People In Ljubljana, Slovenia, Have Filled Republic Square, Which Is Right Across The Street From The

phainon yandere profile. gender neutral, TW // yandere, nsfw at the end. credits @cinnamonest for the profile template. :)

What is he generally like? Is he self-aware, lucid, or obsessive? How does he behave?

Phainon is, in all variations of him, just a big dog with a tortured heart. He's desperate for your attention and approval, for someone to never leave him and carry the burden of the prophecy with him. Despite being surrounded by his fellow flame-chasers and admirers, he feels painfully lonely, knowing that at the end of the day, the only person who can truly walk his path is himself.

He's a little intense when it comes to the people around him, so you likely wouldn't think of him as obsessive at first - it's just how he is, so you believe. Phainon really leans into the 'pity me' card (complete with the puppy dog look), and neither you or nor anyone else can say anything about it. He creeps into your life, entwining himself with you until by the time you look down, it's too late.

He's obsessive and self-aware. He knows what he's doing is wrong, like threatening people or restricting your freedom, but Phainon will jump through any and all mental hoops to convince himself (and you) that it's all for your own good, hence obsessive. Idk the cognitive dissonance is strong with this one.

How do you meet him?

You’d have to be something special - preferably someone beyond the stars, someone who isn’t familiar with Okhema’s customs at all. Phainon would have trouble with separating you from the people he’s supposed to be a hero to, even if you were able to see him for him.

Alternatively, a childhood friend would do very well for him. Phainon remembers every precious memory he had with you before he could be coined Chrysos Heir. He attaches himself to you obsessively, completely sure that you’re the only person who could ever understand the true him and relieve the burden of all the blood on his hands.

How likely will he kidnap his darling?

Talking strict kidnapping, 1/10. Phainon doesn't need to keep you in his house to control you - he has power and sway over the people, and when that doesn't work, a few well placed bribes help so that someone has their eye on you at all times. Besides, he wants to see you happy and he wants you to accept him, most of all. Kidnapping you would be the antithesis of all that.

How difficult is it to escape from him? How does he restrain his darling? How does he deal with attempted escape?

10/10 difficulty, both physically and from his area of influence. Phainon would make up all sorts of excuses to stay with you a little while longer, whine and complain that he never gets to see you (lie), and try to wriggle his way into your home or coerce you back to his, even if it might make him seem a bit like... loser. He keeps you stuck to his side and in his shadow by sliding an arm around your waist or shoulder under the pretence of friendliness; he's clingy like you've never known clingy before.

He’s not above using drugs to achieve his desired outcome either, for example, making you so sleepy that you can’t turn down an invitation back to his place. Phainon feels bad about it at first, but when he sees you dozing uncontrollably on his shoulder, it's not difficult to wave the guilt away. And he finds it gets easier the more he does it! So it can't be all bad, can it?

From his area of influence, it’s easy enough to arrange for a little accident, a hiccup with your finances, whatever it takes to keep you within the city and keep you from leaving his side where he can reach you. There's no attempted escape from him - unless you're willing to hurt the people you love on your way out.

How easy is it to trick, deceive, or manipulate him?

For some minor trickery, like making up some excuse to slip away from a social situation, it’s easy enough. Phainon would rather gaslight himself into thinking you’re always right and that you’d never lie to him, and so he’ll let you get away with small lies even if he knows they are lies. True deception and manipulation is tough, however. He’s always two steps ahead of you - experienced warrior, remember? And well-loved by the citizens besides. Somebody would tell on you, even if he slips up.

You could manipulate him by showering him with love if you're smart about it. You'd have to prepare your exit while giving him lots of hugs and kisses and telling him how much you appreciate him, and Phainon will melt. Play to his rose-tinted glasses and you'll be able to conceal your true plans - just be prepared to move fast, and keep running for as long as you live.

How lenient is he? What privileges can you have, and what will you be denied?

