considered reporting that part to headquarters but figured it would only get you reassigned out of embarrassment.

And then, just when you thought he might grow bored, he escalated.

First came the fake intel. You found the torn-up note behind the blacksmith, where he knew you always checked for drops:

THE TRUTH LIES BENEATH Table 3 at Wanmin Restaurant. Noon. Come alone.

You came and were met with Xiangling and a tofu sampler.

“Childe said you’d be hungry,” she said, smiling brightly, “for…answers?”

The following day, you tailed him toward a secluded alley until he stopped dead, looked around dramatically, and whispered something into the ear of a bewildered street vendor. You watched from the roof as Childe handed the man a slip of paper and said—loudly—“Tell her the flower blooms at midnight. And not a second later!”

The vendor just blinked. “Who?”

Childe placed a dramatic hand on his shoulder. “You’ll know when you see her. She’s always pretending not to watch.”

You had to physically restrain yourself from hurling a rock.

The final blow came via an anonymous tip sent directly to Mondstadt Intelligence suggesting that you might be a double agent—compromised, the tip claimed, by prolonged exposure to “Harbinger-class charm.”

You were summoned to the Liyue liaison’s office for a lie detector interview. Lisa from the Knights happened to be in town to conduct it. She greeted you with a sunny smile and a teacup that smelled faintly of smug satisfaction.

“Emotionally compromised by a Harbinger,” she said, flipping through your file. “Dramatic. I like it.”

“I’m not emotionally compromised.”

Lisa raised a brow. “Mm-hm. Tell me, have you ever described your target using…subjective adjectives?”

“What does that mean?”

She sipped her tea. “Would you, for example, say he’s—oh, I don’t know—‘annoyingly handsome’?”

You froze. “No.”

The magical flower on her desk withered instantly.

Lisa glanced at it then back at you with a slow grin. “The flower thinks otherwise.”

You groaned. “It’s lying.”

“It’s an enchanted lie detector. It can’t lie.”

“I’m being framed.”

She chuckled, setting her cup down. “Relax. You’re not the first field agent to get rattled. But if it helps, I’ve read your surveillance notes. Granted, they’re a little lovestruck and doodle-adjacent, but I’ll give you this—you’re meticulous. Dutiful, even.”

“They’re maps.”

“One had a tiny sketch of his dumb shoulder pauldron.”

“It was part of his silhouette!”

Lisa leaned back, looking far too amused. “Sure it was.”

You exhaled, rubbing your face. “So what now? You report me?”

Lisa leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. “Technically, I should file a formal warning.”

You tensed.

“But between us? I’ve read his file. If you’ve kept up with him for this long without quitting or stabbing him in a back alley, you deserve a medal.”

She slid your folder back across the table, winked, and said, “Consider this a friendly caution. And maybe keep your maps less…artistic.”

That night, you found a note in your coat pocket:

I forgive you for the surveillance, so come to dinner. I’ll cook. Try not to die.

You weren’t supposed to accept, of course. It was part of the rules of covert surveillance: no fraternizing with the target, no direct contact, and absolutely no candlelit meals. But exhaustion won, and maybe curiosity. And maybe—you hated to admit—a very foolish kind of hope.

His apartment was warm, clean, and filled with little things that didn’t match the Harbinger reputation, like a chipped tea set and a tiny cactus named Boris, who was wearing a red scarf.

“I figured you deserved a hot meal,” Tartaglia said. “Since you’re constantly hiding behind barrels.”

You nearly dropped your fork.

“I mean, really,” he continued, “there’s one by the blacksmith that’s not even big enough to crouch behind. You think I don’t see you?”

You remained silent for another moment.

“Want me to leave?” you finally asked, unsure if this was a trap.

He smiled, setting the soup down. “Want you to stay.”

He promptly tried to do a twirl-and-serve maneuver with the ladle, flung it directly into the wall, and deadpanned, “Tactical ladle misfire. We recover.”

And for one night, it felt simple, honest, and easy. Which made everything all the more difficult.

By the following week, he was back to nonsense.

“Now entering a suspicious-looking alleyway,” he narrated as you tailed him. “Possibly to meet a contact. Or to buy discounted street bao. Hard to say.”

You trailed him into a small bookstore only to find a single volume sitting face-up on the counter: How to Woo Your Spy: A Tactical Romance Guide. It was underlined in red. With tabs.

You stared.

The clerk gave you a thumbs-up.

