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wanderer is back stealing stories, if you are tagged, just know that he has taken your work without permission. his current tumblr url is @wanderer4waffles
new tumblr url: @hikarusimp3
**Edit: a lot of these books have already been deleted, but the tagged authors have the right to know about this user and how he's going around stealing and translating works without permission.
i need Varka So Bad hes consumed my brain everytime i see him i go feral i Need more self insert content eith him RAAAGGHHHH ill just write it myself i guess 💔💔
— Steady as Stone Chapter 2, A Study in Embarrassment
Chapter 1 is here!
Including: Zhongli x GN!Reader (for now)
c/w: multi-chapter fic, will be NSFW later on, established relationship, non- $3xual BD$M, fluff and smut, t0p!d0m!Zhongli, sub!bttm!reader, soft zhongli, reader is NOT traveller, reader has anxiety, gentle d0m zhongli, reader has low self-esteem and this chapter has some discussions about reader's anxiety (although not directly mentioned) (lmk if i missed anything)
w/c: 5k
a/n: HALLOOO!! heres the long awaited (i hope) second chapter :3 sorry this took a while to post!! I struggled with ideas with this bc i have A lot i want to do with this fic but also the pacing needs to be right yk? anyway!! i hope you enjoy this!! my ao3!
CONTENT BELOW THE CUT
Morning arrived slowly, creeping in through the cracks in the curtains and casting a gentle light across the room. You stirred under the blankets, the weight of sleep still heavy on your limbs, but a deeper, quieter awareness settling beneath your skin.
Everything ached, but not in a painful way—your knees were stiff, your thighs a little sore from the position you'd held so long. But more than anything, you felt… still.
And safe.
As the memories of the previous evening gently unfolded in your mind, you found yourself surprisingly calm. The nerves you’d felt before—tangled with embarrassment and uncertainty—were now muted beneath the quiet, pulsing warmth of having been seen. Cared for. Respected.
You ran your fingers lightly over the soft fabric of the sheets, grounding yourself. Your body had obeyed, your mind had quieted, and not once had you felt out of control. If anything, you’d felt more present than you had in a long time.
A soft knock came at the door—two raps, gentle and familiar.
You turned your head slightly. “Come in,” you croaked.
Zhongli entered with that same quiet grace he always carried, holding a tray with a cup of apple juice and another with water, along with a plate of Vegetarian Abalone.
“I thought you might appreciate something warm,” he said simply, setting the tray on the bedside table and taking a seat on the loveseat next to the bed. “And perhaps we could talk, If you are feeling up to it.”
You sat up slowly, adjusting the blanket around your lap. “Yes. I think I’d like that.”
He handed you your cup with both hands and waited until you’d taken a sip before settling beside you on the edge of the bed. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—just ruminative.
“I wanted to give you space to wake before asking,” he said, “but I’d very much like to hear how you’re feeling—physically, emotionally, all of it.”
You exhaled. “My knees feel a little sore. Mentally, a little floaty still… but good. Better than I expected to feel, honestly.”
Zhongli nodded, taking a slow sip of his own tea. “That is heartening to hear. You were incredibly composed last night, especially for your first time.”
You snorted softly. “I felt like a bundle of nerves the entire time.”
“And yet, you stayed present,” he said gently. “You communicated, you trusted, and most importantly, you honored your limits. That is far more important than any performance.”
“I was scared I’d feel weird about it in the morning. Or embarrassed. But… I don’t. I feel kind of proud, actually.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “As you should. It’s no small thing to open yourself up to another person like that.”
There was another quiet beat before you spoke again, voice softer now.
“So… what happens next?”
Zhongli’s gaze met yours steadily. “That depends on what you want. There is no rush. If you wish to try something again—perhaps a new dynamic, or another type of scene—I will be here to plan it with you. And if you feel you need time to sit with everything, that too is valid.”
You nodded slowly, taking a moment to think as you spoke again. “I think… I want to keep exploring. Carefully. With you.”
Something in his expression softened at that, his hand reaching out to rest lightly over yours.
“Then we shall. With care. With intention. And always, with mutual consent.”
You squeezed his hand in return.
You ate your food quickly—despite how gross you felt, eating before brushing your teeth, the ravenous rumbles from your stomach outweighed everything else.
Zhongli studied you for a moment, not intrusively, but with the kind of reverence that made your skin prickle in the best way. He took your comfort as a sign to speak again.
“As you mentioned you want to continue, I’ve been considering ideas for our next scene,” he began carefully, his tone measured, “but before I share anything, I want to ask—would you like to know the details in advance, or would you prefer to experience it in the moment?”
You blinked at him, lips curling slowly as a teasing glint sparked in your eyes. “Already planning the next scene, are we?” you said with a soft laugh. “Should I be flattered or a little scared?”
