#A study In Aether | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

m1d-45 · 2 months

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renewed

summary: many things have changed in aether's life since he met you...

word count: 2.7k

-> warnings: n/a

-> gn reader (you/yours) + aether as traveller!

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

aether isn’t quite human. at least not entirely, not anymore.

it could be argued that even prior to coming to teyvat, he and his sister weren’t entirely human. they were nearly always stronger than the native life wherever they traveled, never lingering long enough for an accurate portrait to be drawn. between their glittering wings and the razor sharp swords at their hips, it could be easily argued that from the perspective of the people they visited they could be called angels.

a few wrote legends about them. the gilded warriors with shimmering swords that blinded as they slashed, so in step with each other that it was as if they were one being. the saviors, the adventurers, the peaceful giants, twin faces atop four wings apiece. lumine always managed to sneak away a copy of these legends, and they privately laughed over the artwork at their camp that night.

“we don’t look that intimidating, do we?”

“i’m fairly certain-… hang on, is that a tail?”

“that’s supposed to my hair, i think.”

“no no, look. it connects lower, here.”

“…by the stars-”

they didn’t see themselves that way, though. they were simply twins, defined by the other in every sense. never apart for long, always stood side by side, trading swords before a dangerous fight as a promise to return them.

‘draw me with courage.’

‘wield me with valor.’

lumine and aether and aether and lumine. they never fussed about the order, so long as they were together. call them whatever you’d like, insults or praise or a simple, tired request to leave, as long as it was both of them. they were all they had left. the other half of their life. to try and pry apart the seam would only result in bleeding hearts, limbs tangling together to at least die by the other’s side. even ‘twin’ was too simple a word to fit the entirety of their lives into. ‘twin’ implied a degree of separation, an impossible gap between them where wind would blow and the world would dig into, pushing them away like waves in a boat’s wake. ‘twin’ was too shallow a word, to bitter, too small to encompass everything they felt.

such fervent devotion could never be considered ‘human,’ for no human would ever live long enough to know the fear that came with knowing everything that swelled would eventually fall. no human would clutch so desperately to the twin pillars in their life—would ever consider basing their world upon two things. they’d call it foolish, even, for what would you do if one collapsed?

aether never liked that question. he didn’t like it when he and lumine first heard it, he didn’t like it when he and lumine heard it a second time, he didn’t like it anytime he and lumine heard it after that. he didn’t like it now, her sword slipping from his hands as he reached, his fingers barely brushing hers.

the unknown god laughed, and he barely had time to feel rage before the world closed in on him and his memory faded away.

aether and lumine. lumine and aether. she was always insistent upon his safety, but just this once he wished she wasn’t. living in whatever stasis she was in within that cube would certainly hurt less than this, bile rising in his throat at his failure.

somewhere in his mind, he knew that it logically wasn’t his fault. he remembered the layer of warmth that had surrounded him mid-battle, saw the reflection of understanding in lumine’s eyes. it wasn’t technically his fault, he didn’t ask to be saved, ignoring that it was his own actions that led to his god’s blessing. perhaps if he wasn’t so strict about the time of his prayer he wouldn’t have to be alone on this beach, though there was no way to find out. the sand stretched on either side, and though it wasn’t infinite, he had not left the immediate area around where he’d first woken up. to move was to move on, to leave, to accept that his world had shattered into a thousand little fragments and to give up on picking them off the floor. he couldn’t leave. to leave was to surrender to this new fate. to leave was to forget about his sister, to forget about his self, to forget about the half of his life he never imagined he could lose.

family and faith. to lose his gods favor was a threat he could live with, as there would only be himself to blame. but his sister?

if he hadn’t fished up paimon, he’s not certain he would have eaten the fish that came up instead.

she was bright, bubbly, at least after coughing up an impossible amount of seawater. she thanked him profusely while wringing out her hair, insisting on helping him in return because “it’s only fair!” as if he wasn’t three times her weight (save her magic) and and ten times as strong.

and he let her. he’s not sure why, but he did. he watched her fumble to catch crabs, ending up covered in sand, and managed a weak smile. it was for her, he told himself, spearing three with a sword that wasn’t his, helping her arrange driftwood into a measly campfire. he hardly felt hungry despite being on the beach for what had to be a few months in local time, but she was so insistent that he have some.. it was for her benefit. he just had to get her somewhere safe, then… then…

“so, where are you from?”

aether looked up from his barely-touched meal, meeting her eyes. they were so wide and earnest, too trusting for someone that just met him.

not that he had any ill intentions. no, lumine would always joke that the day he was willingly rude to another would be the day the sky turned red—something that had been the case on one of the planets they’d visited, much to her delight.

aether turned back to the fire, pushing aside the memory. “another planet.” his voice was hoarse and his throat scratched with salt from attempting to drink the seawater earlier, which was not as potable as he’d hoped. “i flew here with my sister.”

“you have a sister?” paimon looked around, though they both knew she wouldn’t find anything. “where is she?”

aether swallowed salt and bile, taking another bite of his crab just to stall. “how about we talk in the morning?”

she let the topic drop.

he didn’t sleep that night, lending her his scarf as a pillow and keeping watch. she didn’t wake when the moon erased the shadows in the sand, or when the sun first crested the sea, or when the sky fully lightened to a pale blue, birdsong filling the air. one of the remnants from the fire found its way into his hand, reaching out to gently shake her awake. her eyes were heavy and she covered her mouth as she yawned, aether looking away before his own could water.

he drew nothing in the sand as she asked her questions—who are you, where’d you come from, who are you missing, what happened to her, why didn’t you do anything?—sketching out mountains and seas he wiped away as soon as they took form. he spoke for much longer than he meant to, his words pulled out as if they were tied to some invisible string.

when was the last time he was alone for this long?

paimon listened intently, brows drawn and frowning deeply, watching as he carved twin—twin, separated by time and space—stars into the sand. “so… what you’re trying to say is that you fell here… from another world? but when you wanted to leave, to go on to the next world, your path was blocked by some unknown god?”

wow, he wanted to snark, i didn’t know there was an echo out here! but the chance never came. magic gripped him by the throat and his eyes went wide in panic, his mouth shaping words he didn’t choose to say by force. he didn’t want to say what someone else told him to. he didn’t know what was going on. he was being pulled at some ghost’s whims, walking stiffly across the sand. it did not skid from beneath his feet, nor pull his balance one way or another. it was solid as stone, leading him up the beach without warning, without knowledge of why or when it would stop.

when was the last time he was this helpless?