From behind a display, Childe called, “Chapter 7 has tips on ‘shared danger as a bonding activity.’ Thoughts?”

At that point, you realized you weren’t just compromised. You were being courted. In his own absurd, roundabout, passive-aggressive way, Tartaglia had flipped your mission on its head. He wasn’t evading your watch. He was dancing directly into your line of sight and daring you to look away. You weren’t a spy anymore. You were a joke whose target was now in complete control of your mission. Worse, you liked him. 

You started packing—not for a strategic withdrawal but for resignation. You burned your notes, checked the ferry schedules to Mondstadt, and even drafted a letter to your old alchemy tutor asking if he was still hiring. You drafted a final report and nearly handed it to the Liyue branch courier.

But you hesitated. Because Childe hadn’t shown up to his usual, overdramatic note-taking spot that morning. Or his afternoon reconnaissance session, or any of his other activities. And he didn’t appear the next day, either. There was no “top secret” journal. No “coincidentally” shared table, no notes, no loud fake intel or bad metaphors, and you…missed him. That was the worst part.

So you did something foolish—you looked for him.

You found him behind the Northland Bank, not hiding or fleeing, just leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smiling lazily like he’d been waiting.

“So,” he said casually, “how long do we keep pretending we don’t like each other?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head. “Come on. You’ve watched me long enough to know I don’t make moves without a plan. And I’ve watched you long enough to know you only break protocol when you’re interested.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. He took one step forward, then paused to slip something into your coat before walking off with that maddeningly smug stride. It wasn’t a note; it was a surveillance photo of him, annotated in your own handwriting. You thought you’d misplaced it and hadn’t seen it in days.

Subject appears unusually charming today. Eyes distracting. Highly dangerous. Proceed with caution.

You stared at it for a long moment. Then, finally, you smiled.

Maybe, just maybe, the best way to complete this mission…was to surrender.

Epilogue [Classified]

Inside Childe’s apartment, in a drawer beneath a mess of red string and overkill sticky notes, sits a cork board. Every pinned photo is a poorly taken candid of you: mid-eye roll, hiding behind a lamppost, smiling when you thought no one was watching. At the center, in bold letters:

OPERATION: STEAL HER HEART
Status: In Progress
Risk Level: Worth It

premise. sometimes, talking to yourself feels safer than facing the guy you can’t stop thinking about…until he walks in on you mid-spiral. from awkward blushes to unexpected confessions, here’s what happens when your most embarrassing moments become the genshin boys’ favorite memories

features. kazuha, diluc, childe, wanderer, alhaitham, xiao, ayato, cyno, itto, kaeya, baizhu, dainsleif, tighnari, thoma, heizou, bennett, kaveh, zhongli

kazuha

You’re crouched beside a broken cart wheel, half-hidden in tall grass, muttering furiously to yourself as you examine the splintered wood.

“Of course it had to break here, in the middle of nowhere. No signal flare left, and I let the boat crew leave without me. Brilliant. Great job, really stellar planning—”

“You’re being rather harsh on yourself.”

You startle so hard you nearly fall backward. Kazuha stands a few paces behind, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves, his eyes full of quiet amusement and concern.

“You were gone longer than expected,” he explains, seeing your confusion. “Beidou sent me to check if you’d lost your way—or started arguing with local wildlife.”

You flush. “No, I’m just…talking to myself. Thinking through how to fix it.”

He steps closer and knelt beside you, examining the wheel. “Hm. The axle’s intact. A proper wedge might hold long enough to get you back to the road.”

You blink. “Oh. You’re not going to tease me about earlier?”

“I speak to the wind as if it listens,” he says lightly. “Why would I judge you for speaking to yourself?”

You glance at him. “And does the wind ever answer?”

He smiles faintly. “Only when I’m quiet enough to hear it.”

And then, just like that, he gets to work, gathering branches, finding rope in your satchel, never once asking why you chose to be alone in the first place but just staying until the cart moves again. Maybe the wind hadn’t answered, but he had.

diluc

He walks into the tavern early in the morning, expecting silence. Instead, he hears your voice in a low, frantic whisper as you await his arrival: “Okay, you’ve got this. He’s just a man. A tall, brooding, red-haired, intimidatingly handsome man—Archons above, why am I like this?”

He freezes mid-step, but the tap of his boot on the tile is loud enough to betray him. You whirl around, mortified, and lock eyes with him like a deer caught in emotionally compromising headlights.

