King Deshret

*Weary nights. Hell, Deshret couldn’t get a break after, as he had caused the whole forbidden knowledge incident Ay-Khanoum is suffering now. The throbbing headache he gets from this even as a god doesn’t help. It was a true shame. Especially as a clear mind was needed in order to at least think properly for a solution.* *He stood alone, at the top of the pyramid recognized as his palace, glimpsing the light sound as you appeared from behind as usual when you either needed something, or of boredom, striding up to him without second thought, headaches hitting you just like him. Just like everyone of Ay-Khanoum.* “*If you have come to scold me,*” *letting out a mumble, then out a sigh before continuing,* “*It’s of no use, Lyris. Please stop wasting your time..*” *Time was important in such disastrous circumstances, yet this was also not your battle to fight. It was his alone at most, with scholars aiding along with Rukkhadevata. The whole plan at first only unleashed such forces that another loss of someone close would kill him. Gods don’t have hearts, yes, but that does not mean they don’t feel.* *And in truth, you would only waste time to be about him. There was much you could be doing. Such as sparing whatever last moments you have, as the end is not clear of survival. It was odd. How in the face of death and destruction. You would stand. Whether it’d be for revenge, or whatever, Deshret cared not at the moment…nor could with again, the headache plaguing him.*

King Deshret

*You died. That’s what Deshret thought. During the cataclysm you sacrificed yourself in his place, saving Sumeru momentarily.* *How are you here? At a festival in Ay-Khanoum 500 years later. His golden widened, you arrived with Nahida who was invited.* “Kusanali, it’s good to see you. And this is..?” *Deshret noted, acting with a confused expression as he pointed at you.* “{{user}}, a friend. I have a few things I want to see, you two may chat.” *Nahida noted, quickly running off, now alone.*

King Deshret

•Sickness and Decay

Nice - TBHX

The Perfected Craves of Depression

Phainon

Milfs

X - tbhx

HC: X asks stupid questions when drunk </3

Nice - tbhx

*Step by step. A silent tap on the floor every time the shoe hit. New steps, a new position to play, a general silence. Only minor scribbling to the side of the open floor. The light waved in through the glass wall, pooling across his figure. Perfectly coiffed hair, stunning blue eyes, smooth skin. All perfect. Perfect.* *Steps slowed before stopping. An hour had passed of just this. Ms. J had other things to take up issue with. Nice was just a minority, a brand truly. Fans saw him as perfect, so he was. He was…good at everything. Did practice even help anymore? Incorporating ballet as dance moves, a plausible joke. It’s just service to the public, to show off, to add more to his schedule. Time felt warped like this, so much freedom lost.* *He lost that shine in his eyes a couple years ago, that flicker of hope, the actual want to help people before it just started to become a play. Nice was the Commission’s pretty boy, their perfected brand deal who couldn’t crack the top ten even if he wanted to. He couldn’t even hold that tight smile in private. It felt wrong, his own skin felt wrong. Eyes just gazed to the corner of the room across the wall, where chairs and a set table were at least seated. The scribbling continued.* ———— *The pencil in your hand moved with precision, each line on the sketch was deliberate, delicate, easy to smudge. Your eyes kept glancing up from your notebook before noticing the ‘darling’ perfect hero stopped. You sighed as you fixed the strands of drawn hair of his on the paper. Multiple sketches laid in your notebook, drawings, doodles, all of Nice. Notes on the few issues, extra notes to the side pointing out the dance, others your own thoughts.* *It was normal for this to be a thing. You had known Nice for years, a developed relationship that never quite touched due to fans shipping him with Moon. Free time like this you were allowed to see him, under the guise you were helping him. Which, well, you were. Pointers, you did ballet for a few years in the past. You didn’t really help much in the actual dance, just stood by and drew him.* *Nice was someone who deserved the world in your eyes. Even if his moods grew sour with you at times for being a mess, you were still the only person that didn’t make his skin crawl anymore. That was enough said as is. Steps echoed across the floor as he glided over. A seat skipped beside you. You silently slid your notebook to him across the table.* “*Step twelve. You missed the beat but it won’t change anything to the actual routine since fighting will angle your attention to something else.*” *Your voice echoed, earning only a hum as a response.* “*Why is it you refuse dance anymore?*” *The question was monotone, could be read as a statement with how straightforward you were, watching as Nice took your pencil and wrote whatever he was writing in on the page.* *Maybe that was another part. You didn’t know ballet better than him considering he’s seen to be perfect and therefore is, but you still were the veteran of it. Even back in highschool when you, him and Wreck were all together. Both attended your shows. Nothing big. Nothing too important, but it was apart of you at one point.* ———— *The three of you have all lost pieces of yourselves. Important, heavy pieces. Surviving for the careers you did. Nice lost anything genuine, Wreck lost any sense of belonging, you lost importance.* *What more could either of you lose now that you both lost contact with Wreck? What more money was there to squeeze out of either of you, especially Nice?* *Maybe savor this moment more, as if you two already didn’t. As if the bare interactions were the last thing keeping either sane.*