(lumine.)

he stumbled across the shore on uncoordinated limbs, fighting fruitlessly. ahead, slime bubbled up from where the sand met the sea, but the ghost did not stop. mist coagulated into a pale blue blob with hazy spots for eyes, and only then was he allowed to stop. paimon yelped and ducked behind him, a familiar weight sinking into his hand. the slime had barely the chance to turn and see him, jerking up as if surprised, when his arm slashed forward.

a sword. not his sword, not lumine’s sword, but a sword, pulled from nowhere, the dull blade hacking at the blob of its own will until the sludge dispersed and sunk back into the sand. a soft mist lingered above the sand, but he was pulled forward without care or remorse. he didn’t even know if it would have hurt him.

weight hit him between the shoulders, cold spreading over his skin and absorbing into his skin. energy buzzed beside his ear, his earring humming with neither outlet nor conduit. were he anyone else, he would have been afraid, but he recognized the buzz. all at once, he understood. all at once, the weak puppetry was vindicated, his muscles relaxing and letting it happen. your energy sank into him, and he let himself stop worrying.

if you were here, he’d be okay. if you were here, you could fix this.

if you were here, he could find his sister, and everything would be okay again.

aether was not human. not entirely, not anymore, and he knew the people of mondstat could tell. you had stayed to guide his body for a week, alternating between helping the knights with dvalin and exploring the plains of mondstat. he was weak and your grip was frail, his attacks uncoordinated and clumsy, but you were there. you understood. the cavalry captain gave him a long stare as they exited his domain, a mix of curiosity and disbelief swirling in his one eye.

when you finally left, you did so in the middle of mondstat square. a physical weight lifted from his shoulders, the anemo he’d absorbed turning from calm and controlled to pushing at the edges of his form, trying to make him give. the anemo archon approached, soothing the wind with a wave of his hand, pulling him along for a drink and a chat. his knees did not want to bend without your command, his mind fraying a bit from continued exposure.

“how interesting, that you’re still standing after a week without rest,” the bartender remarked, the glass in his hands obviously an excuse to keep them above the bar. “what’s your name, outlander?”

he did not think of his own name. no, when he went to answer, he thought of the name you had given him, the one you whispered as you sheltered him from the unknown god’s wrath. it was not his, but it was yours, and wasn’t that what he was asking for?

it took too long for him to answer. red eyes narrowed but eventually chalked it up to exhaustion, giving him directions he couldn’t hear. the captain led him to a room in the back, but he didn’t sleep that night, sitting at the window and searching for the thin sliver of stars.

he didn’t need to eat anymore. he could, certainly, and it tasted fine enough, but he didn’t exactly need to. he’d thought it odd, at first, that barbatos was healed strictly by the wind, but he understood now. he spent his free time sitting under vanessa’s tree, half-asleep as he waited for your return.

you were his source of energy, of will. you knew answers to problems he’d have given up on, and if you didn’t then you tried and tried and tried again until you got it right. you were the power that purified dvalin’s tears, you swept the wind to fix the holy lyre, you cleared the seals around decarabian’s tower. he was a medium, and he was happy with that. your presence waxed and waned, the lapses without you seeming to pass by in a blink.

a few of the knights worried for him, but he knew your vessels understood. none held as much of your power as him, none were as reliant on you, but they understood. they excused his oddities with a kind smile, paimon always at his side to make sure he didn’t waste away the day simply sitting in one spot. prior to coming to teyvat, the concept of elemental sight was something he was only vaguely familiar with. a few planets had some talented witches that could feel the flow of energy through the ground and grass, who could watch the mist in the air and predict the weather. he’d never experienced it himself before. now, the world lit up as his eyes took on a teal sheen, your power mixing with the anemo within him to grant him insight. the world was so vibrant, even the most mundane sights capturing his attention. how could he not stare? if he had it his way he’d always view your creations like this.. but whenever paimon snapped him out of it he’d come out of it with a headache, not to mention his staring tended to be off-putting to those around.

a lot of his new behaviors were. when within your control, he moved stiffly, with repetitive motions forecast well in advance. you chose what he said, when and how he moved, you controlled the very flow of elements through his body. it was harder and harder to think for himself without you there and though paimon handled most of the conversation, there was only so much she could say.

“who are you looking for?” lumine. his sister. himself. the knowledge was there but his throat was closed, unwilling to move without your order.

“thank you for your help.” you’re welcome. don’t worry about it. it was nothing. all he could manage was a stiff nod, eyes flicking to the sky, counting the days until your return. he’d gotten a good grasp of your routine by now.

“who are you?” yours. a traveller. lumine’s. he could not blame those they ran across for their suspicion, even though he wanted to. could they not feel the remains of your presence lingering around him?

they had to go to the rite of decension soon. liyue was holding off, though, waiting for your arrival. they’d never dare to make you miss it, so aether felt no hurry to leave. he laid in the middle of windrise, staring up at the stars. he used to sit atop the knights’ headquarters, but it took too long for the lights of the city to turn out and he liked picking out the various constellations.

his was up there, somewhere. he didn’t have a vision like your other vessels, but he could feel it. it was written right beside your decision to save him and not lumine, alongside your actions in mondstat and everything you’d do in liyue. fate, you’d called it, well-acquainted and intertwined.

aether fell asleep on wet grass among cold wind. he did not get sick, nor was he attacked or otherwise hurt. why would he have been, anyway? your blood was in his veins; he had nothing at all to fear.

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ievaxol · 6 months

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no one can unring this bell

on good days, the creaking hardly bothers him.