He blinks once. Slowly.

“…I assume that was about me,” he says, voice neutral, but his ears are visibly pink.

“I—No—I mean—kind of?” you squeak, visibly crumbling under the weight of your own existence.

He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for a mug that absolutely does not need his attention.

“Understood,” he mutters.

For the rest of the day, he’s overly polite, painfully formal, and avoids eye contact like it’s flammable. Later that evening, you find a cup of your favorite tea left out for you—steaming, perfectly steeped, and completely unsupervised. The mug has a folded note under it, consisting of just three words: “You’ve got this.”

childe

He’s passing by your room when he hears your voice, quiet but distinct, and increasingly unhinged: “Okay. Plan A: cry. Plan B: threaten to cry. Plan C: run away and never return.”

He pauses mid-step, then leans against the doorway with a lopsided grin. “Wow, those are some elite-level crisis strategies. You sure you’re not Fatui?”

You shriek in embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“Long enough to know you’ve got potential,” he laughs, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside.

You groan and hide your face. “I was joking. mostly.”

“Nah, I kinda like it,” he teases. “Plan A’s got emotional flair. Plan B? Classic drama. However, Plan C?” his voice softens just a bit. “If you ran, I’d just find you. You know that, right?”

You look up and find his smile stripped of mischief. It’s quiet and gentle in a way that makes your heart trip over itself.

“But…if you do need tissues, I’ve got plenty.”

Somehow, this ends with him dragging you to sit on the couch, arms slung around you, both of you buried under a blanket neither of you remembers pulling over your laps.

“New plan,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Plan D: stay right here.”

wanderer

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He’d simply been on his way when he found you pacing the courtyard, completely unaware of his presence.

“He probably doesn’t even notice when I smile at him. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just ignoring me. Ugh. I should just throw a rock at him.”

He replies instantly. “Try it. I’ll throw one back.”

You flinch so hard you nearly drop your bag. He’s already leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His gaze flicks to you, sharp but dissolving into something strangely unguarded. You open your mouth, but he speaks first.

“I notice,” he tells you, quieter now. almost like it costs him something to admit. “More than you think.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing down the corridor before you can speak, like he never meant to say anything at all. But later, you find a small, perfectly smooth stone placed outside your windowsill. No note. No explanation. Just one rock, light enough to throw.

alhaitham

He’s walking past the study when he hears you, your voice sounding low, frantic, and clearly not meant for anyone else.

“Okay, if I just put the books back exactly the way he had them, maybe he won’t know I was here. Unless…he cataloged them by page wear. Oh archons—what if he did? Why does he have to be attractive and terrifying?”

His deadpan voice sounds right behind you. “For the record, I do catalog them by page wear.”

You jump, dropping the book you’re holding, but instead of hitting the floor, it lands effortlessly in his palm.

“Also, you’ve been muttering to yourself for three full minutes. You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to explain, apologize, evaporate, anything, but he just walks past and plucks a book from your stack.

“You misaligned this one by 0.6 centimeters,” he remarks, tone neutral. “But I’ll let it slide.”

You’re still frozen, blinking at him.

Without looking at you, he adds almost offhandedly, “Next time you wish to come by, just ask. I’d rather see you here than not.”

And then he starts reorganizing beside you. He’s silent, efficient, and just close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

xiao

You’re sitting alone on the quiet terrace just outside Wangshu Inn, knees pulled up to your chest as you mutter into the dusk. “Why did I say ‘sweet dreams’? Who says that to Xiao? He’s the vigilant yaksha, not some character from a bedtime story. He probably thinks I’m a sentimental weirdo—”

“I don’t.”

You whip around. He’s suddenly there, silent as ever, standing just behind you in the fading light.

“I don’t think you’re weird,” he repeats, voice soft and steady, though there’s the faintest crease in his brow like he’s wondering if he’s said too much.

You scramble to stand, completely flustered. “Wait, how long were you—?”

“I heard my name,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.

The air feels charged with embarrassment. Yours. Maybe his, too. After a pause, he glances away toward the treetops. His voice is quieter now.

“No one’s said that to me before.”

You blink. “Said what?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams.”

There’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like the words feel too fragile in his mouth.

“I didn’t think those were something I could have.”

The breeze carries the scent of silk flowers, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, without looking at you, he adds, “But I liked hearing it. From you.”

Your heart flips once, hard.