Zhongli raised a brow, his lips pursing in light embarrassment. “Ah, I apologize. I simply find myself… excited, at the possibility of sharing these experiences with you. Both are acceptable reactions,” he replied smoothly. “Though I would prefer flattered.”
You leaned towards just slightly, shoulders brushing as you playfully smiled. “You didn’t even wait a full day before plotting your next move. Is this the famous strategist in you at work?”
“Not plotting,” he countered gently, tilting his head. “Anticipating. There is a difference.”
“Mm, sounds suspiciously like plotting,” you teased. “You sure you’re not trying to get me addicted to all this attention?”
He chuckled under his breath—low, warm, fond. “If devotion is addictive, then I suppose I’m guilty of indulgence. You’ve handled yourself with such grace. It’s only natural I would want to deepen that experience—for both of us.”
You ducked your head, smiling into your apple juice. He always said things like that with such sincere poise it was impossible to know whether he realized the effect it had on you.
“…Can I ask what kind of scene you’re thinking about?” you said eventually. “Not everything, just… the general idea.”
Zhongli inclined his head. “Of course. I was thinking of something rooted more deeply in power exchange, rather than physical endurance or overt intimacy. A focus on obedience. Stillness. Perhaps tasks meant to build a rhythm of control and trust. You’d remain clothed. No restraints, unless requested. The purpose would be to explore the dynamic, not to test limits.”
You felt a flutter in your chest at the clarity of his words. That made sense—structured but safe. It wasn’t about escalating. It was about deepening.
“That sounds… good,” you agreed. “It sounds like something I’d like.”
Zhongli’s gaze softened at your response, as though your quiet admission pleased him more than any praise could. “Then we’ll proceed slowly,” he said. “With intention.”
Zhongli shifted slightly beside you, his voice low and certain. “It will be an exercise in listening,” he continued. “To me, yes—but more importantly, to yourself. You will be given clear instructions, small ones. Nothing strenuous. I will observe, guide, and correct only if necessary. You will not be punished. You will not be praised simply for obedience. It will be about presence. Focus.”
You found yourself holding still, hanging onto his every word.
“There will be no rush. You may ask questions. You may speak freely unless told otherwise, and even then, there will be exceptions. I want you to be comfortable being quiet… and equally comfortable being heard.”
You blinked at him. “So I’m not performing for you?”
Zhongli smiled faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. “No. You’re showing up. That’s all I ask.”
The flutter in your chest deepened into something more grounded—warmth, not heat. A sense of being seen. Held.
You leaned your head against his shoulder again, sighing. “I think I’d like that.”
“I think so too,” he murmured, resting his cheek atop your head. “We will pick a time later in the week, when you’ve rested more. You won’t be expected to act or impress. You will only be asked to be present.”
After a pause, you let out a soft, almost shy laugh. “You’re kind of really good at this.”
“I try to be.” A beat. “Though I am learning too. With you.”
That made your heart twist—in a good way.
“…You know, if you’d asked me a month ago if I’d be here, wrapped in a blanket after talking about structured obedience, I probably would’ve buried myself in a hole in the earth and died from secondhand embarrassment.”
“And yet here you are,” Zhongli said, amusement ghosting through his voice. “Alive. And quite brave.”
You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself and smiled.
“Alright then,” you murmured. “Let’s try it.”
The weeks slipped by gently, like pages turned in a well-loved book. And in that time, life with Zhongli settled into a quiet rhythm—one that pulsed with calm domesticity, small rituals, and the unspoken intimacy of shared space.
Although you two didn’t live together officially, you were found at Zhongli’s house more often than not.
Mornings were slow. You often woke to the rustle of parchment or the faint scratch of ink on paper. Zhongli would already be at the low table, reviewing the daily newspaper like a prized artifact every morning before work. His cream robe always slipped slightly off one shoulder, hair still drying, steam curling from his tea as his eyes scanned the newspaper, and as he journaled, pen scratching along parchment. He always looked up when he noticed you stirring, offering you a soft smile—looking ethereal with his hair loose like a halo around him.
You’d shuffle over, still in his shirt (a size too big for you) that you often used to sleep in, and he’d pour you a cup of sweet tea without a word. By now, he knew exactly how you liked it.
“Did you sleep well?” he’d ask every morning, as though your rest was the most important variable of the day.
“Better now,” you’d usually mumble shyly into your tea, and he’d chuckle quietly, pleased.
Some days were filled with errands—you trailing beside him as he picked out flowers from vendors, corrected tourists on obscure Liyue lore, or helped elders lift heavy market baskets. (Seriously, how did his clothes hide all that muscle?) Others were spent entirely indoors, both of you tucked into the warmth of the home—him reading, and you drawing, or writing, or simply existing in the silence you shared so easily now.