He’s pretty liberal in the grand scheme of things. He lets you go about your day, stay in your home, continue to have your friends and family with you. But as Phainon closes in on possessing you, you get the distinct feeling that people are beginning to be uncomfortable around you, and that certain choice people have started disappearing - like the colleague who tried asking you out once. You’d turned him down, of course. But that doesn’t stop Phainon from taking… precautions.

You’re denied your freedom in the sense that every way you turn, you come up against the iron bars of your metaphorical bird cage. A gilded cage is still a cage, after all, and it's frustrating to know that someone is pulling the strings behind the scenes even though you have no idea who it is.

What kind of rules does he have? What kind of punishments would he use?

The one and only rule Phainon has: no leaving his side. And he means that in the grand scheme of things, as in no dying, and no leaving Okhema. He thinks he doesn't ask for much, really!

He isn't actually fond of punishing you. He likes to treat you like a delicate flower, so he lavishes you in all sorts of luxuries and creature comforts. The most punishment he'd ever use would be to isolate you in his home with nothing but himself for company. It's not the worst, all things considered, but I imagine spending a month alone with Phainon is enough to drive anyone up the wall.

How does he deal with rivals, or perceived rivals?

Phainon can be surprisingly peace-loving when it comes to his "rivals", or at the very least has no desire to hurt the people he's supposed to serve and protect. He tries to let killing be his last resort, and calls in favours from here or there to make sure your paths never cross again. Threats would come anonymously and are usually enough to deter them from ever speaking to you again.

He kills when he has to, though, and makes sure to do the deed himself. He wouldn't trust anyone else with such an important job.

How easy is it to make him mad? What does his anger look like?

Phainon doesn’t get mad so much as he gets desperate, upset, and very, very clingy. It hurts him if you reject him, talk about leaving the city or even Amphoreus, or try to lie to him. He’s nothing but good to you and has only ever acted for your benefit, so why do you treat him in this way? Tears are common. He doesn’t intend to guilt trip, but he does it very well. You feel like you're kicking a lost puppy in the rain whenever you hurt him. Is it ever worth it?

In a parallel vein, Phainon does get jealous. That’s when he feels the need to shower you in physical gifts, or mark you with bruises and bite marks and leave you so sore that there’s no doubt about who had done that to you. He wraps you all up in his arms, even in public, making sure that word spreads fast who this Chrysos Heir has his eye on.

Does he see you as above, beneath, or equal to him?

He sees his darling as his saviour, his rock, his anchor to whatever good is left in his world, so I’d say he sees you as above him. You’re his mortal god, and no normal human would ever relinquish their grasp on their god, would they?

How determined is he for you to love him, or is he content just having you?

It's a little bit of both for Phainon. He's not really determined so much as he is the type to roll around on his bed complaining about whyyy don't you love him back, kneel before you and worship the ground you walk on, anything you want.

He'll pour his everything into loving you, but if he expects anything back, it vacillates. He doesn't quite believe he's deserving of love, after all, and if something loves him back he fears he might lose it. So if you spend the rest of your life hating him, he supposes it's alright as long as you're safe, even if it hurts.

It's either that or he falls into a darkness every once in a while and really needs your comfort and affection. Denying him when he's like this is a sure way to be pulled into some... intimate endeavours.

How forceful is he? Does he care about your willingness?

Like before, it depends on his mood. Usually he's doing his best to coax you into warmer feelings for him, but sometimes, he allows himself to slip and treat you as an object of love rather than another person. Phainon isn't really forceful as in fond of using brute force, but he'll manipulate and cajole until your willingness becomes "your idea", or at least until he can gaslight you into thinking it was your idea.

General perverseness: How sexual is he? What's his drive like? Touchy? Any reservations about sexuality?

Touchy? Extremely. And not even in a perverse manner, Phainon just likes hugs and kisses and cuddles that way.

He doesn't really have any reservations about sexuality - he likes you, he wants you, that's all it is to him. But he doesn't like the idea of forcing you either (without the help of certain substances, at least.) He's definitely much more respectful in the beginning, letting you take things at your own pace. Just don't let him wait for too long...