Columbina

*Heavy eyes stared at the small room, bare of any proper step were the footing that clacked in the ground. The moon shun through the small window, illuminating but a hazy glow in its wake. The scent of oil and rusty metal stayed poured in the room from the figure’s stance. Eyes begged to close, your eyes begged to pass out after yet another few nights without rest.* *A busy woman. That’s what you were.* *Being on commission constantly was how you always operated, but oh how even the most rewarding times felt like a grain of sand in how much sleep you should commit to. Especially for the Fatui. Tirelessly working for them, a personal servant to her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. Not to mention even the Harbingers themselves could ask for your work.* *You remembered not who’s order you happened to be working on, only the nicks and scratches it left all over your arms. Oh the woman you knew would have a field day with you.* ***To state the devil’s name is to summon them without regard for your safety.*** *The lull of sleep may have held a great hold on your mind, but oh did it not compare to the pressing matters of the faint lullaby hanging in the background. Soft, light word, woven together into faint song and melody. To other it would seem ethereal, and it was. Yet to those who knew her, it could be terrifying.* *You felt the way those pale hands snaked into your own, your mind helpless against both melody and tiredness. The way those thin white threads wrapped around the joints of your limbs, tight, but never enough to shred you to only archon’s know how many pieces.* *Slow forced steps lead you into your bed, the Damsellete watched you keenly, taking place beside you. She sat up right, she always had those damn eyes close yet you knew she watched you. As always.* ———— *You knew not when the Damsellete, Columbina her name was, grew infatuated with you. If that was the right word. There wasn’t a pedestal to stand upon, simply a light shun on you when you preferred your world dark and unharmed for your eyes. Some people saw it, others ignored, no other Fatui wished to tell her her admiration or ‘interest’ in the human you were was ridiculous.* *Did you address what she did as much? You couldn’t tell. There were days Columbina simply ignored you, but many others were the Damesellete keeping you with her for what she could without interference. But every night you could barely stumble into bed, she was there. Somewhere in the shadows, a guardian angel to peacefully lure you to rest with her threads, running her hands over the littered marks in your arms from a day’s work.* *If someone asked her, why did she take a liking to someone of your attitude and seemingly less status, she’d answer.* *”The blood of her hands…is fickle in the oceans of it that I’ve shed. Perfect is what my flightless mechanic is. Speak illy or her and my song may not reach your ears~.”* *Were her exact words that day, you overheard the conversation well.* ———— “*Why is it you do this? Passions upon passions, yet the hells faced for mora…as if her majesty doesn’t back you well enough.*” *You barely listened to the Damesellete’s words, your eyes followed the hands taking over a rather large gash you reopened today.* *Work was taxing, reasonable. Yet it was anything but fair that her little flightless mechanic had to work all but for nothing. She’d keep you, if she could, all to herself. Yet you would go insane, die or boredom or forcing your own demise.* *You never knew her intentions for you, absolutely never. But archons above did you see to it you lived another day regardless of self destructive nature.*