And before you can spiral all over again, he turns to go, but stops just long enough to murmur, “Goodnight. I hope…yours are sweet, too.”

ayato

He’s strolling through the estate gardens when he catches the faint tones of your voice, muffled but unmistakably dramatic. Curious, he peeks around a hedge and discovers you monologuing to a cluster of blue hydrangeas with passionate gestures.

“Lord Ayato, my dearest nemesis. Why must you smile like that? Why must your tea taste like heartbreak and fine politics?”

His brows lift in faint surprise. 

“And why did I tell him it was ‘transcendent’? That’s not normal person behavior. That’s the kind of thing a swooning diplomat says before fainting into their fan.”

Ayato brings a hand to his mouth, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. He knows he should announce himself—knows it’s indecent to linger—but curiosity roots him in place. It’s rare to see you so unguarded, and rarer still to be the subject of such poetic vitriol.

You pace a few steps, oblivious. “He probably thinks I was flirting. Which I wasn’t. I think. Ugh.”

He waits just a second longer, watching as you sigh and press your fingertips to your forehead like a tragic heroine from a stage play, before stepping forward, his fan snapping closed with a soft click.

“I didn’t realize I’d been cast as the villain in your private soliloquy.”

You freeze. There is no mistaking his voice, nor the silk-smooth amusement threading through it. Slowly, you turn.

“I must say, your critique was…vivid,” he continues. His expression is polite, but his eyes betray him, bright with barely contained laughter. “And rather unfair to the tea, which I assure you is not culpable for your emotional distress.”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. He tilts his head, as if considering something seriously.

“Though I do wonder what heartbreak tastes like to you.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

He inclines his head slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Next time, speak your grievances aloud to me instead. I assure you, I respond far better than flowers.”

cyno

He walks in on you muttering and pacing in circles.

“Okay, okay. Don’t laugh if he tells another joke. But also don’t not laugh, because then he’ll think you hate him. Ugh, why is this so complicated?”

He appears behind you with a perfectly straight face and says, “What do you call a fake noodle? an impasta.”

You shriek and nearly trip over a chair. He waits. You groan.

“That was…better than usual,” you admit.

He pauses as he appraises you. His lips twitch. “So. You’ve been rehearsing responses to my jokes?”

You blink, caught. “No. Definitely not.”

He steps closer, arms folded, head tilting in mock-serious thought. “Interesting. That implies you anticipated more. Which means…you’re expecting me.”

“…to keep telling them?”

He nods solemnly. “Correct. And now that I know you’re preparing, I’ll have to escalate.”

You groan again, this time into your hands, and he finally cracks a smile. Later, he’ll tell you a compliment disguised as a riddle. You’ll pretend not to swoon. He’ll pretend not to notice. Neither of you is very convincing.

itto

You’re standing in front of a mirror, hyping yourself up. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You can flirt with Itto today. Probably. Maybe. Okay, no, don’t flirt, just survive eye contact.”

A voice behind you booms, “Well hey, I think you’re already killin’ it!”

You scream and spin around so fast you almost knock over a stool. Itto’s standing in the doorway, grinning like a kid who just found candy and a beetle.

“Also, flirting’s totally encouraged. Ten outta ten, would recommend.”

You clutch your chest. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“Since the part where you said you were bold and brave or whatever. Sounded super cool, so I figured I’d stay for the ending.”

You groan. He’s still grinning.

“But hey,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, “you don’t gotta overthink it. Just talk to me like normal! Or, y’know, you could flirt if that’s easier.”

You entertain the idea of feigning amnesia, knowing he’d probably fall for it. Instead, you mutter, “…I liked your hair today.”

He lights up like the sun. “See? You’re killin’ it!”

Somehow, this ends with him offering to coach you through flirting with him. The audacity.

kaeya

You were only meant to drop off a report. Nothing more. Just a quick visit to the Knights’ headquarters, a few signatures, and out. And yet here you are, lingering in an empty hallway, your forehead pressed lightly against a stone pillar as you mutter to yourself.

“Genius. Absolutely genius. ‘Nice weather, Kaeya.’ That’s what I went with. Might as well have added, ‘Hi, I’ve been harboring a wildly inconvenient crush on you since Stormterror was still a problem. Want to date and/or be the reason I start writing terrible poetry again?’”

A breath of laughter—not your own—cuts through the silence.

“I’d be open to both,” a familiar voice replies.

You freeze.