His drive is constant but not uncontrollably high. Phainon's always in the mood to worship his darling, be it through gifts or pleasure. Whatever darling wants, darling gets, and he's more than happy to provide, even to the point of neglecting his own pleasure.

What body parts of his darling does he like the most?

Probably thighs. He just likes the softness and the warmth of it all, squeezing and kneading your flesh. It's intimate but not too intimate, and he can keep you close while he indulges. :)

this post was so incredibly long. please leave a reblog if you enjoyed TT

Title: “Unlike Fiction” Chapter: 1/1? Pairing: Sampo x Reader, Gepard x Reader Reader: Gender Neutral / Illegal Underworlder living in Overworld Relationship Level: Sampo - Ex-Beau / Gepard - Current Beau   Trust: Sampo - Low / Gepard - Moderate Summary: You decide to show up for Gepard’s celebration for becoming Captain of the Silvermane guard at Serval’s request. However, things don’t go as expected… Warning!: Cursing, Thoughts of Self-Harm (No harm though!)

Glimmering glass chandeliers, bubbling champagne, and a cast of incredibly wealthy persons that all seem to know one another only skin deep… 

This scenery is straight out of any romance novel conveying star-crossed lovers of opposing social classes. Though you had to admit, the authors really nailed it. You always thought that at least some of it had to be a little embellished. Yet just as they say, even the ceiling of this immense manor is painted with glorious recounts of Belobog’s long history with awe-inspiring detail. 

Your fingers squeeze around the stem of your champagne glass.  

The nobles that have gathered are all dressed to the nines. Some even go so far as to wear flowers that are worth at least six years of your own pay. You gulp when you catch sight of a few of the noble ladies standing off to the side in a huddled corner with handheld fans up, covering the lower part of their faces. Quickly, you avert your gaze.  

You already know they’re talking about you. Not that it matters. Gossip is a game for the small-minded and weak-willed. 

Though you can’t help a certain thought that keeps besieging your mind. 

Should you really be here?

“There you are!” Serval calls excitedly with no bother to maintain the rules of decorum as she hurries over to you.

Thank Qlipoth… 

Her outfit fits the atmosphere but you feel a sense of pride to see that she never took out her punk rock highlights. It gives you a sense of solidarity as there were a few things in your own look that you refused to change just for a single event. 

She definitely gets a few irksome looks, for the mere sin of existing. But like the magnificent storm queen that she is, she doesn’t even care. Immediately, you feel like you’ve found refuge the second she hooks her arm around yours. 

“Ugh, thank goodness that you’re here. I was about to lose my head just a moment ago,” she huffs lightly before leaning into you with a relieved smile, “Seriously. I’m really glad you came. I know this isn’t what you’re used to… but if I know Geppie, he’s going to love it that you're here.”

“You really think so?” you ask, still feeling a bit apprehensive. 

“Of course! Oh god. You should see how he lights up whenever he mentions you. I swear, you’re like his favorite subject to talk about these days. He barely mentions work anymore. Thank you, by the way. That subject was getting a bit tiresome, but I never really knew how to break it to him, you know? I’m just still sore after the whole… Well… You know.” 

Her cerulean eyes drift downwards. 

Serval’s sudden termination from the Architects was definitely a huge blow. It was still fresh in her mind despite it happening over a few months ago. Even so, you could still see the cracks it left in her. 

It was a miracle that she didn’t give up hope on everything entirely… 

You squeeze her arm a little to bring her back to the present before she can drown herself in the past. 

“Hey, let’s just enjoy ourselves then. We’ve been through hell. It’s the least we can do, right? We can even see this as, I dunno, reparations for stupid bullshit?” 

“Reparations for Stupid Bullshit. RSB. I like it,” Serval laughs with a delighted nod, gladly going with the flow, “Yeah. Let’s do that.” 

She squeezes you back. An appreciative thank you. 

The two of you end up tearing up the tables filled with fancy cocktails and hors d'oeuvres while chatting about everything and nothing. By the time the great big announcement comes around, both you and Serval are incredibly - and happily - drunk. Restraint isn’t exactly a strong suit for either of you. It’s probably why you get along so well.