'tis simply part of the daily routine to draw from the well of his aether and breathe life into his limbs again upon waking, to close his eyes through the initial panic of being pinned to the bed by dead weight and then the secondary, slower burning one of that dead weight being attached to him.

it took a couple of years, but he got the hang of it eventually. for all the theatrics of his youth, g'raha has discovered a pragmatic streak that runs deep within him.

he'll trade an arm for a settlement, half a leg for a child with eyes the color of lakeland -- he'll barter, give and take and move the pieces he has with lips pressed together and eyes cast to a future that may well lay hundreds of years ahead.

his own body is merely another resource at his disposal. he sits down with stacks upon stacks of books on anatomy to find a way to have the aether penetrate all the way out to this fingertips, not for himself but because the dexterity is needed in order to fight.

lyna smothers him in salves and ointments and he lets her, if only so she can feel needed. there is no need to tell of an itch that goes deeper than skin, not when she frowns in determination and sets his heart to bursting with affection.

on bad days, it does bother him.

those days he lets the sleeves drop a little lower and he stays in the tower if he can, both relieved and sickened at the familiar hum of aether that cocoons him.

relief at knowing he'll be able to move the way he wants. that he'll be able to fool himself into thinking there is nothing wrong with him so long as he doesn't look upon himself and see the tattered remains of his dress branded into the mockery of flesh provided by the tower.

nausea at the calculations that perpetually run in the back of his mind, reminding him of the fact that his body is no longer his. how many ilms of skin does it cost to save a life? what limbs would he trade for the crystalline mean? does he have the right to grieve himself?

it would probably do him well to remember that the tower isn't sentient as such, yet he can never shake the feeling that it hungers for more. some days it feels as though he has placed himself in the maw of a starving beast that is simply waiting for him to grow a little more before its jaws snap shut.

and time is notoriously not on his side.

on the worst days, the creaking is all he hears.

when he's called out on extended business, or another summoning attempt falls flat, or someone dies, or, well --

it's so loud those days. the scrape of rock against rock, slow and relentless. it is inescapable, too, as his chest heaves with every breath he takes and the crystal moves with it, groaning and cracking like a live thing.

the warmth is siphoned first out of his skin and then out of the very air, leaving his teeth chattering and lyna's face engraved with a silent worry that he's scared will grow permanent, and he wants to weep at how the one supposed to protect her ends up hurting her the most.

every swallow is a struggle, every step a fight. the seams of his transformation cracks and bleeds pain until he's half delirious with it, overcome by the need to claw his way out, out, out of his own body and the prison it makes.

it's basic survival instinct after all, to run away from what's killing you. and here he is. walking toward it, sprinting some days, as if he truly can't wait.

he has a thousand things to do and a hundred places to be, and yet all he is capable of is humming under his breath to try and drown out the never ending sound of his own corpse being puppeteered.

a small prize to pay on the grand scale of things but gods.

gods does he long for silence.

#gwagwa body horror my beloved #gwagwa chronic pain sufferer my darling #g'raha tia #the crystal exarch #rambles #mine writing #did you know eorzea collection 3 has a passage about how he has to use aether #to move his crystal limbs #: )#character study-ish?

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mimizybylazia · 3 months

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Enchanted

#albether #albedo #aether #albedo x aether #genshin impact #genshin fanart #my art #アル空 #if you know you know #illustration #pose study

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murksou · 9 months

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Did some studies of Clairen and tried to keep the flow going so have the results of that

#cwai cwai!!!!!!#clairen #rivals of aether #art study #digital art #expression sheet #panther girl #let's goooo #love my wife #furry art

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kumaronoa · 1 year

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scaraether studies i did using wolf’s rain screenshots as ref ~

the first one was a headache~ LOOK AT IT!! ahem , bye ~

#genshin impact #scaraether #genshin wanderer #genshin aether #sketches #doodles #studies #even at my lowest i'm able to draw something #pats my own back

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heretodefyfate · 10 months

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gosh, seeing people happily discussing about their OCs make me want to show my OCs too but then i realized i still have not make any "official" art of them and their background details are still being worked on

#just me rambling #tbh. my reborn ocs are the only one who ''fully'' fleshed out #Kayne original from Hoenn and their main purpose to go to Reborn was to study these new field effects #Neo (who i considering to change name because there are suprisingly many ocs has Neo name XD)-#was originally from Reborn but moved to Alola after the region got into chaos #then back to Reborn because the Aether president order him to look for rouge scientist that secretly works on Type:null #and then order him to stop the PULSE inventions #Evelyn is one of the orphanage from Sigmund place #she ran away before Lin did and joined team Meteor then leave the team after learning about what happened to Ace #rejuv OCs are like...different cans of worms #because rejuv lores are wild #all ocs are from different worlds that ''stumble'' into this one specific dimension #one OC is hinted to be Ariana who lost her memory because she felt into a Dimensional Rift when running away from the Nihilego #one is an high-ranking scientist of Garufa who got killed by Variya but their soul somehow ''get'' rescued by their Dusknoir and the pokemo #thought it would be safer to literally transfer its trainer soul to different universe #one is related to my other Reborn OC. who...has the most normal background compared to other rejuv ocs #there is also another rejuv oc that...has two versions of themselves #one is specifically made for renegade route and to be the pain in everyone ass

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minhxiao · 4 months

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if a tree falls scaramouche/aether | rating: T | 2.1k words The night before Jnagarbha Day, when Scaramouche is to complete the final stage of the God Creation Plan, Aether finds him alone in the Apam Woods.

Even at night, the Ashavan Realm is a humid, verdant green. In another life, Scaramouche might have found it beautiful.

His presence is like an aberrated ink blot on canvas. Even the local flora and fauna seem to bend away from his vicinity, the mythical Aranara making themselves scarce in his company.

It’s hardly a surprise to Scaramouche. After all, these days, he's only the specter of a person.

But not for long.

What does come as a surprise, however, is the sudden prickling of awareness that arises at the base of his neck, the sound of rustling grass and footsteps behind him. A draft of warm life fills the air and somewhere, a lotus blooms.

He hadn’t expected him to show up, to find him here on the night before his ascension as a new god, but Scaramouche doesn’t mind surprises. What he doesn’t like is the feeling of being cornered.

But he displays none of this current unease, barely even flinches or startles at the traveler’s presence. He only digs his heels into the dirt when he hears Aether come to a stop just behind him. His floating companion is mysteriously absent.

A divine intervention, then. Scaramouche almost smiles. For a moment, it’s quiet and the wind cradles the veil of his hat like a gentle touch.

Aether speaks first.

“You don’t want to do this.”

