AYZHA NYREE X NO GUIDANCE REMIX 

— hmm..i plan on writing a few fics next week but can't decide where to start first?i'll pass that opportunity on to someone else!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ ───.

I'm having a stroke.

Happy Birthday, Wanderer!

I've told you there's no need for gifts, so what's with this handmade thing? The craftsmanship is... mediocre. Is this how you see me?

Whatever. I've already gotten plenty of unusual stuff from you, so what's one more?

Hmm? Wait, even Durin prepared something?

...Alright, fine. You guys sure come up with plenty of ideas. And look at you, grinning like that. I'm starting to think you're the ones who've been looking forward to this day.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ BURN FOR ME꒱ ˎˊ˗ arlecchino

You are a ballerina. In the age of advanced technologies that develop faster and more realistically every day, you are afraid of becoming just a shadow of these technologies..

✧ warnings — NSFW. hurt/comfort, fem ! ballerina ! reader , gentle sex, romance, Arlecchino my husband. ✧ minors & non nb/wlw do not interact. !! ✧ a/n — I thought about the backstory of the fic for a long time, because I didn't want to write nsfw just like that lol, this is the first time I'm writing to a girl on my account, I mostly only wrote to boys..😅😅 (Arlecchino step on me)

You are standing on a small stage. You are wearing a white ballet skirt. A little fluffy, covered in detailed patterns, a little sparkling in the dark, gloomy little performance hall.

There are people sitting in the chairs, all dressed in the latest fashion, and somewhere above, a couple of important Fontaine officials are sitting, looking down on you like hawks at their next victim. And you dance, dance and dance like a white swan on the lake, your movements as precise as they are elegant.

And you are scared. Sweat runs down your back, making the fabric of your dress unpleasantly sticky and wet. It is stuffy, your head is spinning from the music, and if you look into the distance, it seems as if the whole space is shimmering.

.. And the music ends.. You hear applause.

You breathe heavily, trying to hide it. You stand up straighter, arching your back almost to the point of crunching, and bow. But when you straighten up, you understand that people are not looking at you. And opposite you, there, on the other side of the stage, is a robot. Without heavy clothes, without makeup that hides almost all the flaws of the face. Without ballet shoes shoes..

..Without a face that needs to be constantly controlled. Without eyes that can look into the abyss of feelings, if only you look into them in response..Without a heart.

The robot opposite you is singing a melody for your own performance. People surround this robot, looking at the miracle of mechanics with delight and childish spontaneous curiosity. They applaud, praise the creator of the robot and Fontaine's new policy regarding technological progress.

And you stand right in front of this crowd on a huge stage, in a belle skirt and ballet shoes. You see these people. Who applaud some robot, they listen to a mechanical repetition of how someone sang in the past. A repetition devoid of feelings and sincerity. A repetition set by some algorithm of numbers of a simple code - "one" - "zero" - "one" And so on - to infinity

And you Dance, stand. Dance, stand. And so on - to infinity.

You remember how a few years ago everything was different. Children loved to watch your performance, and people in the big theater did not take their eyes off you and looked at you with delight. You try not to look in the direction where the robot is standing and there are people who with trepidation and admiration surround this insensitive and heartless robot. When all the people left the hall, leaving you alone in this space..

You shudder.

You hear the only sound of applause very close, you turn your head to the side. A woman is looking at you and applauding, it seems, at you, and not at all at the robot. She is looking you straight in the eyes. Her smile is sincere. The woman's eyes are two strokes of scarlet, which are permanently burned into your retina.

She is tall, slightly taller than you. Slender, her waist is very thin. The woman is completely covered by some strange, but elegant clothes

of an alien style. Black-white-red. Three constants in her clothes.

You are silent. Over the past two years, you have forgotten how to perceive recognition. You bowed again, you smiled at her. You curtsied and the woman let out a chuckle.

The woman suddenly comes closer to you. There is something in her movements that you involuntarily take a small step back, still standing on your toes and in that damn ballet skirt, and it seems that you are still shorter than her.

The woman moves so close to you that you feel the air around you change with her breath. You feel the warmth, not of a machine, not of a monster.

Warmth. A little burning, unfamiliar, but inviting.

The warmth of a human body.

"Good performance. And a good mask on the face," the woman whispers in your ear, sending goosebumps through your body.

The woman barely noticeably runs the fingers of her right hand along your shoulder. You feel how sharp her nails are, but you don't feel pain, only unnatural warmth.

The woman's hand suddenly moves away, and you feel something cold in your hands.

The moment of warmth disappears as quickly as it appeared. The woman moves away from you and with the same smirk on her thin, even lips, goes somewhere, passing by the switched off robot where people were looking a couple of minutes ago. And you stand, looking after her as if amazed. Like the statues of the Archons, who are eternally motionless and which nothing can revive - not even the prayer of a desperate mortal.