When Gepard is announced as the next Captain of the Guard, you both end up hooting and hollering like fools. You get a few glances from those surrounding you and even Gepard breaches the usual protocol to peek. 

But he doesn’t smile when he sees you. 

Instead, his eyes widen, brows flying up. Then he turns to face front and center like the soldier he’s trained to be. 

“...” 

A sudden sick, sinking feel forms in your chest. 

What was that? 

It doesn’t help that you’re intoxicated. The wall that usually keeps the worst thoughts out suddenly isn’t there anymore. Worries flood you without hindrance. 

The dam of reason isn’t there to protect you. 

“The hell was that?” Serval says, only escalating your worries, “He saw us, right?” 

You purse your lips tightly, unable to reply. 

Gepard receives praise from both of his parents as well as a few renowned dignitaries. It takes everything you have to keep Serval from breaking into tears at the sight of Cocolia. Serval ends up holding your hand with such a tight grip that her fingernails dig into your skin. But you let it happen. You know how deep those emotional wounds have cut… 

She’s barely holding herself together. 

“Serval…” 

“Don’t tell me we should go. I-I deserve to be here too,” she insists shakily which is remarkably perceptive for own so heavily inebriated, “If anything… she’s the one that doesn’t belong here… This is my home. My home.”  

The pain in her voice pulls at every heartstring inside of you. But you have to be the least drunk between you. …Since sobriety is long, long gone. 

“I… need to use the bathroom,” you say. 

It’s not a lie entirely. Besides, she won’t question it. You don’t know your way around this place like she does. 

“Oh shit. Sorry. Yeah, of course. Come on. I’ll take you… woah. Um… Let me hang onto you.” 

It takes a little while to find a washroom. It seems Serval’s mind keeps getting muddled from having seen Cocolia. But you keep your patience. It’s what you’d want from your friend if this ever happened to you… 

By the time you get to a nearby empty washroom, you barely shut the door when you hear Serval breaking into tears. Your heart becomes heavier than you’re used to. Maybe because you’re pretty sure that you’re bound for one more heartbreak today. 

Gepard’s face the moment he saw you in the crowd has yet to leave your mind. 

As much as you’d like to hope… you feel that you already know.

He didn’t tell them… 

You sit there on the closed toilet for barely a moment before breaking out into silent tears. 

This… always… happens. 

You try to keep quiet as best you can. You don’t like expressing your pain to others. Your upbringing discouraged showing weakness of any kind. To those around you at that time… you were an incessant inconvenience. 

Even still, you hear a soft knock on the door. 

Serval sniffles just behind it. 

“Are you crying?” she asks with a genuine sweetness behind it, despite her own anguish, that just makes something inside of you crumble to dust.

A sob escapes despite your damnedest attempts to keep it in. 

You don’t want to be a burden. 

Yet before you know it, she’s already come in and hugs you tightly without reservation. You don’t remember how long the two of you bawl your eyes out, but it’s enough that Serval has to reapply both her and your makeup. 

 Every noble wears makeup and she’ll be damned if she lets one of her few closest friends walk around shabby.  

“Hey, hey. I know you’re worried…” she says while gently applying another coat of foundation on your cheeks, “But I’m telling you, my brother would never ever do that to you. Ugh… He’s nothing like that con man. Ugh… I’m so sorry that I even introduced you to that jerk. He just… He didn’t seem like that, you know?” 

She popped her foundation away back into her hidden dress pocket before pulling out some eyeliner to fix the mess under your eyes. 

“Geppie is different. I swear. I’ve never heard him tell a lie in his whole life.” Her motions slow as she remembers the look he gave both of you during the celebration of his promotion. “I… I’m sure he had his reasons for reacting so weird. Maybe he was just really surprised?” 

You smile weakly despite not believing that. 

“You’re probably right,” you fib. 

Damn. You were already exhibiting bad habits from said someone… 

“Don’t worry. We’ll talk to him soon.” 