Scaramouche had strangely expected him to start with something pleasant, like “what a beautiful view” or “the sky looks lovely tonight,” but quickly realizes the absurdity of that thought. They had never been friends. Even the word “acquaintances” is far too generous. Perhaps it’s merely the strange, unsettled feeling in Scaramouche’s body tonight that is making him more prone to things like sentimentality.

It is an immense relief knowing that tomorrow, he won’t have to deal with such things anymore.

“You seem to think you know a large deal about what I want,” Scaramouche says, still not turning to face him. “What, one look into my consciousness is enough to have me all figured out?”

“You… You said you care for Haypasia,” Aether hesitates and oh, Scaramouche loves how he can make someone like the staunch, unwavering traveler stumble over his words. “Someone who cares for their mortal follower wouldn’t willingly throw away their humanity for something like this.”

“Humanity…” Scaramouche muses. He really is growing sentimental on the night before his rebirth and the feeling itches in the way that he imagines a scar would feel. So Scaramouche only ghosts his fingers over the gnosis in his chest, listens to it tick like a clockwork heart.

“You already know that I think that’s hardly something worth fighting for.”

“And divinity is?”

“... Divinity is my purpose. That’s all there is to it,” Scaramouche stands, slowly dusting the dirt off his trousers. “I have to say, you’re even more delusional that I had initially thought if you really hoped to achieve something with this conversation, but fortunately, you caught me in a good mood, so―”

“I don’t buy it. You’re throwing your life away just to become the Akademiya’s next puppet. You can’t tell me that that’s something you truly want.”

Perhaps it’s the word “puppet” that sends an irrational flicker of rage and resentment through Scaramouche. His face immediately darkens as he finally turns to face him.

And there he is, sickeningly golden like the touch of the sun’s last light.

He who has received the favor of the gods. He who had been privy to Scaramouche’s deepest memories, had witnessed his past that still bled like a raw, open wound.

He who has everything that Scaramouche does not.

Aether.

Even a name is something that Scaramouche does not truly possess, and Aether's is something beautiful, light and free of burden like the wide expanse of the sky.

There is already a sword unsheathed in Aether’s right hand and Scaramouche realizes suddenly that Aether had come despite knowing that his words would be useless. He had approached him all alone, prepared to fight.

Anything Scaramouche had planned to say immediately sours in his mouth.

What a fool.

"You know nothing about what I want."

A sick feeling, vicious as a scythe, twists its way up Scaramouche’s hollow limbs and he decides that he’s no longer feeling generous enough for conversation. He’s moving before he even realizes it, flickering towards him in an arc of lightning.

To his credit, Aether only wavers for a moment, his eyes briefly widening, before he meets Scaramouche’s blow with the edge of his blade. Electricity sings down the metal into the pommel in his hand, but Aether doesn’t drop his sword.

He only winces before summoning a snarl of Dendro, bending the earth to his will as vines sprawl to curl beneath Scaramouche’s feet. The irony is not lost on him that Aether is using Rukkhadevata’s power against him, the essence of the energy overflowing with growth, vitality. The thorns nick against the skin of his calves, but he doesn’t register the pain.

Scaramouche singes all of the thorns to dust.

In a flash, he has his fingers around Aether’s wrist, sending a bolt of lightning lancing up his arm, strong enough to shock the weapon from his hands.

Aether jolts with a stuttered gasp as he drops his sword, the static making his hair rise as his veins bloom with electricity. His lips are parted in surprise. This close, Scaramouche can feel how harshly his breath leaves him.

But Aether recovers quickly enough to yank Scaramouche’s robes and drag him bodily to the ground. His hat tumbles from his head with a soft clink. Teeth gritted, Aether arches his knee to drive it into Scaramouche’s stomach, but the Balladeer only twists out of the way and slams his elbow into Aether’s ribcage.

Scaramouche normally doesn’t fight like this. He never understood the point of getting his hands dirty. But for the first time, he finds there is some physical delight in feeling how his fist connects with Aether’s jaw, how skin meets skin in a moment of perfect, intimate violence.

Maybe it’s the stark knowledge that this is the closest Scaramouche will ever come to touching something truly holy.

Aether spits out blood. It splatters crimson across Scaramouche’s knuckles.

He grabs a fistful of Aether’s hair and tilts his face to look at him.

The traveler glares at him, chin lifted. Every part of his expression is so devastatingly human that Scaramouche finds himself observing him for a moment. And he’s unbearably easy to read, every feeling that flashes across Aether’s face is as clear as the heart he wears on his sleeve.

“Look at you,” Scaramouche digs his knee against Aether’s hip. “So worked up over me. I should feel flattered.”

Aether’s brows furrow. He twists to kick his legs, but it’s hardly a struggle to keep him pinned there on the ground.

“I could say the same for you,” Aether’s voice is low, controlled, though his eyes cut with an unspeakable venom. Oh, he’s angry, and Scaramouche likes that― likes seeing the way he tempers his anger, hones it mid-swing like the arc of a blade just before release.

Anger had always been too tame of a word for Scaramouche― no, what he felt was always something much uglier. Hideous. So there was a strange satisfaction in being able to see that feeling perfectly mirrored in Aether’s own face.

It’s comforting, in a way. Knowing that even he was capable of such an unsightly feeling.

Aether’s chest glows green and gnarled tree branches twist along Scaramouche’s legs, rooting him in place. Scaramouche lets go of Aether’s hair just as a vine darts out to snake along his forearm, squeezing tight enough to bruise.

“I’m only indulging you right now since I have the time,” Scaramouche answers, eyes catching on the Dendro energy swirling through Aether’s form. He hates that it’s mesmerizing, that a part of him wants to reach out and dip his hands into that pure, sage green light. “Wanted to see how you’d play the hero.”

What he doesn’t say is that he really just wanted to see Aether fight for him.

To see just how desperately the traveler would try to sway him so that maybe, Scaramouche could vainly hope for one second that someone like him was really someone worth saving.

“I’m not trying to play anything.” Aether’s vines curl their way up his shoulder.

“Really? Then why are you here?” Scaramouche lets them constrict and wrap around the length of his torso. “Don’t tell me you thought you would actually be able to convince me.”

Scaramouche doesn’t miss how Aether’s eyes flash with something raw and honest before it quickly settles back into a heated glare. He falls impossibly still in realization.