There was one particular afternoon that stood out.
Rain was drumming softly against the windows, and you were sitting cross-legged on the couch, trying to untangle a ball of yarn that had somehow come undone from your last attempt at knitting. Zhongli was nearby, flipping through a book on ancient rituals. The soft light of the paper lanterns bathed the room in amber hues.
You sighed in frustration. “This yarn has it out for me. I swear it.”
Zhongli looked up, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “May I?”
You blinked. “What, help me?”
“If you’ll allow it.”
Zhongli grabbed the yarn from your hands gently, as if it was something fragile.
You watched, mildly stunned, as his long fingers expertly began to work through the knots with a quiet sort of focus. He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble. Just steady and patient. It was the kind of attention he gave to everything—tea, contracts, you.
“…You’re ridiculously good at this,” you muttered after a minute.
“It is simply about taking one knot at a time,” he replied, not looking up. “Pull too hard, and it tightens. Go too fast, and you miss where it overlaps. It’s about care.”
You blinked. “...Are we still talking about yarn?”
Zhongli glanced at you then, and the look he gave you was amused and filled with a hint of mischief. “Perhaps not entirely.”
You felt yourself flush, and quickly looked away. “You’re annoying,” you muttered.
“And yet,” he said, placing the now-neatly rolled ball of yarn into your lap, “you allow me to stay.”
Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the world was quiet, soft, and safe.
Later that evening, the soft glow of lanterns filled the space with a golden hush. You sat curled up on one end of the couch, snacking on some fries as the subtle fragrance from Zhongli’s cup of Osmanthus Tea grounded your thoughts. He was beside you, legs crossed, robes slightly loosened from the relaxed end of the day. His presence, as always, was composed, but you could sense the gentle intent beneath his calm.
You shifted slightly. “So… that scene you mentioned. Are you still thinking about it?”
A flash of surprise swept across his face as he looked at you, quickly settling back into his composed expression. “I am. I've refined it somewhat, but I haven’t changed the core of what I initially described. The focus will still be trust, not threshold.”
You nodded slowly. Your stomach flipped anxiously, eyes flickering to him. “Will it be… very different from last time?”
“In some ways, yes,” he said gently. “But I don’t intend to overwhelm you. The structure will be a little more deliberate. Not harsher—simply more defined. Clearer expectations, more presence from me.”
That gave you pause. “So, more rules?”
“Yes,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “But simple ones. Not for the sake of control, but for communication. If something feels wrong, you will still stop me with a single word.”
You chewed your bottom lip, eyes drifting across the room as you turned that over in your head. “Will there be anything… physical?”
Zhongli tilted his head. “Not in the way you’re imagining. You will remain clothed. I will not bind you unless you request it. There may be guidance—posture, tone, stillness. But no performance. This is not about being watched. It is about being present.”
You nodded again, slower this time, the words settling somewhere in your chest like soft sand.
“I’m not asking for the whole plan,” you added quickly, glancing his way. “Just… I guess I like knowing the tone of it. If that makes sense?”
“It does,” he replied. “You want to prepare emotionally, even if you leave the actions themselves to unfold in the moment.”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “You make it sound so poetic.”
He smiled faintly. “You are allowed to be thoughtful about your submission. It is not foolishness. It is wise.”
You swallowed—quiet, but calmed. That strange fluttery feeling, the one that danced along your ribs whenever you discussed things like this with him, was still there. The sharpness of panic you felt had subsided by now, but your mind still raced with thoughts.
“When?” you asked.
Zhongli leaned back slightly. “Soon. But not tomorrow. We will start only when you’ve had enough time to sit with the thought. I won’t rush you.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding, relaxing just a little more against the cushions. “Okay.”
He watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable, but kind. Then, gently, he reached out and placed his hand atop yours.
“You’ve already done something very important,” he said. “You asked. You voiced curiosity. That is the first step of any true dynamic, and you took it with honesty.”
You looked down at your intertwined hands and gave a tiny nod. “Thank you… for being patient with me.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anything else.”
The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound echoed louder than you expected in the stillness of Zhongli’s home.
Your fingers curled nervously at your sides.
It wasn’t your first time here. You had kneeled in front of him just weeks ago—your body shuddered lightly as the memory replayed in your head.
Zhongli looked up from where he sat on the same sofa, his gaze settling on you with the calm intensity that always left you a little breathless. Beside him on the table was a tray—a simple plate of apples, Bulle Fruits, and Sunsettias. You noted the pillow on the sofa beside him as you recalled it was the same one you had used for your knees last time.
“Come,” he said, gesturing to the space in front of him.