And just like that, the two of you return to the party though it’s mostly over and done with. Only a few of the major boozehounds stay for the free alcohol while others try some last minute attempts to schmooze with those of higher standing. 

Eventually, Serval learns where Gepard retreated off to in search of some solace. 

“This’ll be great. I’m sure of it,” she says as she pulls you along. 

But with every step, you feel like you’re nearing an execution. The type that can tear the very soul in half while keeping the physical body intact. 

“Stay here,” she whispers to you, leaving you just outside the doors before dramatically shoving them open, “Little bro!” 

You can hear the shifting of his armor along with his footsteps as he turns to face his older sister. 

“Serval…” 

Gepard's voice sounds heavy. No matter how much you rewind it in your head, there’s no mirth in it. 

“Surprised?” she asks as she hugs him suddenly, “Didn’t think I’d miss your big day, did you?”

“...” 

“Gepard?” she asks before leaning back to eye him better.

“You shouldn’t have brought them…” he murmurs but it’s not low enough that you can’t catch it. 

The ground beneath you becomes like thin ice over a frigid lake. Each word he says produces a fresh crack, branching out to assure your inevitable destruction. 

“What? What do you mean? Aren’t you glad to see them? Gepard, you two are dating. Of course, I’d-” Serval then suddenly stops.

You drop your head as you feel an uncomfortable heat rising along your neck and ears. 

Mortification. 

She takes a step back. 

“You didn’t tell them?” she asks but she’s not really asking.

Her tone sounds utterly appalled.  

“I-I was working on it!” 

“Gepard! You said-!”

“I know what I said!” 

You can’t take anymore. 

Removing your shoes, your footfalls become nearly silent as you make a desperate retreat for the nearest open balcony. The freezing air greets you the moment you step out. With a shudder, you make it to the nearest portable heater, switching it on. With time, it glows a gentle orange that reminds you of the Geomarrow where you’re really from… 

The place that you should feel ashamed of… 

A tear escapes you but you quickly wipe it away, refusing to cry any longer. 

Then… in just that moment…

A crazy thought invades your mind.

This is very high up. 

…Anything could happen.

A despairing croak escapes you as you grip onto yourself tightly. 

No, no, no. Not these thoughts. 

Anything but these thoughts!!

It’s like fighting against the blinding cold winds of the Great Freeze. There’s no escape and before you know it, you’re completely lost within its windchill. 

If only you hadn’t left… Being alone and disturbed with far too much alcohol always makes for a tragedy waiting to happen… 

Please… Someone…  I don’t… I don’t want…

And then the improbable happens.

A light flickering in the distance. 

At first, it seems random until you realize it remarkably seems like the code that-

No bloody way. 

‘Hey there, friend.’ 

That’s what it says. 

Your eyes widen. 

No way, no way, no way. 

Quickly, you pull out the pocket mirror Serval had lent you. Well, given you, but it was way too expensive to keep on your person. You would sneak it back into the untouched mounds within her workshop later. 

For now, you pop it open and use the mirror to reflect the light to message back. 

‘Friend or foe?’

You wait with great anticipation for the next reply. At first, you think it might not come, but it does.

‘Friend?’

A desperate laugh escapes you as you can tell right away who this is. 

‘Idiot.’

He doesn’t miss a beat. 

‘Your idiot.’ 

You frown. 

‘Not mine.’ You correct firmly. 

Then nothing. A part of you gets tense. 

Did you ruin it? If so, then was it for the best? 

But those thoughts vanish when you finally see the light flash again. 

‘Are you okay?’  

Now it was your turn to give pause. Were you okay? 

Your hands trembled around the mirrors as fresh tears fell. This was a pivotal moment. You could feel it. 

The air felt like it had been sealed in an invisible vacuum. Static silently building within…  

You look toward where you came from.

Neither Landau has come for you… 

Too busy bickering, no doubt. 

You lightly bite down on your tongue to try and stop the tears but it’s futile. 

‘Not okay.’

The next response is so quick that you nearly miss it.

‘SOS?’