He’s there, lounging against the window alcove like he’s been there all along, elbow propped casually on the sill, head tilted with interest. His smile says he heard every word. His eyes say he enjoyed it.

Kaeya pushes off the ledge and strolls toward you, every step perfectly unhurried. “Next time you plan to deliver a monologue about me, perhaps wait until I’ve left the building. Unless,” he adds, voice dropping with playful weight, “you were hoping I’d hear it.”

You can feel the heat rise to your face like a sunrise.

“I was just thinking out loud,” you manage.

“So I gathered. And for the record”—he passes close enough that his cloak brushes your sleeve—“I find it flattering.”

You briefly consider flinging yourself out the nearest window.

At the end of the corridor, he glances back over his shoulder, smile curling just shy of sincere.

“If the weather stays this nice, do let me know if that wildly inconvenient crush turns into something more actionable.”

And then he’s gone.

A junior knight passing by gives you a puzzled look. “You, uh…look like you saw a ghost.”

You exhale, voice thin. “Worse.”

baizhu

You’re by yourself in the back room of Bubu Pharmacy, sorting herbs and muttering under your breath. It’s been a long day, and unfortunately, your brain has chosen to perseverate.

“If I faint in front of him again, I’m just going to say it was low blood sugar. Not the fact that he tucked my hair behind my ear like it was nothing.”

“Hmm. I’ll make a note to check your glucose levels…and perhaps develop a tincture for sudden-onset romantic distress?”

You whip around so fast that a handful of Qingxin spills onto the table. Baizhu stands in the doorway, serene as ever, holding a tray of tea like he didn’t just obliterate your self-esteem.

“It’s a surprisingly common condition,” he adds, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Often triggered by gentle gestures and poor coping mechanisms.”

Changsheng pokes her head out from behind his collar and lets out a tiny, delighted laugh. “Lovesick. Very contagious,” she stage-whispers.

You bury your face in your hands.

Baizhu sets the tea down beside you with quiet care. “I could prepare a cure, but I fear the malady is mutual—and, strangely, quite welcome.”

dainsleif

You think you’re alone, sitting quietly in a dim corner of the library and murmuring your frustrations to yourself. Dainsleif, combing the shelves for a particular volume, pauses when he hears the soft thread of your voice carry through the candlelight: “I bet he doesn’t even remember my name. I’m probably just a temporary footnote to him anyway. Someone who fades like shadows at dusk.”

His low voice answers from just beyond the glow of your lantern. “You are not a footnote.”

You nearly jump out of your skin as Dainsleif steps into view. The candlelight flickers across the lines of his face, which remains composed and unreadable but not unfeeling. He doesn’t speak gently, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness to his tone that seems to lessen the musty air.

“Names are more than words,” he says. “They are memory. History. Presence.”

He kneels slightly and locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing.

“I remember your name,” he continues. “Not only the shape of it. I remember the weight it carries when you speak it. I remember the careful way you said goodnight two nights ago, as if you weren’t sure I’d hear it, or hold it.”

You can’t breathe. You can’t look away.

“Don’t assume I forget the things that matter,” he says, rising to his full height again. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture softens. And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears into the stacks. For a long moment, all you can hear is the echo of his footsteps and the pulse of your own heart—louder now, and somehow less alone.

tighnari

You’re elbow-deep in soil, half-focused on coaxing the withered pardisah into a new pot, when your frustration finally boils over.

“Okay, next time, just say thank you and walk away. Easy. Normal. Not, ‘Wow, your ears are so expressive today,’ like some feral maniac.” You groan and press your forehead to your palm. “He probably thinks I’m studying him like a botanical specimen. What is wrong with me?”

“To be fair,” a dry voice answers behind you, “most people don’t notice ear movement unless they’re watching very closely.”

You nearly send the pot flying as you whip around. Tighnari is leaning beside your bag of soil, arms folded, one brow arched in faint incredulity.

“You were there…the whole time,” you croak.

“Roughly since the ‘feral maniac’ part,” he amends, tail flicking with suspicious amusement. “You were a bit harsh on yourself, but entertaining.”

You cover your face. “I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“You didn’t,” he says gently, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “I didn’t mind the compliment. It was…oddly specific, but sincere. And clearly the result of long observation.”

He steps past you, crouching to inspect the flower you nearly murdered in your panic.

“Next time,” he adds, not looking up, “less spiraling, more speaking.”

His tone is neutral, but his ears betray him with the smallest, involuntary flick.