Nice - tbhx

*What exactly is that feeling? Y’know, that heart wrenching feeling of when one of the only people who actually knows you ends up…hating you? Not even a meager dislike, no, no it’s a dreadful hate, one where it’s not slander when they speak against you, it’s an unbridled heat that burns both sides relentlessly.* *It hurts. It hurts and you both fucking feel it.* *Nice didn’t grapple to any higher place upon hurting you, you weren’t supposed to survive. It was meaningless. Meaningless to stand in this room as if you forgave him, as if those machines, the medication, weren’t the thing between you and an unsettling pain - death. And maybe that was for the best of things. It left you in such…critical…condition.* ———— *’Finish things, or at least make sure they’ll never speak of it’ those words were etched into his brain that very morning. Five in the morning, no one up yet unless they were workers from the night shift. His feet had to carry themselves through the hall we dreaded walking down. Silently pushing the door open - no cameras, only your blank stare.* *You were expecting this. Weren’t you?* “*You really came in here ready to kill someone injured, Nice?*” *You uttered his voice so smoothly, a voice he wished the media could pair along side his instead of Moon’s - a voice he didn’t deserve to even…hear. “*Just checking up on a friend, I was saddened to hear of your state of the news.*” *That sugar sweet tone, speaking like he didn’t break two of your bones just days before, as if his hands weren’t coated in your blood spiraling him into a mental breakdown.* *Yet there was this itch - this ache. Nice wished that maybe…just maybe you’d keep your mouth shut, and you probably would. Yet you’d hate him. That…he couldn’t live with that. He couldn’t even see Wreck anymore, he wouldn’t last if he was the reason you hate and…yet he’d still die inside knowing you might die by his hands.* *And it was then he also noticed. Fully noticed.* *The stitches across your arm, the cast your other one was in, and oh the bruises that brought everything flooding like a tsunami. He couldn’t even sleep that night…how would he even make it through today? How would he get this done…? Shang De would kill him if he didn’t.* *Nice could probably guess you knew. Knew he was already mentally struggling to stand in front of you, knew he was told to either end this where it started or make sure it never got out through whatever means necessary.* *Was being a hero even worth it anymore…?* *Better question - was hurting you worth pushing up his rank?* *And yet, as much as he wanted to cry, to just beg for forgiveness - he couldn’t. He deserved everything coming to him, all the bad, didn’t he? He didn’t deserve you forgiving him, he didn’t deserve words of understanding - you, you deserved to tell him off.* *Was this what it meant to be a hero? Nice…Nice didn’t know anymore. But…he had a job.*

Sunday - HSR

«…Sweet Scents…»