You tense. 

Your next response will be huge for what happens next… 

‘SOS?’ He asks again. “...” 

No. The pain is too much. You want out. 

‘SOS.’ 

You wait a few minutes there for a response or anything… but there’s nothing. Your shoulders drop with regret at showing even a hint of your vulnerability to an ex of all people. He probably just found your pain entertaining. Maybe he was taking pictures on his phone right now.

Well, might as well give him the best shot. 

You weep quietly from where you lean against the railing… only to feel a sudden rumble from the west side of the manor. It… felt like the kind of shockwaves a bomb gives. 

Did he just-?! 

The clanking of metallic armor stomping down the halls fills your ears as commands are shouted at length. You debate leaving the balcony but now you’re scared. What if you’ve been lured into a trap? What if you’ll be made the scapegoat? What if-

“Hey there.” 

You turn to see the dual dagger-wielding rogue lifting himself with ease over the railing. You were at least three stories high… Had he really just scaled all of that on his own? 

Those enchanting green eyes capture you in an instant as they seem equally mesmerized to see you again. A relieved smile spreads across his face as he tilts his head. 

“Heard you wanted a swift exit?” 

AN: *sipping on Bicardi* Wow. I did not expect to write this… Thank you magic bat. 

For those of you that made it this far, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! 

This could continue but we'll see. Love Triangles are pretty fun though, eh?

Hello! This is hopefully the final time I talk, and from this entire post I will do my best to be clear and out of my cheerful and friendly persona. This is, quite frankly, an itemized list of grievances in my time here that I wish to be sort out. This is not "beef". This is not "drama". I hate it when people describe problems as such when the post is about resolving issues. These are list of broken boundaries I wish would be sorted out. I am not fighting anyone. I am only stating that I wish to be treated better as an okayish writer/artist. Do not fucking attack anyone based on assumptions. I repeat: I am NOT fighting anyone. Get yourself out of that violent and unnecessary impulse and please just listen to what I have to say.

At this point I might just be on my Post-Timeskip Dimitri Arc. But anyways. I will be swearing. I don't want ANYONE giving advice. I just need you to listen and understand.

Let's start.

First point: Requests.

There's a TikTok-ification of Tumblr, it seems. And I'm not even using Tiktok to know what it is. Requests of part 2s in particular, irks me the most. But first off: I do not wish for a witch hunt. I swear to fucking lord if you do that I will block you.

This is why you'd rarely see part 2s in my masterlist. Because every time I do it, the requester does not comment. It is frustrating since if you've seen my works and not just interacting for the sillies because you think it's fun to be unhinged (Lord give me strength.), you might notice I take ample time to research, open wikis, and add lore to the story. Some writers' strength is to write poetically and make even a scene about brushing teeth feel so compelling, whereas I think my only decent skill is to come up with weird ideas and connect them. And it takes time, that's why I write oneshots with a complete plot. Fuck, it takes so much fucking time. Especially since I insist on doing things my way and drawing the headers too. So when there's radio silence, it's absolutely insulting.

But I think what insulted me the most was the time I stayed up till 5 AM to finish a request and made even the header moveable and all I get is "thanks, not what I wanted" I just. I. You didn't even pay me to do this, all I ask is idk, more words than that? I wrote 6k words and even did a colored drawing and that's it??? But I don't tell people I am insulted. I don't tell people that shit feels fucking vile. I wasn't raised to cuss people out. I grew up believing in a higher existence.

But now I'm convinced I'm not kindhearted.

I'm WEAK hearted. And I fucking hate myself.

And don't you dare tell me I'm not because when someone sent an anon ask telling me to kill myself you know how I replied??? I told them that we should talk because I'm worried that this sort of behavior will harm them one day.

Here's an old screenshot since tumblr's search system is a bit wack.

WHY THE HELL WOULD ANYONE REPLY LIKE THAT. THATS LIKE GETTING STABBED AND SAYING "DO YOU WANT THE KNIFE BACK?"

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?