He really did think he could convince me.

The idea is so absurd that Scaramouche actually goes silent, stunned speechless.

Aether must see this, because in his momentary distraction, the traveler pulls back his fist and swings it squarely into Scaramouche’s face.

It stings, but only because Scaramouche’s not expecting it. His head snaps to the side, mouth opening.

“I don’t know, maybe I did,” Aether pants, eyes glowing. “ Maybe I thought more of you.”

Something in Scaramouche’s chest stirs with heat and he mistakes it for the stolen gnosis between his ribs. His jaw aches.

Those words almost make you sound like a friend who truly cares.

And Scaramouche looks down at Aether then, his golden hair splayed around him like sweet flowers in the dirt, his fingers slightly shaking in his clenched fist. He sees how the sharp Dendro tendrils are poised around Scaramouche’s neck, paused and waiting― how he’s too merciful to strike him unaware, even now.

In a brief, terrifying moment, Scaramouche wonders if he should just let Aether kill him. But his resilient, infallible body is incapable of death, even at the hands of someone greater.

How honorable, to be a hero. To carry a title as liberating as “the witness”, “the traveler.” In another life, Scaramouche might have loved to have been the same.

But Scaramouche has long forgotten about things like “honor.”

His voice comes out hoarse. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He sends a current of Electro straight down through the blooming vines until they snap like dry, brittle bark.

Aether flinches when Scaramouche lifts him up by the scarf and arcs his hand back to strike.

The palm of his hand crests with a surge of Electro energy, a blinding violet. His power, her power.

Scaramouche knows, in a moment of heightened clarity, that he could kill him. Right here, in the middle of the forest, with no one else watching― he could kill him so easily that it would be laughable. No one would even know who did it. The entirety of the traveler’s unfathomable, mundane life all within the palm of Scaramouche’s hand.

In that split second, he sees Aether’s eyes widen with the same realization. Aether’s lips part in a soft intake of breath.

When a star dies, does it make a sound?

Scaramouche remembers then, that death is a soundless, lightless thing. How it does nothing but leave you and leave you. Even if he were to become a god, he has a feeling he would always remember this death, the way an axe always remembers the tree.

And maybe it’s a moment of weakness, maybe it’s the slight breeze in the woods that reminds him that the forest is watching him. Or maybe it’s Aether’s expression, full and alive with something intangible.

But he can’t bear it.

All of Scaramouche’s power leaves him in a split second, his body draining into a hollow vessel. His hand falls limply atop Aether’s chest, right over his stupid, beating heart. He feels it thrumming wildly beneath his fingertips, his pulse warm and rabbit-like.

It's nothing at all like the sound in Scaramouche's chest.

Aether’s breath returns to him in sharp bursts, his hand instinctively rising to curl loosely around Scaramouche’s wrist. His head falls back against the ground in muted relief, the tension slowly bleeding from his body.

He sees Aether’s mouth open, his gaze swirling with intensity, but Scaramouche suddenly feels exhausted. And he doesn’t want to stick around any longer to hear what Aether has to say.

So he tugs his wrist from Aether’s grasp and pushes off of him, reaching over to grab his hat.

The moon peeks out between the clouds, painting Aether’s figure in an incandescent silvery light. Part of his braid has come loose. His lip drips blood in a line straight down his chin.

(But even bloodied and bruised, he is a vision of everything Scaramouche is not.)

He can’t stand it.

“Scaramouche, you―”

The Balladeer turns to leave, not intent on hearing the end of Aether’s sentence. His veil rustles as he tips his hat to shield his face. He raises a useless hand in farewell, hoping that the gesture feels mocking.

And if he spends the rest of his night thinking about Aether’s expression right before he could have killed him, no one has to know.

#canon divergent #character study #pre-slash #enemies to lovers #an excerpt from an old scaraether wip! used it for a submission but realized i might as well post since i'm not gonna post it on ao3 #inspired by some post talking abt scara wanting to kill aether but realizing he couldn't bear killing something so beautiful #ficlets #genshin fic #genshin impact #scaraether #aescara #minific

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iamthecomet · 10 months

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ok i'm just. I RECENTLY SAW AGAIN THIS XMAS PHOTO WHERE PAPA IS SANTA CLAUS AND GHOULS IN GOLD SWEATERS AND. I I don't know how I didn't notice this before BUT I SAW THAT FUCKING AETHER CHOKES CIRRUS. PLEASE!!! AETHER CHOKING CIRRUS I NEED IT!!!

Maybe not exactly what you wanted, but I've got some vaguely sexual choking as a form of stress relief under the cut! I'm really into Cirrus and Aether's relationship, someday I'll explore it more, but for now, you get this. <3

Cirrus only lets certain people choke her. Only certain people see her at her most vulnerable. She doesn't like to be out of control. Doesn't like to be helpless. Cirrus is in charge--always. There are three exceptions to that rule. The first being Cumulus, who knows Cirrus better than she knows herself. Who Cirrus cannot deny anything. The second is when she's in heat. Usually she locks herself in her room with trusted people to avoid any mishaps. To avoid spiraling out of control in mixed company. The third, is Aether.

He fits his fingers over her throat. Doesn't squeeze. Just lets her feel the weight of it. Let's her feel the way he engulfs her, the strength coiled in his muscles. He pets a calloused thumb over her rabbit quick pulse. "Don't have to," Aether reminds her. She shakes her head. "Need it." It's an annoyance. She hates when she gets like this. The world becoming too much. Stress weighing down on her, until the idea of deciding what to eat for breakfast makes her feel like she's going to rip someone's head off. She needs it, needs someone to take her out of her head. To quiet the relentless screaming happening between her ears. She arches up against Aether's hand. Locks her legs harder around his hips and pulls him closer. Still in control, even when pinned beneath the weight of him. They're still clothed, it's barely sexual. Barely anything other than her own desperate need to drop and feel safe about it. To be manhandled, to be pushed around and choked beyond what Cumulus is willing to do. Aether's chubbed up between her legs, though, she can feel it as clearly as she can her own slick. She'll take care of him after--or he her. However it happens they'll both get off. Aether will make sure of it despite how hard it is for her to get out of her own head and just cum. "Your thinking so hard I think I smell smoke," Aether whispers, face tipping up into an easy smile. She wants to kiss him. Wants to dig her teeth into that smile and shut him up. She growls at him, baring teeth. "Then make me stop," she demands. Aether looks at her for another breath, at the curl to her lip. The tension strung high through all of her limbs. He bends down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. And then he bares down, digs his fingers into her pulse and the world goes hazy, fuzzy. Her eyes flutter but she keeps them open--one of Aether's rules. She keeps her eyes on his despite how badly she wants to sink into this. He lets up far too soon for her liking. But the flood of oxygen back into her blood knocks every coherent thought from her brain. She sags back into the pillows. Aether's cock throbs against her thigh. She smiles up at him, panting, throat aching, tension pouring out of her like he's opened the floodgates. She licks her lips. "Again."