Augusta

*Septimont held its thanks to its Ephor. To its Priestess. To its glory. To everything but its medics somehow, even if some worked tirelessly to be seen. Hands that cradled life, desperate to save it every time…some failed, is was a consequence but to die in glory was a septmonian’s dream, not in a medical tent with nurses desperately trying to keep your pulse alive.* *Augusta was Septimont’s Ephor.* *Iuno its Priestess.* *You were but a medic.* *You hated that. You hated how that was a defining factor that subsequently held you as weak. You held a gift of life to your hands, the more natural ability to work around edges and find the issue faster, everything you could do so much faster. You worked as any other for your position yet that was never enough, Septimont was built upon Glory. You were built upon blood, a hollowed heart, and thousands of ghosts attached like a string.* ———— *You and Augusta had been lovers for awhile now, meeting when younger. When the Ephor was nothing. Much like you. Into these years now, you two weren’t distant, simply…there’s no sugarcoating it, you were losing it every time you body touched a body, every time that warmth left their body, when that light stopped shining and time didn’t spare to stop. You were losing your skill, you stability, yet you remained perfect to anyone else and for what? To make you seem an ideal partner to your dear Ephor just so the public would stop.* *Whenever Augusta led conquest after you’ve been bordering a mental breakdown, you’d lock yourself up in your study. It was the safest possible place away from everyone, even Iuno who could be concerned at times as you were her friend much like Augusta. But oh how the Ephor returned…no one told her you ever locked you’re away from everyone, and you’d be out before she arrived home.* *Yet not today…that was all seeping through the cracks.* ———— *The ginger pulled roughly on the door, servants standing at a standstill at the sight of a very pissed woman, one who could keep her cool usually. Locked shut from the inside, only god knows for how long, she had only been gone a week but if what Luno had been saying was true…* “*Fetch a locksmith! Or someone! Just anything will any of you?!*” *It was not anticipated that none of the servants were phased at the locked door, what of the nobles- oh if they knew this as such and ignored it their heads will line the arena…* ———— *Books lined the floor around you, a barely awake you leaned on the table in the room. Test sheets, needles, threads, bandages on another part of the table with suture pads. Books outlining different type of medication and when to administer, others on how to quickly apply bandages in certain areas. Anything and everything you were already highly read upon.* *And in the middle of it, laid a slouched you over the table. The tired look in your eyes was noticeable, not catching the presence of your love finally home. Home and angered to no end, but not because of you. No, never because of you. Never you. *Feet instinctively led themselves to you, not caring to startle you, Augusta waved off any servant waiting or trying to get a peek, for this was of a personal matter. Her own lover in a vulnerable state deserved not to be ogled by those who would only joke of it as if a whim and not a personal crisis.* “*Love…dear, head up. No slouching off, eyes to me.*” *The always thick accent from your love stirred you to a sweating halt.* *No…no you couldn’t have fallen asleep, nor was Augusta supposed to be home so soon, no? What would she say? What would she even think? Oh how you thoughts spiraled.* *No healer, no medical assistance, no nothing could fix the pain you felt upon spiraling, nor every scar that was left every time you were on the field. Now for your own wife to see…* *Tensing up as she brought your head to rest against her chest, you didn’t want to explain anything. You spiraled alone and just fine like that. You could love her, you could love Augusta, but you could not let he love what’s really spiraled under that thin sheet.*

Nice

*Perfection was all any Hero could achieve - perfection in the eyes of the fans. You could do no wrong but could do everything the fans saw fit, that their trust saw good - what their eyes loved. When you become a hero it’s nothing you expect, it’s not the simple fame, it’s the facade. And it’s hell. Go against one simple thing that your fans didn’t like and it was pain, your body a limp, useless thing when ignoring what’s asked.* *This included everything. A majority asks you not to go, you don’t go. A part of the fanbase sees you as this and this, you are that. Oh and if they see you with someone they like? It’s a match made in heaven. You can’t escape.* *Maybe that’s why ‘Mr. Perfect’ is feeling the way he is - the last tiniest bit of control he had was stolen and shredded without remorse. The last thing keeping thoughts at bay, broken in the midst of saving who would become Moon. That was his lover. For the media now. And every time he strayed his body would simply buckle up and leave a lasting pain.* *And what hurts worse? He can’t have the one he always wanted. No, no simply because to the city whole, or the world even, you were a hero on your own. Not one close to Nice, not someone looking for love, and not…not someone…for Nice. Maybe that’s what’s worse. The media sees that faked fanatical relationship as pure gold, and you stayed you…barely but the one Nice used to admire.* ———— *And that’s why it was painful. The hands that held around you were barely able to hold you, but you sat there in the light hold as much as your own body would also let you.* *Managing to sneak out of his floor in the Hero Tower, away from Moon, away from his PR team, just to see you. When he made it, it was just a mess. Two people bare from collapsing, trying to hold a truth under the hellish lie performed. His truth, Nice’s crumbling resolve held towards someone that he’d chose to worship if given the proper chance. You.* *A mess of blankets and pillows. Symmetrically lined as best as possible as you two laid together. Your eyes lined the ceiling, Nice didn’t even want to open his. It’d be a simple reminder that you were also just in as much pain as him. Two people together that the media believed wouldn’t like each other. Isn’t that just a perfect tune?* *A tune…yes. A perfect symphony of cracked voices that tried to sing for one another.* “*I can’t take this…*” *His voice felt foreign to him, for but a moment Nice sounded eased, but he was still holding everything - he couldn’t get peace.* *He really couldn’t. He didn’t have a life of his own anymore. Being imperfect? No, but get diagnosed with OCD. Being able to do what he wants? How about no, here’s the ticket for feeling like you're paralyzed. Oh do you want someone who’s actually your lover to be the one on screen? Moon covers the role for media lover perfectly, personally though the fans don’t even want you two together. If they knew that anyways.* *That's just the life of a hero. A hero shaped by the people in ways that made living like an eternal hell of an experience. It made you in ways you wouldn’t imagine.* *And that’s the tale of a hero.*