WHY DO I ALWAYS LET BLATANT DISRESPECT HAPPEN TO ME WHILE I SMILE???

DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW?

HOW MUCH OF A PUSHOVER I AM? HOW MUCH I DON'T PRIORITIZE MY OWN WELL-BEING?

THAT I NEVER TELL ANYONE WHENEVER I'M HURT BECAUSE I'M AFRAID OF HURTING THEM INSTEAD?

I don't want to be mean. I just don't. But I'm doing my best to be mean in this post because civil dialogue has not worked on my case for a while now.

I'm sorry if this hurts you.

But this is one of my many problems I've been losing sleep over so I just want to solve this one and be done with it.

Second point: complete disregard for boundaries.

I don't. Fucking know why. People send me horny shit in my ask box and I don't even answer it I just delete them immediately. I don't wanna hear about how you would tie up someone and do things to them. Maybe I'd get it as a joke and post the ones I'm almost positive are jokes but I can't read some as one. I can't. I don't even wanna explain more since I'm not sure if I'm a sex-repulsed ace just yet. I remember back then during the OCMC era of this blog I repeated like thrice that I'm ace in thirst anon asks but I still get em anyways. I do not understand this. What part of my personality makes that seem fine??? I don't get it. I don't get it at all. I'm not a rizzler. I am nothing like that.

Third point: "before you send asks, do you actually read my writings?"

This problem reached its height before that I made @faceless-ayato (now @dain-speaks) so I can categorize interactions and fics. Some people during might remember that idol au era. Or maybe not. Who knows.

It is not funny how many times close friends have told me my asks sound like people talking more about themselves and their lore and not any of my stories. Like. 80%. I'm not sure if that's Tumblr culture. Just correct me if I'm wrong.

Just something examples:

Just. Be real with me. Do not vote just to make me feel better.

Because why do I get nonsense stuff. Why the hell did I get an ask saying if I'd hold their hands while pooping? What is this? Tf is that about? Why did I get an ask about crazy room rubber duck? Am i too fucking old? I got several copy pastas of some twitter shitpost even way before the diluc theme and i don't even use twitter. I don't have a Twitter.

I think what broke me is when Navi told me whenever they look at my posts they wonder how I'm not in my villain arc yet. I thought it was just my two close irl friends who felt that way. I thought they were just a bit overprotective and over thinking thinks.

But I think it's clear I'm not actually being respected by some anons.

Most are just looking for enablers. When I open up about my own struggles, my fucking grief for losing the only person that understood me and having to hold their corpse one last time, my announcement that some of the new fics won't be dark and will have compliant readers because of my mental state. What do I get? Ansy, could've been darker.

That's the fucking reason why I made a theme poll. Because if I can't be treated like a person, I'll just give some other character the clown mask. I'm so sorry I can't fuck around anymore. Now you're finding out why.

I just doubt it so bad. It hurts how much I'm doubting that readers actually read. I feel like such a clown. What if all this time I'm proud to be a writer but people just see me as some caricature all along??? I legit can feel my heart grow heavy. I'm not okay with this. You can tell when I get an ask compliment I draw something as thanks too. That's how much I am grateful for that random drop of water. It hurts so bad. I wish I can word this better, I'm a writer damn it but it hurts. I'm fucking crying. Did people even properly read the times I neatly laid out the reasons why I'm not okay before? Do I have to be so emotional for people to understand? I laid it down on several occasions nicely, organized and definitely more professional than this.

You know my situation is fucked when only mutuals and fellow content creators are the ones who read my posts. I think this is because as a generation, this is no longer writer-reader relationships but a cold creator-consumer one.

Who am I to the rest of you grandkids? The Wendy's twitter account? Is that still a thing? What the fuck is happening. Why aren't I treated with human decency as other yandere writers? Where did I fuck up? Is it because I treat you guys as friends? Fucking tell me. Don't give me advice. Tell me where I went wrong and just that.