You crossed the room slowly, the weight of anticipation pressing into your ribs. You stood before Zhongli again as he got up, looking down at you with nothing but warmth and adoration in those amber pools.
“How are you feeling?”
“... I'm a little nervous, if I’m being honest.”
Zhongli’s brows knitted together lightly, looking worried. “Forgive me, I tried my best to make this scene appear less daunting, but I understand you don't feel that way?”
“No it’s—I’m just unsure of what to expect… Which is making me both nervous and excited at the same time. It's confusing, really.”
“I understand the feeling. We’ll take it slow today and, as I’d mentioned before, the Tri-Colour Dango system is still in place.”
He placed a quick peck on your head as he stepped away to sit back down, spreading his legs and shifting to get comfortable, before placing the pillow on the ground.
“We will begin now, unless you have any questions you would like to ask.”
You blinked, swallowing the rising ball of anxiety in your throat. Zhongli waited patiently for you all the while.
“I don’t, sir.”
He studied you, then spoke—low and clear. “Kneel. In the same position as before, go slowly and spread your legs.”
Your body moved like clockwork. You could feel the hesitation simmering beneath your skin as you got into position slowly, the pillow moving slightly under your weight when you set your legs far apart to get comfortable.
“I want you to listen to me carefully,” Zhongli continued, leaning down. His eyes bored into yours as he spoke. “Your hands are to be clasped behind your back. I want them to stay there unless you absolutely cannot endure it, or unless I ask you to move them.”
He paused, long enough to act as a prompt. You quickly shuffled to clasp your shaking hands behind your back, mindful of your posture as you looked at him expectantly.
“I will not be binding you. This is simply a way to test the waters, and see if we both enjoy this. As such, there are no consequences if you break these rules. Is this understood?”
You swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”
Zhongli’s expression softened just slightly, and he reached over to pet your head soothingly.
“Good, I’m glad you’re still here with me.”
Then he reached for the fruit with steady fingers, lifting the knife as he started cutting the apple into thin slices.
“Open,” he said gently.
Your mouth parted, and the fruit slid onto your tongue—sweet and soft, a burst of flavor that made you jolt slightly from the surprise of it. Juice ran from the corner of your lips as you tried to chew quickly, self-conscious about the mess, but the command echoed in your head: don’t move your hands.
You forced yourself to stillness, your cheeks warming.
Another slice followed. Then another.
Zhongli didn’t rush. He didn’t say much, either. Just watched. Measured. Calm.
The anxiety coiled tighter in your chest with each bite. The juices slipped down your chin, and your mouth struggled to keep up, humiliation flickering behind your ribs; not from pain, but from the vulnerability of it all. The trust it took not to wipe your mouth, not to look away.
And still… you obeyed.
Zhongli set down the knife after a while, his hand lifting instead to gently brush the corner of your mouth with his thumb. He wiped away a drop of juice you hadn’t even realized had fallen, and the touch—so simple, so careful—made something in your chest break loose.
“You’re doing well,” he murmured. “Breathe.”
And you did.
Slowly, carefully, with your hands clasped tightly behind your back and his voice in your ears—you breathed.
You breathed—shaky, and uneven at first—but you obeyed.
Zhongli’s fingers lingered at your chin for a moment, thumb gently pressing into the curve where your jaw met your ear. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was grounding, like he was reminding you: You’re here. With me. You’re safe.
The stickiness of the fruit clung to your lips, your chin. You could feel it trail slightly down your throat—a mix of sweetness and heat that made your skin crawl, not with discomfort, but with the overwhelming vulnerability of being seen like this. Raw. Human.
Your hands stayed laced tightly behind your back. You could feel yourself shaking, and yet, you stayed.
He reached for another piece—the Bulle Fruit—and lifted it again, slow and deliberate. The scent was heady, and thick in the air. He didn’t offer it to you immediately this time, just held it near, watching your eyes flick between the fruit and his face.
He spoke, voice low and steady. “You may close your eyes if you feel uncomfortable, but I want you to stay still. Even now.”
Your pulse jumped. The fruit brushed your lower lip, cold and wet, before he pushed it gently between your teeth.
With your eyes closed, the burst of flavor was more intense, sharp and sweet—and too much. You couldn’t help it—a small gasp escaped as a trail of juice slid from the corner of your mouth yet again. You flinched, instinctively about to raise your hand to wipe it away.
“Ah, ah.” Zhongli’s voice was soft, but firm. “Stay still.”
You froze, eyes wide open again as your mouth still worked through the fruit. Shame bloomed in your chest—but it wasn’t sharp. It was warm, painful only in its tenderness. You nodded as best you could with your mouth so full.