And then he mutters to himself, “They’re only expressive when you’re around, anyway.”

You pretend not to hear. For now.

thoma

You’re alone in the kitchen—or so you believe—flipping gyozas with intense concentration and muttering under your breath. “Okay, Thoma likes them crispy. Not burnt. Crispy, like his smile. No, wait, what? Focus!”

“Crispy like my smile, huh?”

You flinch. The spatula slips from your fingers and clatters to the stovetop. Thoma is casually leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like he definitely heard more than he should have.

“I’m flattered,” he says, stepping closer. “But now I’ve got questions. What, exactly, does a crispy smile look like?”

“I—I meant the gyoza, not your— Wait, no, I meant both—I mean—”

The oil hisses sharply, like even the pan can’t take it anymore. Smoke streams upward.

“No, the gyozas!”

Thoma is already by your side, grabbing the pan with practiced ease and sliding it off the stove.

“You know,” he says, grinning as he surveys the damage, “you didn’t have to set them on fire just to impress me.”

“I didn’t—!”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Means I get to help.” He tosses you a wink. “Teamwork, right?”

Somehow, you end up shoulder to shoulder, sleeves rolled up, hands floured, trying again as he gives teasing tips on “optimal gyoza symmetry.”

Later, as the final batch sizzles golden and perfect, he leans just close enough to murmur, “Still not sure what a crispy smile is, but if we’re talking about yours…I think I get it now.”

heizou

You march down the corridor, shoulders tense, voice pitched low but laced with despair.

“No, Heizou, I don’t need your help picking up the papers I dropped. I just need a convenient hole to bury the cadaver of my dignity in, thank you very much—”

A hand suddenly lands on your shoulder.

“AAHH—” you scream mid-sentence, spinning on instinct and swinging your bag in self-defense.

Heizou barely ducks in time, a laugh tumbling out as he stumbles back, half-shielding himself. “Whoa, violent thoughts and airborne satchels? I should’ve brought a warrant first.”

You freeze, mortified. He’s already dusting off his sleeves like it’s just another day at the precinct.

“Really now, that’s the welcome I get?” he continues, far too amused for someone who was nearly concussed.

“You snuck up on me mid-spiral,” you retort, torn between embarrassment and residual adrenaline. “That’s reckless behavior, even for you.”

He raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “I prefer to think of it as instinct. I happen to have an uncanny sense for when people are saying my name behind my back. Or in this case, aloud. To themselves.”

Your eyes widen just enough to give you away. Heizou smiles like he’s just cracked another case.

“You know,” he adds, stepping just close enough for his voice to drop a tone, “talking to oneself is a perfectly natural response to emotional distress. Especially when that distress has, say…a face and a name?”

You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re insufferable.”

He tilts his head. “And yet, I’m the one you keep muttering about.”

You try to come up with a retort. You fail.

“Don’t worry,” he continues smoothly, already turning on his heel, “your secrets are safe with me.”

“You are the secret,” you call after him.

“And still,” he says without looking back, “you can’t seem to stop confessing to it.”

bennett

“Okay, just be normal. If I trip, I’ll just play dead. He won’t even notice. He’s used to disasters,” you tell yourself as you pace in tight little circles outside the Adventurers’ Guild.

“Wait, was that about me?”

You nearly leap into the decorative flower box beside the stairs.

Bennett stands behind you, blinking wide-eyed, equal parts confused and concerned.

“No—I mean—kind of?” you stammer.

He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. “I mean, yeah, stuff does kinda explode around me sometimes, but…hey, you’re not gonna trip.”

He pauses, then adds quickly, “But if you do, I’ll totally catch you! Probably! I mean, I’ve got decent reflexes! Usually!”

He’s turning red now, voice rising an octave as he tries to dig himself out.

“Not that you’ll fall, or need catching! It’s just—If you did fall, hypothetically, I’d be there. Probably. Hopefully. Unless something explodes first.”

You both stare at each other in silence for a beat and then burst out laughing.

“So,” you say, grinning, “wanna grab lunch before something does explode?”

“Yes! Wait, are you asking me out?”

You hesitate. “…Would it make you trip if I said yes?”

“Most likely.”

“Then, I’ll give you ‘probably’ as my answer.”

“Perfect.”

kaveh

He hears your muffled voice through the wall.

“If I see his ridiculously pretty face one more time, I’m going to cry. Or combust. Or both. There is no middle ground anymore.”