I will tell you my biggest fucking insecurity since childhood that I don't bring up often: I don't think I'm a "complete" human. Not some fucked up scifi unbelievable bullshit but I feel like there's always something MISSING— like it's harder for me to understand social cues than other people— like it's harder for me to process my own emotions. I won't go into details, maybe it's something undiagnosed- but that's why since day 1 I call myself a gremlin. I don't even tell you guys much about this because I want this blog to be a creative writing space where I can feel safe. But where did that led me.

So to be treated like some haha funni machine even when I'm being genuine hurts so much. It hurts. And the worst part is this is 100% my fault. And now I have to open up about this to get it to people's head.

Alright

That's all.

Here's your cup of ansy-tea.

I promise you won't hear from me more than you have to. I'll do my best to guarantee the rest of the posts are Diluc and writings.

I hope you all have a wonderful day!!! If you read this till the end, thank you. I appreciate you a ton! It means a lot to me. And genuinely please don't give me some advice. I already received plenty and finally listened to years of persuasion to just have this "villain arc". If you gave me one, I'll just assume you skimmed through everything and it'll make me feel even worse. Thanks!

Seriously. Tumblr isn't my only life. This is just one of my many problems (though it's mostly money lol). Don't make it seem like it is.

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

😭😭😭

I won’t forget you.

CHOOSE KAVEH PLEASE. 😭

to the moon & back — x. snow day

alhaitham x gn!reader x kaveh

prev. | masterlist. | next.

NOTE — just wanted to create a snow focused chapter cause apparently the uk wanted to freeze me to death. i’ll make a better chapter after this i swear

White blankets of snow covered Teyvat Uni's area meaning that classes were cancelled today. You find yourself awake in Kaveh's bed, scrolling your phone.

"Y/N get out if my bed! Let's build snowmen!"

A groan exits your mouth upon hearing Kaveh’s voice. The room was undeniably cold, how much more would it be when you go outside? You weren’t going outside unless…

“I’ll treat you to starbucks later on if you come with us.”

That’s it, you were off to where he was.

He held a coat out for you and fixed it on your figure once you put it on. Alhaitham then comes from behind to wrap a scarf around your neck. “Huh? Are you playing in the snowbwith us as well?”

“I want to make it up to you both. I won’t invite Nilou. It will just be us three.”

Somehow, you felt a bit glad about that. You didn’t hate her of course but it’s been a while since you hung up with Alhaitham ever since they started dating.

Once you and your best friends exited their shared dorm, the snow fluttering down the sky was landing on your face. The snow was incredibly thick. You were sure it was soft enough to land in.

“Hey Y/N.” You turned to face Alhaitham but was greeted by a snowball to the face.

“That was uncalled for Haitham!”

What you noticed with Alhaitham was that he was actually smiling! Was it the nickname? Oh who cares, he threw a snowball at you. You had to make him pay.

Meanwhile, with Kaveh, he was trying to create a wall made out of snow to protect himself against the attacks from you and Alhaitham. But jealousy hits him like snow suddenly coming to the uk two weeks before spring. He grabs a handful of snow and threw it at Alhaitham as hard as he can.

“Oh, so you want to conduct a war, Kaveh?”

“I’d win against you easily.”

The two of them then face you who was just trying to form a snowman at this point. “Y/N… Who are you siding with? Me or Alhaitham?” Kaveh questions as he prepares the snowball he’d throw at Alhaitham.

“Hmm…”

A side of you wanted to side with Kaveh, who had been supporting you all this time while the other side wanted Alhaitham, the one you’ve been trying to desperately avoid ever since he started dating Nilou. It was a tough decision.

“I choose…

…Alhaitham.”

He could feel his heart drop. This was certainly a very familiar scene. Why was it always him?

Calm down Kaveh…. It’s only a game…

Your choice wouldn’t mean anything in the future anyways, right?

His bad mood was soon replaced with joy as soon as he sees you happily conversing with Alhaitham discussing on ways to defeat himself.

He would gladly let you take Alhaitham’s side every time just to see you smile a lot.

sypnosis ; as best friends, it was your duty to support alhaitham no matter what. however, when he starts dating your roommate, things change.

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