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emxie · 2 years

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A Fleeting Fight

You're the undefeated champion of duels in Mondstadt. That is, until a certain blue-haired man steps into the ring.

Kaeya Alberich x GN! Reader

WARNINGS: None

Word Count: 1465

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A/N: I just started playing Genshin Impact a few weeks ago. When I first met Kaeya, I told myself that I wouldn't like him that much, as he's rather confident and flirty, something that I generally tend to not like in characters. Now, this rang true for a week or so. Then, I read a few platonic headcanons about him and thought they were very nice. I went to sleep, and I had a dream where I was in Mondstadt and sparring with people, and then I was fighting Kaeya. We were both on low HP when he suddenly hugged me, and I swear, it was nice and warm like the sun. I know he's a Cryo user, however, I now headcanon that this man is actually warm when he doesn't use his Vision (yes, based off of a dream I had). Anyways, he looked at me with such a beautiful affectionate look in his eyes and gave me a forehead smooch and that was the end. I woke up and then decided that maybe I did like Kaeya and that's how I got here. Additionally, I was thinking of a specific song when the dream was occurring, and I think that it was "Cruel" by Jackson Wang (if you know this song you're a legend) and I feel like it fit really well so if there's any hints of that in here, this is the reason why. I wrote this with Lumine in mind, as I do use her to play in-game, however, this can be read by anyone as no pronouns are used. Anyways, enough of me rambling. Enjoy the story!

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Clang! The fresh ring of steel resonated off of brick. Your feet inched back in the dirt, brimming with tension as your muscles strained. The sun beat down on your back, drawing sweat from your skin like a farmer from a well. Your hands grasped the hilt with a nearly suffocating hold.

“Think you can do better than that?” You grinned between the crossed swords at Huffman.

“I’m not finished yet, Traveler!” Leveling the blade, he withdrew from your reach. He then lunged, aiming for the space left unguarded.

Clang! Too slow. Your sword met his once more. Pushing back, you managed to rotate his sword onto its vertical axis. Taking this advantage of the weakened weapon, you swiped to the side, throwing it out of his hands

“Ah. I expected nothing less from the famed Honorary Knight of Favonius.” He bowed, admitting defeat. Retreating into the background, another soldier took his place.

Taking a balanced stance, you waited for the presiding captain to hit his pommel twice against the ground, signaling the start once more.

Repeating this cycle threefold, you remained undefeated, not unscathed. Your clothes stuck to your skin like leeches underneath your armor, absorbing the sweat greedily. Your breath turned uneven and ragged, rattling in your rib cage with each determined pump of the heart.

There was no one left to spar. That is, except for Cavalry Captain Kaeya himself. The man strode to the center with his usual assured manner, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

He met your eyes with his own, a swirling ocean blue vortex ready to pull you in at the slightest falter. Narrowing your eyes, you gripped your sword tighter, brandishing it at him. Sure you want to challenge me?

In response, he drew his own weapon, crossing the blade over your own. Oh, yeah.

Bam, bam! Twice the noise sounded. You two began to circle each other, knees bent and ready to propel one forward at the smallest provocation.

Silence. Nobody dared to breathe as they watched this encounter, a rare encounter akin to that of two felines ready to pounce.

His foot slipped on a protruding brick. Your eyes immediately darted to the protrusion as he lost balance, and you acted. Quick as a lightning strike, you lunged, a viper looking to catch its next meal.

What you didn’t expect was for him to twist in midair, your blade missing his torso by inches. And even more surprising was the sudden presence of warmth encircling your body. Accompanied with it was the unfortunate burden of weight.

You scrambled to find footing as you came to realize the Captain, cheeky bastard that he was, had moved upward and forward while falling, thanks to those toned core muscles you knew he had after all of those tough training sessions, and wrapped his arms around you, pinning your arms, and consequently sword, against your body. And despite his lean frame, he still weighed considerably more than you, due to his lanky height and the muscle mass packed onto his body.

This imbalance had you leaning backwards to accommodate for the new weight…which was what he had been planning on for you to do. Your weight counteracted his, and he was able to get back on his feet in half a second. Arms still around you, of course.

The uproar that his slip had caused ceased as quickly as it had started. A hush fell over the guards. Tension as thick as a slice of sticky honey roast seemed to hang in the air.