#comet writes #cirrus/aether #choking #Cirrus ghoulette #Aether Ghoul #Poorly disguised character studies #ghost fic #ghost fan fic #ghost fan fiction #the band ghost fan fiction #the band ghost fan fic

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vasiktomis · 1 year

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Discipline (18+)

Pairing: Kaveh/Alhaitham, Alhaitham/Gender Neutral Traveller (implied). Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: 3200. Tags: roommates with benefits, Alhaitham has a thing for blondes, traveller is not present, hand jobs, Alhaitham is a selfish lover, Kaveh POV. Warnings: Kind of toxic relationship dynamics. Scholars having scholarly pursuits.

Read it on Ao3 Here!

“And where have you been?”

It’s a particularly late hour, and Kaveh barely looks up from his project when his roommate stalks into his periphery down the hall. When he does, he does so forcefully, posture rigid and repressed; the slightest straying from his usual smug stoicism. The front door bangs just a little louder than usual behind Alhaitham, and a thrill creeps up Kaveh’s spine.

Oh, he’s in a terrible mood tonight.

“I wouldn’t think that’s any of your business, actually. Though I’m sure you’ve been pouring over my whereabouts all day.” Alhaitham mutters, matter-of-fact, shrugging out of his cape and hanging it up. Likewise, he spares Kaveh no attention. "We've been at the border."

The quill Kaveh had been ruling scrapes to a stop. “We?” He tilts his head. Alhaitham never went anywhere with anyone. “Let me guess. The Traveller, again?"

“If you'd already come to a conclusion, why waste both our time asking?" The Scribe grumbles. "Are you that insecure in your own mental ability?" There's a pause as he makes his way to the study, passing Kaveh and his project on his way to his own much, much larger desk. Unexpectedly, he doesn't return to silence. "It's exhausting. I'm fairly certain we've scoured most of the uncovered ruins in the desert. The libraries have been turned upside down. At this rate we'll end up having to leave Sumeru altogether to search for new material to study."

“Maybe that’s what you get for offering to help with their business.” Kaveh muses, resuming his work. “Not particularly like you to offer your services for sentimentality. What was it again they're looking for? A runaway family member?”

Alhaitham doesn’t respond to that. He outright avoids it, seating himself and turning to a marked chapter of whatever nonsense he's been reading lately. “How much longer do you plan on making a mess of my spare desk?”

“A while, yet.”

This has been something of their routine as of late; ever since Kaveh returned to Sumeru city and Alhaitham had been made acting Grand Sage in the absence of Azar, the Scribe had been dedicating a large chunk of his free time to tagging along for yet more adventures with that little blonde Traveller. The nights that Alhaitham actually returned were typically filled with complaints about the day. He’d murmur and mutter about the illogicalities of his new companion’s search efforts. Retell stories in as much of a disinterested tone as possible about the Traveller’s adventures leading up to present. It filled the vacuum of silence that their usual fighting might otherwise occupy, but hearing Alhaitham's voice at length — especially when he's going to such a great effort to sound completely monotonous — it's enough to make his ears bleed.

If they had a different kind of arrangement, Kaveh might have found himself jealous. The Scribe had little interest in the people around him. He wasn't one for forging bonds or paying feelings any mind. However he went about his days, he had a logical, sound reason for whatever business he went about. Rarely, is this in the presence of others, if he can help it. When it comes to the Traveller, however, Alhaitham has been coming up short. Explanations are marked with uncomfortable silence and lingering, rearing shame. He has no logic to back him up. No reasons to give for dedicating so much of his time to that Traveller and their business.

Kaveh might be jealous if it didn’t entertain him so much — seeing the bastard get knocked down a peg. Maybe the Scribe has found a kindred spirit in another loner, he wonders. Maybe he's somehow grown the sense to establish a bond with this person rather than hover over their shoulder most of the day, offering nothing but silence and snide remarks.

Nevermind. He's definitely been doing the latter. He'd never be able to escalate his interest alone.

He almost feels pity for him. It must be confusing.

At least between Kaveh and Alhaitham, the basis for their chemistry lay in how they clashed. Alhaitham would never have dared initiate had Kaveh not redirected his own rage and simply flung himself at the Scribe during a particularly heated argument. The Traveller, however, is amiable. Their rage is reserved for unfinished business Kaveh knows little about. Alhaitham has probably made it his business to know by now; found some remarkably sound reason to immerse himself in the concept of them. They're the talk of the continent, after all. Even gods have been rumoured to have fallen for them along their travels.

Famously, though, the Traveller is blind to advances. From Monstadt to Liyue Harbour, to Inazuma, many have hurled their affections at the person only to be denied with pure, ignorant friendship. What were previously understood to be dates have consistently ended in professions of affection, and responded to with equally passionate declarations of platonic loyalty. Kaveh knows this well — both from corridor gossip, and because Alhaitham has told him.

In great length.

Most nights of the week.

Kaveh hears so much about the Traveller and their companion that he’s honestly begun to wonder if he should investigate what all the fuss is about, himself. That’d certainly be one rare way to get under his roommate’s skin; swoop in and be declared the single exception to the Traveller’s lack of romantic history, no? It couldn’t be too hard, could it? He managed fine with Alhaitham, didn’t he?

The blonde allows the topic to be changed, at least for now. Continues to play it dumb into the night.

He’s interested to see how far this can be taken.

_______________________________

In a matter of days, the cracks are really starting to show in Alhaitham’s demeanour.