He didn’t chastise you. He simply observed. And, after a few heartbeats, he reached out again—this time with a cool cloth. You hadn’t seen it resting beside the tray, but he’d clearly prepared it ahead of time.
Zhongli dabbed at the corner of your mouth, his other hand resting lightly at the base of your neck, steadying you.
“You’re doing very well,” he murmured again, praise woven gently into every syllable. “I know this feels exposed. But you’re safe. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
His words settled into you deeper than you expected. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear them—how tightly you were holding yourself.
You’ve done nothing wrong.
“What is your colour?” he asked quietly, not pulling away yet.
You looked up at him, with your chest trembling slightly from the restraint, the effort of stillness, the need to be enough.
You shook your head. The urge to please him was stronger than your beating heart.
“Green,” you whispered. “I’m okay. I want to keep going.”
Zhongli nodded once, expression unreadable for a moment—there was something in his eyes that looked dangerously close to pride.
You closed your eyes again. You trusted him.
He picked up another piece, a thin slice of the Sunsettia, and brushed it against your lower lip. You parted them instinctively, letting him feed you again.
No words. No commands. Just the sound of your breathing, the bustle of the city outside the window, and the soft clink of porcelain as he set things aside.
Drops of the pulp fell off the edges of your lips against the soft cover of the pillow in a steady flow—the sound did wonders to both soothe your anxiety, and also enhance it.
“We will stop here.”
The baritone of his voice brought you out of your stupor as you blinked your eyes open.
A wave of embarrassment hit you all at once—your position on the floor, the hands clasped behind your back, the juice dripping down your chin, and the fact that your ex-archon turned boyfriend had seen you chew fruit in utter silence for the past few hours. Or, at least, it felt like a few hours.
You ducked your head quickly, only for a large, warm hand gently tilted your chin upward.
“None of that,” Zhongli said softly, eyes searching yours with patience and calm. “There is no shame in obedience. You did very well.”
Your throat tightened as you tried to speak. “I looked ridiculous…”
“You looked focused. Trusting. And very beautiful,” he said, tone unwavering, as though it were the most obvious truth in the world.
You felt heat rush to your face and tried not to shrink in on yourself.
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Your throat felt tight, like if you spoke you might shatter. He saw it—of course he did. He always did.
Without another word, he reached behind you and gently loosened your hands from where they had stiffened against your spine. His touch was unhurried, thumbs stroking over the joints of your fingers before slowly guiding your arms forward. The relief in your shoulders was immediate, but it was the deliberate way he handled you—like a priceless artifact, rather than a person recovering from anxiety—that calmed you most.
“Let me help you up.”
His arms slid beneath yours, guiding you to your feet. Even though your knees wobbled, he held you until you were steady, then helped you up onto the couch.
You sank down with a muted breath. The plush cushions welcomed you, but the weight of what you’d just experienced still lingered in your chest.
Zhongli didn’t leave your side. He disappeared only briefly to fetch another warm, damp towel, and returned to kneeling before you. He cleaned the sticky fruit juice from your chin and lips with careful strokes. Not a speck of judgment on his face—only gentle focus, like tending to something beloved.
“I—I’m sorry,” you whispered, gaze flicking away.
He paused, hand resting on your knee. “For what reason? You did everything I asked of you, and more. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
You exhaled shakily, the words finding a quiet place inside your bones where they could settle.
Then, without asking, he brought a folded blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around your shoulders. You clutched it reflexively, pulling it tight, and Zhongli eased down beside you. Not looming. Not leading. Just there.
“You held your position for so long,” he murmured, pressing his fingers into your thighs gently, massaging the lingering ache out of your muscles. “Your body deserves care, too.”
You didn’t realize how much tension you still held until his touch found it. His warm hands kneaded though the tightness in your legs, your shoulders, the base of your spine where you’d been too focused to notice fatigue building.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was safe. It was full of every breath he watched for, every little tremor he steadied.
When he finally stopped, he brought a small bottle of sweet-smelling oil from the drawer behind him. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward your hands.
You nodded. He poured a drop into his palm, rubbed his hands together to warm it, and began massaging your fingers—each one taken gently, cradled like a promise, as if to say: You gave me these hands. I will honor that.
“I felt… I don’t know. Exposed,” you whispered, voice rough. “Like I didn’t even have the words for what I needed while it was happening.”
“You didn’t need the words then,” he said. “You have them now. That is what matters.”
You leaned into him without thinking. He shifted to hold you fully, arms drawing you in as the blanket cocooned you both. His chest was solid beneath your cheek, heartbeat slow, steady, patient. You stayed like that until the tightness in your chest faded into soft warmth, and your breathing evened out.
“Next time,” he murmured quietly, fingers brushing the back of your neck, “you’ll know what to expect. And we’ll go slower, or faster, or not at all—whatever you need.”