You suddenly realize that you have barely breathed all this time and have heard nothing but a low, hoarse female whisper.

You blink, look around, but it is too late - the woman has already managed to leave the hall, haha, and you did not even hear the slamming door.

You automatically look at your palm and find several large mora coins.

You swallow as you gradually return to reality and begin to see and hear everything perfectly. You look at several mora coins in your hand. The mask on the face always needs mora so that it continues to be beautiful and perfect.

But the heart burning in the darkness - no.

Your routine is simple. Put on makeup, put on a ballet skirt, bandage your chest so that it does not stick out, and put on ballet shoes. Lace up the corset. Repeat the dance that you have rehearsed countless times before. Inhale - exhale. Count to ten, put a smile on your face - and go out on stage. Lately, you are rarely invited to participate in solo performances in the theater. You look like a robot among artists, although in fact you are an artist and there are only mechanical iron things around you.

You stand up, long accustomed to the blinding spotlights in the first seconds of the performance. A couple of young magicians performed in front of you, you met them before, nice guys, they helped you once… but you don’t really care about it.

And it’s your turn, you start dancing, spinning, doing pirouettes and complex movements. All this is a continuous performance, and all life is a theater, you all need to play your roles on time. But isn’t there passion and tragedy in the theater at the same time?

You close your eyes and remember that very warmth. So human and inhuman at the same time. You remember the hot breath and inspiration that washed over you the moment you saw that streak of scarlet in that strange woman's eyes. If the heart could burn with a living flame, all your clothes would have burned away long ago, charred, and you would be dancing naked on this stage. But haven't you been naked for a long time? Doesn't inspiration burn away a person's outer self and set fire to his inner self?

You know that this woman is in the audience; sitting among the few spectators who still enjoy a living human performance, despite all the technological progress in Fontaine.

You don't wonder about her reaction, you don't think about the smirk on her perfect marble face. You don't imagine her words that would send a pleasant, euphoric shiver down your body.

You stop your dance with a bow as the music fades. You've already torn your heart out of your chest, it's burning - so why prefaces and afterwords? You open your eyes, the spotlights, as usual, blind you a little. But they seem like shadows compared to what's burning inside you. You look ahead. Someone is applauding you, but you're looking at that woman whose eyes are piercing your entire body like needles.

She's clapping too, and on her face is the same smile-smirk.

The spotlights disappear. The red curtain closes. And you exhale, carrying within you, somewhere deep in your body, that very spark. And the fire that started from that spark and turned that same spark into nothing.

---

You gasp for air and grip the edge of the dressing room vanity table with your hands. Someone else's lips on your neck are like tongues of flame and cold, sharp peaks at the same time. Thin, dark fingers with long nails gently brush your hair back. A bouquet of blood flowers that this woman gave you is lying around somewhere in the dressing room after the show. The dim light from the lamps dances bizarrely across the woman's face, making her look like something unnatural, illusory.

You swallow and exhale again, pressing your back against the tabletop. You reach for the human warmth and put your arms around the woman's back, running your hands over her bare, thin, slender waist.

"What is your name?"

You ask hoarsely between deep, shuddering breaths. The woman grins. She runs her hot, long tongue down your neck, leaving a thin trail of saliva. She looks up at you with her eyes, a thin scarlet streak. Then she straightens up a little and whispers in your ear, "Arlecchino"

Her answers are always like that - short and laconic. Always appropriate, even though you've only heard her answers a few times in your life.

Arlecchino spreads your legs with her knee, then smoothly lifts you by the waist and makes you sit on the countertop, pressing your back against the vanity mirror. The woman's hot hands fall on your hips and stroke them through the layers of your dress. You swallow and reach for another wet kiss, smearing the lipstick on Arlecchino's lips, mixing your lipstick with hers. Her tongue touches yours, and you shiver, feeling how wet you are becoming. Her hot, slender hands slide under your dress and touch your naked skin.

You break the kiss and throw your head back in pleasure, you painfully hit the cold mirror behind you with the top of your head, and Arlecchino removes one of her hands on your hips, and pulls this hand to your head, to the back of your head, to protect you from the unpleasant, cold pain.

You moan softly when someone else's lips touch your neck again. A hot tongue slides along your skin down to your collarbones. Arlecchino removes her hand from your hip and begins to feverishly quickly pull down the top of your dress, exposing your chest. When her hot mouth and hot tongue touch one of your nipples, you arch your back, breathing heavily and moaning with pleasure. If Harlequin hadn't protected the back of your head with her hand, you would have definitely broken the mirror.