It’s a balmy evening, and while Kaveh has just about begun to wrap up a job well done with, Alhaitham is…reading. At least, to anyone else it would appear that way. Kaveh, however, sees through it. There’s no enthralment. No darting eyes across the page. No annoyance flashing through his facial muscles when he catches movement in his periphery, or tightened jaw at distracting noises. No, Alhaitham is pretending to read; pointer and ring spreading the leaves. Middle finger slipping between folds.

Just as his finger presses too purposefully into shadow, the Scribe's cheeks hollow.

Gods! He’s shameless!

Ever the logician, and yet he’s practically blind to his own tells!

As if he can feel his roommate’s gaze burn into him for a second too long, Alhaitham’s eyes flicker to Kaveh, and he immediately corrects his body language. The book closes with a snap, and his expression forms something akin to annoyance.

"How about you scribble elsewhere?" He suggests.

"I'm almost done." Kaveh assures him. "Well, after the annotations and trademarks, I'll be done."

Surely that'll improve Alhaitham's mood. The closest they got to bonding time was when the blonde would have Alhaitham scribe for him. He can never resist the opportunity to snoop at Kaveh's work. Point out the most minute inaccuracies and flaws. Make sure he knows how terrible his handwriting is.

“How many replicas of that blueprint do you need to make?” Alhaitham asks. “I think you might be overestimating the sum of people important people who’d be interested in studying it.”

“Pardon you.” Kaveh shoots back over his shoulder. “I’m ensuring my lines are perfectly proportionate. The slightest wobble of a ruled line could make me look like a fool to the wrong architect.”

“Perhaps you might consider graduating from writing with a closed fist? Can’t imagine that would hurt your cause.”

How Freudian an insult. Still, Kaveh can't help but take the bait, swivelling to shoot a snarl at the other man.

“Excuse me for not being so refined as to sit around, fingering the paperback pussy of —” Kaveh’s head tilts at the new book on the table, “— Studying the Deceased for Science and for Fun: a Vivacious Vivisection, you maniac?”

"3rd edition. Just released." Alhaitham doesn’t even look up, but his hands are now perched so sensibly that he looks like a robot. “If you were anything resembling intelligent, you’d appreciate the scholar’s pursuit of wider knowledge rather than, remind me what it is you do again? Sandcastles?”

Oh, he’s twisting the knife hard, tonight.

The clarity of what was initially suspicion has Kaveh pleased enough that he’s able to stop himself from taking this round of bait the Scribe has dangled for him. It makes itself known with a chuckle as he returns to his work. Now it makes sense. Alhaitham is a seeker of wisdom, but his shrewdness evaporates in the presence of feeling. A surefire way of frustrating him is to present him with what he can’t materialise in prose or chart. "If you're so confident, then you scribble for me."

"Gladly." Alhaitham is approaching in an instant. He stops just short of the table to pluck the quill from Kaveh's hand and peruse his workings. "Am I to expect you'll refrain from asking me to clean all this up once I've finished?"

"I'm sure you can handle it." Kaveh mutters, stepping away to give the man space to work. "So, any progress on your new investigation?"

"Cyno and Tighnari have since gotten themselves involved. Again." The answer is clipped with irritation as Alhaitham begins to work. "I'm sure you can imagine progress has slowed dramatically with their input."

"I thought you respected Tighnari's academic opinion."

Silence. He's been caught.

Then: "Your handwriting really is terrible."

“I think I know what’s gotten into you.” Kaveh’s steps slow to a stop once he’s behind Alhaitham. The scrape of metal through fibre slows minutely, and the Scribe’s posture stiffens at the proximity. Kaveh spares no time delaying his intent with gliding fingertips over Alhaitham’s hip, creeping along his belt and all the layers tucked into it, until he’s wound his arm almost around the man’s front. “I think you’ve got a thing for blondes.”

That’s when Alhaitham stops altogether. In the blink of an eye, he’s dropped the quill and his fingers suddenly wind tight around Kaveh’s wrist, halting him.

“What are you talking about?” Alhaitham murmurs over his shoulder, just shy of Kaveh’s face as the blonde’s chin comes to rest upon it.

“Alhaitham, in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you put yourself out for anyone. Not your superiors, not me –”

“Not true.” He rebuts. “You could say I went out of my way to clear out my storage room for homeless old you.”

“Nice try.” Kaveh inclines his head, ghosting a breath over the other man’s neck. There’s no response, barring pebbling gooseflesh. He’s on the right track. “You might have everyone else fooled, but I know you. You don’t spare anyone a second glance. That Traveller–?”

Then, Alhaitham’s pushing his hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

No matter. Kaveh’s free hand works its way to Alhaitham’s front. Splaying over his stomach. It’s barely audible, the hitch in the man’s breath — but it’s there.

“Then tell me what there is to gain by inviting yourself along to all their little outings.”

There’s a pause, there. Alhaitham’s considering his answer.

“What, are you jealous?”

“Maybe that I haven’t been invited along.” Kaveh muses, fingertips ghosting up and down Alhaitham’s torso. Little by little, the Scribe’s grip on him loosens. “I’d love to see what all the fuss is about. Tighnari, Cyno, now you? Have any of you even mustered the spine to–”

“It’s not like that.”

“For who?”

No answer.

“None of you, then." Kaveh concludes, smirking. "Is that why you hang around the Traveller every waking hour? Does it drive you mad to imagine who might swoop in and charm them in your absence? Then again, are you just as tortured by the fear that they might find out the truth?”

He presses down, spreading his fingers. The material confining Alhaitham is taut, strained. Beneath all that exterior, he’s putty in the blonde’s hands, hips inching just slightly to encourage the touch he’s been chasing for weeks with another.

Poor thing.

Kaveh grants him what he’s asking for. Smoothing over his lap. Fingers curling over stiffness until he can grip the man through his pants, and Alhaitham gasps.

“What would they think if they knew you want to fuck them?” He hisses.

The quill stutters against parchment before rolling out of the Scribe’s hand. Despite all but sighing into Kaveh’s touch, his attitude remains frosty. “I’m just interested in them.” He replies, voice tight. “What’s your angle? What are you trying to get out of making a scene like this?”

“I like seeing you squirm, for once.” Pushing beneath layers, Kaveh’s fingers curl around the Scribe’s cock. It’s a tight fit, but he does what he can to give one languid stroke. He stills, making sure to have Alhaitham's impatient attention before tugging him free. “So I want you to imagine them. Right here. Beneath you.”