A suspicious creak of the floorboard makes your soul exit your body. The door swings open slowly. Kaveh stands there with a tea tray and the most theatrical expression known to man.

“Well,” he says, in full dramatic cadence, “had I known my face was wreaking such havoc on your emotional equilibrium, I would’ve brewed peppermint for the nerves.”

You groan and throw a pillow at him.

“Ah! betrayed by the very person moved to tears by my beauty. So you’ve chosen emotional combustion. Noted.”

You peek between your fingers. “Kaveh, please go.”

He places the tea tray down very deliberately. “I’ll leave,” he says, moving toward the door, “but only after I point out that I’m flattered, deeply and profoundly.”

He stops in the doorway, looks back with a grin just slightly too genuine.

“By the way,” he adds, not quite looking at you, “it’s mutual. The whole…emotional-overload-in-each-other’s-presence thing.”

And with that, he leaves. The tea cools quickly. You do not.

zhongli

You’re standing outside Wánmín Restaurant, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and muttered self-advice as you wait for a certain funeral consultant to join you for lunch.

“You can’t just stare at him every time he talks. He’s not poetry. He’s a man. A terrifyingly wise, elegant man made of tea and regret.”

You pause, frowning at the phrase.

“Tea and regret?”

You jolt and whirl around. Zhongli is standing just behind you, his expression unreadable, as if weighing your words with the patience of centuries.

After a moment’s pause, a faint smile graces his lips. “I believe that’s a new metaphor.”

Then, with a quiet elegance, he gestures in the space between you.

“You may continue your soliloquy. I find it…endearing.”

You feel your composure unravel, cheeks flushing crimson as you try to meet his calm, knowing gaze. For a moment, the world narrows to the soft sound of your breathing and the quiet dignity of a man who understands more than he lets on, and you silently wonder if maybe, just maybe, he is poetry after all.

premise: you ask the genshin boys (separate) to partake in a snowball fight with you!
features: kaeya, childe, diluc, scaramouche
notes: part 3 coming soon! possible future characters: chongyun, xingqiu, venti, zhongli, ayato, kazuha, or heizou!

kaeya

– you’d both been sent on a mission in dragonspine and had been trekking through the snow for hours 

– nothing overly eventful or out of the ordinary had occurred; you’d encountered a couple of small enemies but nothing of note, so naturally, you’re on edge

– kaeya, on the other hand, seems to lack care in the world. he strolls behind you, humming a tune, while you look around warily for traps

– you finally stop with a huff and wheel on him. “shouldn’t you be a little more cautious?” 

– “i’ll protect you, so don’t worry,” he replies playfully. “just relax—” 

– suddenly, kaeya freezes and points behind you

– “huh? what’s wrong?”

– “frostarm lawachurl,” he whispers urgently

– immediately your sword is drawn, and you whip around to scan the frozen trees around you. you don’t sense any threats, so you turn back around, confused. “i don’t see any—”

– whack! a snowball hits you in the face

– you stiffen. cold snow slowly slides down your face as kaeya keels over and laughs hysterically 

– when he catches your eye, however, he stops mid-laugh

– usually, you’re pretty gentle, but kaeya sees murderous intent 

– “kaeya,” you seethe, stalking towards him

– he scrambles backward, terrified. “woah, woah, woah, put the sword away first!”

– “remember, you started it,” you sing, skillfully spinning your sword by the hilt while advancing upon him

– his attempts to hinder you with more snowballs, but those are easily deflected with your sword

– less of a snowball fight and more of you terrorizing kaeya

– you finally corner him, cackling evilly. his pleas for you to show mercy fall on deaf ears as you raise a fistful of snow to stuff in his face. “any last words?”

– he begins to speak, but his expression changes when he looks past you. “i know this is incredibly ironic, but there is definitely a frostarm lawachurl approaching, though i don’t think it’s noticed us yet”

– “like i’m gonna fall for that again.” you roll your eyes, not bothering to turn around, then shout as loudly as possible, “hey! over here, lawlachurl!”

– “RRRRROAAARR”

– “…”

– “yeah, it’s definitely noticed us”

– fortunately, you both manage to survive and will laugh about the memory later

– the next time you encounter snow, kaeya will propose that you have another snowball fight: a fair one, this time

childe

– having grown up alongside the snow, he’s had plenty of snowball fights in his youth, not to mention four other siblings to join him!