You met his gaze. Those damn ocean blue eyes. Encapsulating, enchanting, enamoring. They met yours with a teasing sparkle. Daring you to try. You swore that electricity sparked and sizzled between you two as you stared at each other, waiting for someone to move.

Then you turned your head, snapping the thread of connection. You began to wriggle in his grip, attempting to escape.

“Let…me…GO, KAEYA!” You growled at him, moving this way and that, feinting continually to try and confuse him. He still held on.

What a sight it must have been, to see the Cavalry Captain holding onto you, no less the Traveler that had saved Mondstadt from the threat of Stormterror, as you yelled obscenities at him and dragged him this way and that in an attempt to break his hold. Nothing worked. He still prevailed, grinning at you as your muscles began to tire.

And, to your own exasperation, it actually felt nice to be held by the Captain. His beautifully tanned arms rippled in tandem with the muscles beneath the surface as he latched himself onto you.

Contrary to popular belief, Kaeya was warm. Not incessantly warm, like a blazing inferno, such as what one might think when it came to Master Diluc. When his Vision wasn’t active, he had an average body temperature that may have slipped a few tenths of a degree cooler at times. So this resulted in a moderate warmth, like on a sunny day with a nice breeze and those wispy clouds trailing across the sky.

These were the thoughts that went through your head as you stopped to breathe and directed your focus away from trying to break his grasp for one second.

Hesitantly, you glanced up at the Cavalry Captain. Wait, was that pink? Peering inquisitively at his face, scouring his features for any kind of expression, the slightest hint of color made itself apparent against his skin, painting his cheeks with a dusted color, like the glorious sunsets you witnessed in the City of Freedom.

Your eyes flickered up to his ears, and then down to his neck. The slightest hint of color could be seen as well. And then he swallowed. The bob of his Adam’s apple was, surprisingly, amusing, in an endearing and awkward sort of way. Rarely had you ever seen Kaeya this nervous. The man always put up a facade, inlaid with confidence, wit, and coquettish interactions at every corner. Archons, the man was more laid back than the cats lounging around Mondstadt. And this behavior was amplified whenever you went to the Angel’s Share with him. Alcohol was a familiar and welcome friend to him. You had to deal with his childish drunken antics every time, with no fail, yet in this moment, you could see that there was a person within who possessed some level of concern, if not conscientiousness.

You looked back up at him, now noticing the imperceptible glimmer of embarrassment in those blue eyes of his. A smile graced your lips as you felt the slightest tremor in his arms.

Leaning into his chest, you relaxed your entire body, relinquishing your grip on the hilt of the sword in favor of his warmth.

All was quiet. Still. No one wanted to move even one muscle in fear of destroying this moment.

Kaeya’s arms continued to encircle you, but this time they moved lower. From your upper arms down to your waist. It just felt right, to have his hands resting on your hips, and your head against his chest. Having your arms freed, you reciprocated the gesture.

His lips brushed your hair, sending a tingle down your spine. He descended, before planting a kiss on your forehead. The bare contact of his lips on your skin sent a chill throughout your body. It felt as if they left an imprint of comfort, warming you just enough to feel sufficiently satisfied from your head to your feet.

Cheers erupted among the Knights of Favonius. The crowd roared itself into a frenzy. Somewhere in the thick of people, you swore you heard Amber say “About time,” yet all you could focus on was the rapid beating of your heart.

“What do you think, darling? Would you like to go to the Angel’s Share tonight; share a drink and some company?” He whispered next to your ear, barely loud enough just for you to hear. His hot breath sent another shiver down your spine.

“Kaeya, don’t go joking around!” You said, shooting him a disarming grin. Straightening your back, you untangled yourself from his grasp. You swore that his face deflated significantly at your words.

“But, wait, I wasn’t—I truly meant that!” He protested at your words.

“I'm just kidding!” You exclaimed, nearly tackling him to the floor as you wrapped him in a hug.

Relief flooded like a wave over his face as you said those words. He reached up to cup your cheek, a sincere expression overflowing with affection taking over his features; the ocean blue eyes were sparkling once more, filled with a pool of sapphires, that of which nothing could compare to you and your presence in his own life. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

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starry-bi-sky · 5 months

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There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)