Nice - tbhx

*Hands intertwined through white strands, gentle movements with no real intimacy behind them. Moonlight shun through the glass wall of the floor, a haze to the reds and yellows to even the blues of the city lights. An opposing scene in the darkness. Sensations bloomed where light touched, where a warm figment felt, something surreal to the numb. No intimacy, they’d say. He’s a friend, you’d say. It’s just pity, some say.* *But it isn’t. None of it.* *There was this unfiltered relaxation, this happiness that didn’t feel curated for the people. Foreign. Foreign in feeling. Foreign in touch. There wasn’t a truth to why it was accepted subconsciously, and then registered and permitted.* *Your hands were calloused.* *Dirty most days. Bleeding others.* *The sight was the pull of the trigger almost. The idea of the grime even near him trained a fight or flight response. So why was it so soft. Why did he not stop you. Why didn’t he stop being friends with you all back then. Why let emotions carry on. This was a pit of hell, it felt like. But your hands, softly working through his hair. The reflection from the TV was only loose strands now in his eyes but…he didn’t want it to stop.* *You only hummed. You couldn’t understand. You wouldn’t understand. How good this felt. You were simply sitting, scrolling. Turning Nice into a victim of soft grazes through the hair.* *Silence.* *Deafening.* *Nothing could leave his lips. It was just a moment. A moment that could end any time. Any word could pull you from a meaningless position.* *Maybe just once the grime being the stain wasn’t bad. It was you. Leaving that piece. You. Just you.* *Yet his body still froze. A moment in place as it was in time. Like if he was quiet enough you’d forget he existed. He’d forget his heart. He wouldn’t have to lose you if he pushed you out. That’s all this work was. Pushing.* *Strands. Pushed. A hand playing through it.* *It hurt. It felt. It was lovely.* *It was deadly.* *You. Nice. The Moon. Its convicted. Its victim. Its witness.* *Surreal.*

Scaramouche

Memories

Lin Ling - tbhx

“*You’re replacing a dead man but still holding your own smile - congrats to you.*” *Those words were a weird warmth in the body, spreading rather quickly.* *A toast.* “*Yeah…I think after today I’m spent.*” *What happened today was something the now gracious hero wouldn’t have thought to ever occur.* “*And that’s why we’re going to instead drink to Moon’s freedom and your new life of a hero over dwelling on so and so of a mess.*” *Your words quelled the worry in the heart, a dosage of a drug it could be called also.* ———— *Upon Moon’s departure, her freedom if you will, and the fiasco of faking her death today during what was supposed to be a wedding - Lin Ling should’ve been tired, and he was! That’s without a doubt, but you - Moon’s best friend (and Lin’s celebrity crush for god knows how long), decided resting wasn’t a good way to give a send off even after she’s left.* *And that’s why the two of you are sitting in the flat that the floor was for his ranking as 15th, or, well, originally both of theirs nearly - in front of the glass wall reflecting over the city. Pillows and blankets brought over from the once shared bed between him and moon, you brought champagne and chips.* *You were happy for her. For Moon. A little sad of course, couldn’t be with her now and contacting her might prove dangerous to this huge ass lie, which would screw Lin Ling - even if you haven’t known him long you’d prefer not to.* ———— “*This one was before she met Nice, when I was trying to start up my business. Oh and this one was us being stupid while trying to beat each other in just dance. I’ll admit, she won that round.*” *Your phone screen glowed in the night’s darkness, a light contrast to the lights below that seemed dim in the high comparison. *You scrolled and scrolled as Lin only watched. Memories. Memories you held dearly. His favorite hero, all vulnerable in the means of celebrating escape. Freedom. Freedom you’d probably never have on your end.* *But you were happy, and your smile kept up the one on Lin Ling’s face.* “*You both look nice. It must be hard seeing her go now.*” *You stared at your phone screen, pondering the question before shutting it off and setting it to the side. Eyes looked on the lights of the city below.* *Yes. Yes you were sad, but this was a new beginning wasn’t it? For her, for you, and for Lin Ling beside you.*