– it’s a fond childhood memory for him, and he’s excited to share this pleasant experience with you

– he’s quite a snowball fight veteran, except now he’s a little more unhinged

– he doesn’t care about making snowballs and just throws plain handfuls of snow at people

– when necessary for projectile aerodynamics, though, he will shape them into spheres 

– watching him pull off impressive maneuvers and chuck snow with concerning speed, you’re glad he’s on your team

– with both close and long-range combat experience, it’s no surprise he excels in the art of dumping snow on people 

– he doesn’t often get hit, but when he does, the aggressor becomes the target of ten times the amount of snow they landed on him

– just wait until he finds a shovel or bucket

– he will literally launch pounds of snow at people whilst laughing maniacally

– every time yet another opponent is buried alive beneath the cold white, he turns to you with a mirthful grin

– “look~ we’ve almost won!”

– you pause, appraising the destruction, and sigh

– then a snowball splatters against your chest 

– childe is immediately at attention

– “don’t worry, i’ll protect you!” he proclaims, leaping toward your attacker

– safe to say they are now resting under a snow mountain 

diluc

– he has bad memories attached to rain, but you tell him there can be good kinds of rain 

– “snow is just rain when the weather in the sky is below freezing,” you say, smiling gently

– you’re one of the few he’s confided in about his past, so when you say you want to make more good memories of rain with him by having a snowball fight, he’s grateful that you care for him

– at first, he’s tentative while throwing them at you; he knows that snow is one of the safer types of projectiles, but he’d forever blame himself if he somehow hurt you

– with your coaxing and contagious enthusiasm, however, he eases into it

– unfortunately, you had overlooked one thing

– you had said that snow was below freezing rain, but what you failed to understand was that it was below freezing rain

– thus, it is only natural that after being hit several times by that very snow, you, too, feel below freezing 

– as the snowball fight was an impromptu idea, you also hadn’t prepared any gloves to keep your hands warm, so your fingers feel like popsicles

– diluc notices you shivering before you do

– his brow furrows ever so slightly. “let’s pause momentarily,” he suggests, dropping his snowball and beckoning you over. “if you’d please come here”

– puzzled, you slowly approach until you’re standing in front of him

– he slides off his jacket and delicately drapes it over your shoulders

– “you won’t be cold?” you worry

– “i won’t.” crimson glows at his waist as he partially activates his vision, and a burst of warmth ripples outward to thaw your frozen self

– “wow…i’m so lucky to have a portable heater with me” you giggle, palms out toward him as if you were warming them by a fireplace

– he offers you a small but soft smile that somehow warms you more effectively than his pyro abilities

– after sufficiently returning to room temperature, you and diluc continue the snowball fight

– he finds it endearing to watch you tromp around in the snow wearing his coat with a silly grin never leaving his face

– there really can be good kinds of rain, he thinks

scaramouche

– he is a monster 

– it doesn’t matter if he likes you or dislikes you; he has the most underhanded methods

– during a team fight, he approaches you and requests to use a couple of the snowballs from the pile you’d been manufacturing

– you’d been hoping to stockpile artillery to support your team, but giving away a few to teammates as you made them couldn’t hurt, right? …right?

– haha no. it hurt. 

– a lot. 

– because it turns out he’s actually not on your team and he literally THREW THEM AT YOUR FACE AT POINT BANK RANGE, LIKE, SCARA WHAT ARE YOU THINKING 

– provoked and ready to jump him in retaliation, you hastily brush the snow off your face

– scara’s stifling his laughter, but as soon as he sees the tears in your eyes, he stops abruptly 

– you hastily make an excuse, embarrassed: sure, it stings, but you swear it doesn’t hurt enough to cry. you just got some snow in your eyes, is all

– nevertheless, he brusquely says he’ll switch to your team: after all, someone needs to make up for you being weak

– if you pay close attention, you’ll notice that his snowballs tend to attack those who were targeting you

– the underhanded tactics he utilized on you will be employed against the other team

– he rarely gets hit by snowballs, mostly because people are afraid of the wrath they will undergo if they hit him

– if scara gets hit, he’ll pause, sigh, then whip around and swiftly strike the poor soul who made the mistake of going for him

– smile and tell him you’re impressed and think he’s cool. he’ll scoff in response, but when you’re not looking, he’ll confusedly smack his chest to check if his heart is dysfunctional––if not, why did it skip a beat?

[part one] [part three - coming soon]