"You're going to hurt your own feelings." Alhaitham shoots back, palms flat against the table.

"Don't flatter yourself, Alhaitham." Kaveh's grip settles. One, two, three strokes, and the Scribe's chest expands, doing his best not to let his roommate delight in any sound he might make. No matter, Kaveh’s hand simply slows to a halt, and the frustration is enough to have Alhaitham's hips nudging forward, insistent on continuation.

He withholds, and the responding whisper of a whine is delicious.

“What, are you just going to stand there?” Kaveh croons against his pulse.

“I don’t want them.” Alhaitham insists weakly.

He's normally so good at lying.

“Same way you don’t want me?” The blonde chuckles. A particularly harsh pump punctuates his point, and Alhaitham shudders. “Don’t feel guilty. We’ll both get our turn with them after a little practice, but I’m afraid if this is how you intend on performing, the Traveller just might end up liking me better.”

“Not possible.”

“Oh, no? Show me.”

“Swap places with me and I will-”

Kaveh presses his hips against him, his own confined hardness finding friction with the Scribe's backside, and pleasure blooms at the sensation. “No. You stay here. Just like this.”

Alhaitham grunts. “Like what.”

“Picture their body.” Kaveh insists, encouraging the man by building into a slow, shallow rhythm. Inviting him to seek out more. “Picture how they look at you.”

That does the trick. Alhaitham swallows back a new sound. He moves with uncharacteristic uncertainty – familiar with his roommate’s touch – but charting unfamiliar territory.

The blonde finds more comfort in pressing his forehead to the other man's shoulder blade rather than keep attempting to match his height, acquainted enough with his body to work blindly, knowing every spot to apply more pressure to without looking. “Come on, Alhaitham. Show us both how you’d fuck them.”

Alhaitham’s weight shifts onto his palm in spite of himself, if not drawn out by the fantasy, then at least by the competition he’d been baited with. He’s tentative at first; acutely aware that every backstroke brings his rear into contact with Kaveh’s front and reluctant to reward his partner’s behaviour with any kind of reciprocation.

It won’t last long.

Kaveh masks his own satisfaction with a kiss to Alhaitham’s spine. “Already so far along? Aren’t you chaste. Let me guess: you’re too much a coward to even walk in-step with them, let alone assert your intentions.” His grip tightens, pulling back against the Scribe’s push, earning the tiniest little whimper. “Give me a few mora and I’d be sure to show them a good time. Might even be so merciful as to bring them home so you can listen.”

“Be quiet.” Alhaitham grits, temper cracking, taking out his frustration with a thrust hard enough to bottom out against Kaveh’s palm — almost enough to have the man stumble. The blonde corrects his stance, using Alhaitham’s momentum to shove him forward against the table.

"Don't give me attitude. I'm doing you a favour." He hisses, leaning down over the man, keeping him low with a hand pressed to his back. “What’s there to be jealous of? Maybe the Traveller might actually have the courtesy to satisfy me. Surely you don’t expect them to be charmed by someone so dismally inept at romance.”

Alhaitham tries to straighten back out, attempting to claw his way back into dominance. Kaveh’s palm keeps him pinned, and a punishing squeeze has him gasping.

“How badly do they plague you, Scribe? Worse than I do? How angry that must make you.” Kaveh continues, speeding up against Alhaitham’s little thrusts. “And now, you’re outnumbered. All that smarts, and at the end of the day, you’re just a horny little coward with a superiority complex. You think they can see through you like I do? See how pathetically you want them? You think we could persuade them to take you while you take me? Let us take turns using them?"

Alhaitham's fingers curl into the parchment, scrambling for purchase. His cock twitches. “Fuck—“

“Be quiet. You’ll embarrass yourself if you make a scene in front of them.” Kaveh admonishes. “At least try to keep up the facade half as long as you did with me. Before they see how messy you get.”

Another twitch. He doesn’t otherwise indicate it, but Alhaitham is a lot closer after those choice phrases. Kaveh can’t help but grin. "Look at you." He praises. "What a pretty bastard you are."

“I’m—“ Alhaitham manages in a whisper, words disappearing in this throat when Kaveh speeds up, sensing his end.

“Pervert.” He accuses, fondly. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

The Scribe’s breaths grow sharp, irregular. Trying to keep himself going despite his body being so close to the brink. Even near-mindless, he has the conscious thought to fight back against the taunting. Kaveh doesn't let him, stroking faster, giving the man no room to leverage. At this point, it's all he can do to suffer through the ascent, hurtling toward his climax.

Alhaitham goes perfectly still when he hits his peak. Kaveh's all too familiar with it. The sensation is too much to handle. It's a few seconds of complete stillness, silence, until his mouth opens, spilling forth a pathetic little groan. He shivers, cock throbbing in Kaveh's punishing grip until the blonde's refusal to slow has Alhaitham positively shuddering against the table. Ropes of translucent, pearly white paint the project Kaveh has up until now been slaving over for days. One pulse after the next, until all he has left to spare is dripping weakly down Kaveh's slowing fingers.

Kaveh only stops completely when Alhaitham's breathing evens out. He releases the man, allowing him to stand back up while he wipes the chilling liquid off his hand using Alhaitham's sash. The Scribe, meanwhile, avoids eyecontact while he tucks himself back away.

"You ruined all my work." Kaveh complains.

"Serves you right." Alhaitham is back to monotony already. Slipping from between his roommate as his desk and making for the hallway.

Kaveh shoots him a look of outrage. "Hey! What about me?"

Alhaitham halts. He offers a glance over his shoulder, avoiding the splatter of cooling come on the table beside Kaveh and the erection he's nursing.

“What about you?” He smiles minutely.

“Oh, you bastard.” Kaveh grits. "At least fix my project."

“Hm. No, I don’t think so.”

Then, Alhaitham is striding out of the room, Kaveh hot on his heels.

“Hey! Wait a second! Alhaitham!"

#alhaitham #kaveh #genshin impact fanfic #blondes are alhaitham's new field of study btw #applicable for either aether or lumine #alhaitham x kaveh #alhaitham x traveler #alhaitham x reader

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