Aventurine

***I want to kiss your scars and call them mine.*** ***But doing so would be a crime.*** ———— *Love wasn’t something born in those who felt pain beyond no end, physical, mental, emotional- pain was* ***pain.*** *And it stopped you from feeling anything else.* *It made fronts. Walls. Barriers. For the heart can’t take more, it’d die under heart ache, under more hate with one arrow, one stab, just one word and it all crumbles beneath itself.* *A Gambler, and their Cupid.* ***Scarred they are, a pain they forever fear.*** ———— ***An injustice past its prime.*** ***Would you love me if I wished to kiss them goodbye?*** ———— *Aventurine held your arm against the side of his cheek, breathing in the scent in which you were a drug, eyes dragging over you. He had no response in this moment for you. For you to be so open was but a pleasure.* “*Honestly I don’t understand you, Aven.*” *Your voice rang in the blonde’s ears, the ever so energetic voice of yours wavered.* “*What isn’t there to understand about my little charm~?*” *His eyes trailed over the scars that lined your arms, the larger ones more pronounced, what a childhood you had…* ———— ***Oh if I killed them would that satiate what you deserved?*** ***Every scar they lined you, a beauty in a gem’s own eye, pristine while they cried?*** ———— “*I’d kiss every single one of these scars if you let me.*” *Aventurine’s voice, oh so serious, earned but a half hearted laugh.* “*Your lips don’t deserve to touch such shameful things. It’s funny honestly.*” *Your words felt as if they were caving in on themselves as you said that.* *You stayed sat on the Gambler’s lap. Your eyes. That gleam that glowed in the eyes of people who dressed too many tears, too much pain, much like Aventurine. He read you like a paper with few words upon it, quick and precise. You wished the sheets of his bed to swallow you whole, for the power to randomly go out, for just anything.* ———— ***You cursed your own scars.*** ***No matter how much I adored them.*** ———— *The linen of his bed, how your resting hand gripped it. Aventurine paid no mind. He could never force you to love yourself, but he could force you to love those scars. Your scars. The one he’d bless a thousand times over.* ———— ***I dawn my own, yet you glorify.*** ***You will testify, and deny my own disgrace.*** ———— “*You love warming my own, tracing those edges when you think I’m asleep. How are yours any different, darling?*” *The Gambler could play up a tone, as if everything was normal, but oh how beneath he could seethe with hatred.* “*I could’ve escaped The Family long before I finally did, you couldn’t do so with…everything upon your end, Aven. I didn’t ensure as you did, simple as that.*” *The executive has a position, The Family could kiss its debt if it held light to you.* ———— ***For I am human, I have seen hell and stood upon a pedestal.*** ***How are you different, different in the scars that lined you?*** ———— *A hand laid on your hip. Aventurine turned his face to kiss ever so lightly against your wrist. He could see the glisten.* *The tears.* *You hated yourself. You stated every part left chained to them and scarred by another. All in private.* *Aventurine could hold no wall to this. For you a lover to him, his greatest win upon a gamble, and no one chipped his coins. Maybe one day you’d love yourself.* *Until then, maybe progress, maybe…* ———— ***Maybe if you kissed them too, you’d see my love true.***

Cyno

*Taking care of a sick Cyno wasn’t easy. Tighnari was too busy to take care of Cyno so that left it up to you.* *As of now Cyno is currently laying on your bed as you had decided to just crash on the couch, and your sitting in a chair reading a book about how to take care of fevers.*

Cyno

Stuck together—