You nodded into his chest.
“May I ask…” he began, fingers pausing for just a moment, “Did you enjoy it?”
You hesitated.
The answer was there—immediate, but complicated. “I… I did,” you said slowly, deep in thought. “It was nice. Intense at first, but once I settled into it, I felt… safe. Cared for. Even when I was nervous.”
He hummed low in acknowledgment.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “But I sense there’s more.”
You chewed your lip before nodding. “Yeah. It’s just… weird. Not in a bad way,” you added quickly. “It’s just that part of me felt kind of silly the whole time. Like—why is someone like me doing something like that? Sitting there, hands on my back, getting fed fruit and being told what to do. I don’t—”
It felt like there was a rock sitting in your throat.
“I felt like I didn't deserve this. This care. This tenderness. I don’t feel like I deserve any of it.”
Zhongli didn’t speak right away, but you could see the flash of sadness in his eyes. He let the weight of your words settle, then replied with careful, unhurried tenderness.
“It is not uncommon to question yourself after such open vulnerability,” he said. “But what you did today took trust. Strength. It wasn’t silly. You honored me with your openness, and I hold that in the highest regard.”
Your throat tightened a little at that, and your voice was quieter when you replied. “I guess… I just don’t want you to see me differently.”
“I don’t,” Zhongli said without hesitation. “I see you more clearly. And I’m proud of what I see. No matter what we explore together, I want you to know—my view of you will never change. You’ll always be the incredible person I fell in love with.”
You blinked rapidly, swallowing down a sudden rise of emotion and an onslaught of tears. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’m glad.”
“Would you like to talk more about those feelings later?” he asked. “We can revisit them any time.”
“... Maybe tomorrow.”
He smiled against your temple. “Tomorrow, then.”
“And now,” he added, a soft smile in his voice, “Your favourite, Lemon Iced Tea?”
You pulled back just enough to glance at him, a small laugh catching in your throat. “Only if you make it.”
Zhongli stood, pressing a kiss to your temple as he walked towards the kitchen. “Of course, I’ll add in extra sugar just for you.”
You remained curled on the couch as a soft smile spread across your face—wrapped in the blanket, the warmth of his touch still lingering like a balm. And, for the first time in what felt like hours, you weren’t anxious. You weren’t uncertain.
soon! chapter two is ready I'm just waiting for my beta reader to be available to read through it and make the necessary corrections :> it's 5-6k words so it takes a while to get through!!
Including: Varka (Genshin Impact) x F!Reader
c/w: ! NSFW ! , Reader has female anatomy, 3 am word vomit, no beta, so theres probably spelling errors that i missed, barely any back reading, missionary (i think thats what its called ive njever had the freak so idk much about positions, slightly possessive + dominant Varka, probably OOC, written before Nod-Krai release, almost no body descriptions used, reader is a high ranking Favonius knight, slight voyeurism but not really theres actually no one arounf them but the Intent is there, he calls u sweetheart like one time thats it, varka is a tease its canon btw, i think thats it lmk if i missed anything
w/c: 2.5k
a/n: i was gonna be normal about him but then this idea popped up in my head and i couldnmt Get it Out so i decided to start writing and finish it in one sitting so here it is!! i hope you guys like it <3 ive only written f reader for now, might write m reader when i wake upo later bc im tired rn,,
NSFW CONTENT BELOW THE CUT
The cold gnawed at your skin, a sharp bite on your cheeks as you exhaled in quiet frustration, breath misting the air inside your sleeping bag. Nod Krai’s weather was always merciless, but tonight, the frost seemed almost personal.
Your tent, pitched slightly south of the main Knights of Favonius outpost, gave you a rare pocket of privacy. A small perk of your status—though with it came silence and sleepless nights. You shifted under the layers, the chill finding every gap in your bedding. The dim, bluish glow from outside lit the walls of the tent faintly, making your breath look like ghostly wisps in the air.
Sleep wouldn’t come, as usual. You sighed, curling tighter.
Then—
A soft sound. Too deliberate to be the wind.
Your body tensed. The flap of your tent rustled, followed by a shadow moving across the fabric. You reached instinctively for the dagger tucked beneath your pillow—but before you could grab it, the flap slipped open.
Your breath caught.
“Varka?!” You whisper-shouted.
The Grand Master himself ducked into your tent, broad shoulders brushing against the narrow entrance as he shut the flap quickly behind him. Snow dusted his fur-lined cloak, and his expression was unreadable—but his eyes searched for yours, full of something… reckless.
“What are you—? You can’t—” You sat up fast, voice still a hurried whisper as you looked past him like someone might’ve followed. “Varka, what if someone sees—?”