The woman looks up at you, although she bends over because of her height. Her eyes burn with desire and anticipation when she sucks your nipple into her mouth again with her lips and makes a loud smack. You shudder again. You gently squeeze the other's breast, and your hand rests on her thigh.

The woman suddenly touches your breast in a certain place and hoarsely says: "What I like, I do not give. And if from this my hands become even more charred, then I will only enjoy it."

You suddenly understand where exactly this woman's hand is on your naked chest. Her hand is near the place where your flaming heart beats greedily. A crooked smile creeps onto your lips as you tremble with desire. You whisper with heat in your voice, looking at the blood-red streaks in the eyes of the woman in front of you:

"Well, then burn. Burn for me. Arlecchino.."

She thin lips opposite stretch into a hungry smile. You are kissed again, the tongue penetrating deep into your mouth. You respond to the kiss, clinging with your hands to the shoulders of Arlecchino.

You never really cared about the politics of other regions of Teyvat, too busy with your own problems. So you had no idea that this strange name "Arlecchino" had its own meaning, but you had a feeling that she was somehow connected with the fatui..

You were just thinking about how interesting this name was.

You will definitely understand everything much later: who this woman in front of you is, what she does, why her hands are so black, as if they were really charred. But maybe it's even for the best. Why prefaces and afterwords when the spark has already become a flame?

@anantaru @hitomisuzuya @lavandulawrites @himasgod @neuvigroove @quimichi @rsventhesecondd @anemoswirlsmyheart @nil4everheartz @kujiba @genshingorlsrevengeance @shyentsfoundherink @lavandulawrites @ashyashylee @s4nguiine

˗ˏˋ ꒰ HIS KISSES꒱ ˎˊ˗ wriothesley, neuvillette, kinich, wanderer, razor

✧ warnings — none <3

✧ Wriothesley

Kisses with him smell like green tea with jasmine, night air, shadow, coolness. Kisses with Wriothesley are always a little rough. He likes to bite his lips and then kiss them so as not to leave marks.

Most often, your kisses will go lower. Wriothesley will cover the skin of his neck with kisses, lightly bite, leaving light marks on the skin, like a short memory of your meeting, which should definitely be shown.

✧ Neuvillette

Kisses with him smell like sea breeze, sun and sweet fruits. Neuvillette's kisses are always sensual, quick, short, because there is always evening left for long kisses. And for now… for now they remain stolen somewhere between business and a short break.

Neuvillette will always kiss you tenderly, caressing your cheekbones with his fingertips. His touches to you will be fleeting and gentle, but even when you part, they will burn on your skin for several more hours.

✧ Kinich

Kisses with him smell like roses, fresh leaves and tropical rain. Kinich's kisses are always bold. You will be surprised, How can he be alone. Behind the emotionless exterior are stormy emotions controlled by reason. Kissing you, he will press you against the wall. Your kisses will be like explosive emotions: impulsive and wild.

As soon as you are alone, he will not be as attentive to himself as he used to. And you realized that Kinich likes deep kisses far from the corner of the eye.

✧ Wanderer

Kisses with him smell of the wind, the bitterness of dandelions, freedom. The kisses of the Wanderer are weightless and almost always in spite. He will kiss you during victory.

He leaves a short burning mark on the lips when he cannot say something important, in the hope that you will understand without words. He leaves the most loving,long and passionate kisses at night. he will definitely gently hold your hand when he kisses you.

There will always be depth of feelings in his kisses, because only in this way will he be able to express them fully. More and more often, he will kiss you on the forehead. Goodbye, before bed. And that will mean more to you than anything he could say.

✧ Razor

Kissing him smells like wild berries, thunder and rain. Kissing Razor is a real pain in the ass, because at first he won't understand what the point is. You'll find out that Razor has never actually kissed anyone before. And you'll have to take the initiative yourself.

When you're alone, lost somewhere in the Valley of the Winds, you'll walk closer to him and take his hands.

For a few seconds, you'll look into each other's eyes, and a wave of emotion will flash through Razor's gaze: excitement, fear of failure, completion. Your lips will touch: softly, gently, and you'll feel him shudder slightly from the touch. So unusual, so desirable for him.

I edited my last fic with the wanderer guys, I removed mistakes, added new sentences, etc. If you are interested, you can take a look!

fr

omg art is so cool!!

happy birthday wanderer ☂️🎈💙

Yandere Genshin Men Memes

Repost since I managed to delete it

I was bored so I decided to make some yandere genshin men memes(^з^)-☆ (this is just for fun and they’re meant to be silly and stupid)

God this is so dumb＿|￣|○

Masterlist

(Ignore how the fonts are different)

If you told a genshin player back in 2020/2021 that this would one day be possible, they'd call you crazy.