“I know,” he cut in, voice low and calm, but there was that familiar undercurrent of defiance in it. “But I couldn’t sleep. And I figured, neither could you.”
You stared at him, your heart hammering as the reality sank in—he had just walked into your tent. In the middle of the night. In plain sight if anyone had been watching.
“This is insane,” you whispered, though you didn’t stop him as he knelt beside you shaking off his cloak and shoes as he slid inside your sleeping bag beside you, the cold of his body already cutting through the little warmth you had accumulated in the past hour.
His grin was slow, maddening. “Since when did we play things safe?”
You couldn’t help it—you reached out, brushing frost from his jaw with your fingers. His skin was cold, but his gaze burned.
“You’re lucky I didn’t stab you,” you murmured.
“Oh, you’d miss,” he teased, and leaned closer, “And you’d feel bad.”
You bit back a smile, even as anxiety and affection swirled together in your chest.
“I’m serious, Varka. You shouldn't be here.”
“I’ll be gone before dawn,” he promised. “But tonight… I needed to see you.”
And despite every protest forming on your tongue, you let him pull you into his arms—his body still cold from the snow, his presence hot against your skin, familiar, forbidden, and dangerously comforting.
The tent had never felt smaller. Or safer.
You should’ve pushed him away.
Told him to leave, to go back to his tent, to think about the consequences if anyone saw. But instead, you sank into him—slowly, carefully—as if this stolen warmth was the only thing keeping you from freezing over entirely.
His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you into the broad wall of his chest. You could feel the slow thud of his heartbeat beneath layers of scarred hard muscle, solid and grounding. His scent—cold air, snow, fresh pine, and something distinctly him—filled your senses and made the rest of the world blur.
“I hate how good this feels,” you muttered, your fingers curling into your palm as your heart beat wildly in your chest.
Varka hummed softly above you. “Then don’t think too hard about it.”
You laughed under your breath, low and breathless. “You’re the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. I’m not even supposed to look at you like this.”
“And yet,” he said, tilting your chin up with cold fingers, “you do. You always have.”
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. His touch was rough with calluses, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw, and the look in his eyes—the one he only gave you when no one else was watching—unraveled you. That quiet, reverent hunger he never dared to show in daylight.
“You’re going to get us both in trouble,” you whispered.
He smirked.
“With who?”
You bashed your head against his chest as you sighed in defeat, his body shaking as he held in his laughter at your sorry state.
“I swear to the Anemo Archon if anyone catches wind of this, of us—”
“—You’ll rip me apart limb by limb and leave me to be eaten by the falcons, I know.” Varka smiled at you sweetly as your eyebrows knitted in frustration.
You slammed your fist lightly against his chest this time. “I’m serious! You’re insufferable, I swear. You—”
You barely had time to speak again before his lips caught yours—not gently, not carefully, but with months of restraint collapsing in a single, stolen moment. The kind of kiss that devoured silence. That made you forget you were in a war camp. In the freezing dead of Nod Krai. In a tent that was never supposed to hold both of you like this.
His hand tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to bare your throat. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound like he’d been starved of it. Your fingers clutched at his clothes, pushing it back, desperate to feel something.
You shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Not now.
But gods, he felt like fire—his breath hot against your neck, his hands rough as they traced your curves with a need that had been coiled for far too long.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groaned lowly into your skin, teeth grazing the edge of your jaw. “Seeing you every damn day and not being able to touch you—”
Your hips arched instinctively, a silent plea, and he caught it like a command.
“Say it,” he breathed against your collarbone. “Tell me you want this.”
You didn’t hesitate. “I’ve wanted this since the last time you left me without saying goodbye.”
That made something snap in him.
His mouth was on you again, desperate and claiming, trailing lower as his hands finally found the edge of your sleep shirt—pushing it up, baring skin inch by aching inch. The cold hit you briefly, a bite to your senses, before his mouth replaced it with heat.
Your back arched under him, a gasp ripped from your lips as his teeth grazed, then soothed, the sensitive skin beneath your ribs. Every touch, every breath, was tinged with urgency and restraint threatening to unravel.
“We—ah, have to be quiet,” you warned breathlessly, your voice trembling between need and reason.
His smirk was wicked as he met your widened eyes. “Then you better be very good for me.”
His hand covered your mouth in the next second, and your heart skipped several beats—because the look in his eyes had steeled with promise. The same dangerous glint that told you Varka had a plan. That he wasn’t here just to warm the tent.
He was here to ruin you—quietly. Completely.
And you were going to let him.
He nipped lightly at your throat— not enough to cause any bruising but just enough to redden your skin, just enough for him to see you the next morning and know that there’s blossoming marks right underneath your tight armour.
You shut your eyes as the sensations overwhelmed you, his lips on your neck and his still-cold hand possessively gripping your waist, the scent of fresh snow and pine surrounding you as you tried your best to stay quiet.
“You’re going to stay quiet for me.” He whispered assertively as he let go of your face, trailing his hand down to meet the other at your waist— sliding towards your chest as your shirt rode up, exposing more skin to his hungry eyes.
The cold gnawed at your exposed skin once more, you shivered but, it wasn't just from the frost this time.
Varka groped your chest, cold fingers pinching and pulling at your sensitive nipples— massaging the soft flesh as he observed your face contort in pleasure.
“Varka—”
“Shh. I told you to be quiet, didn’t I? Or would you like the entire camp to hear you?”
You opened your mouth to speak but shook your head dumbly.
“Good.”
He trailed a hand down, slipping between your sleep pants as he felt the wetness gathering between your legs.
“This wet already? I’ve barely touched you.”
You would argue that he had touched you quite a bit actually, especially where you were most sensitive with the colder weather.
But you couldn’t, so you glared at him.
He smirked at you as he pushed a finger inside you, his thumb landing squarely on your clit.
You slapped a hand on your mouth at the intrusion, biting the inside of your cheek to avoid yelping.
There was a distinct urgency in the way Varka touched you—still teasing, still deliberate—but unlike his usual slow, drawn-out indulgence, tonight he couldn’t afford to take his time.
His fingers worked in tandem, one hand pinching and massaging your plush chest while the other was knuckle deep inside you.
Varka knew how to wield your pleasure like how he wielded his greatsword. Where to press, where to bite, where to lick—he knew it all.
So anyone with a brain would understand your frustration as Varka repeatedly missed your g-spot, pumping his fingers in and out at a pace that could only be described as hurried leisure. As if he was waiting for something while being impatient about it.
You peeled your sweaty hand off your mouth as you whisper shouted to him again.
“What are you, ah— doing?!”
“Why, waiting for you to say the magic words, of course.” He smiled wickedly again, a glint of determination on his face.
“Magic— Are you serious right now?”
Another pump just short of your g-spot that had you trembling, a moan at the tip of your tongue that you were only able to hold back from pure self respect.
“If you ask me nicely, I might indulge you.”
“Indulge me?! You were the one that came crawling into my tent in the middle of the night to get your cock wet, you assho—”
He curled his fingers just right at that moment, thumb drawing a quick circle on your clit as he watched you barely contain your sounds at the sudden burst of pleasure.
“Were you saying something?”
“Archons—Varka, please.”
“Close enough, I’ll take it.”
Calloused fingers roughly pushed inside you, he added a third as he moved his thumb in rapid circles on your sticky clit, his hand moving faster than you could blink to cover your mouth.
You bit into the flesh of his palm as you climaxed, eyes rolling back as your body arched beneath him—hips trembling, breath caught in your throat like a prayer you couldn’t speak.
Varka groaned—a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin as he pressed his forehead to yours, watching every twitch and shudder like he was committing it to memory.
“Archons,” he whispered, voice thick and uneven. “You’re perfect like this.”
You were still shaking when he pulled his hand away, cradling your jaw with the same fingers you'd just marked with your teeth. His touch gentled immediately, brushing your cheek with surprising tenderness as he leaned in, placing a slow kiss to your lips—nothing like the ones before. This one was reverent. Careful.
“You okay?” he murmured, his breath warm against your swollen mouth.
You nodded, breathless, dazed. “More than.”
His hand slid down your side, possessive. “Good,” he rasped, eyes dark and heavy with hunger. “Because I’m not done with you.”
You barely had time to react before he was on you again—lips crashing into yours with renewed fervor, swallowing your soft gasp as his weight pressed you deeper into the bedding. His kiss was rougher now, desperate. Not just want—it was claiming.
He unzipped his pants like a man crazed, faster than you’d ever seen him do it before, pulling himself out and pushing inside you as he leaned down to muffle his own moans against the crook of your neck.
“You’re so hot inside.” he whispered against your skin as he rolled his hips slowly, cock disappearing between your slick folds. “You’re still soaked for me. Still mine.”
Your body shuddered in response, a fresh wave of heat coursing through you as your legs instinctively parted for him again.
He didn’t wait.
He pulled back and slid back into you with a slow, brutal thrust—drawing a strangled moan from your lips that he muffled with his hand again, his other gripping your thigh and pinning it high against his waist.
“Quiet now,” he whispered, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You don’t want the guards thinking something’s wrong in the Knight-Commander’s tent, do you?”
The possessive tone in his voice sent a pulse straight through you. You shook your head helplessly, your fingernails digging into the taut muscles of his back as he began to move—each stroke deeper, harder, dragging against every oversensitive nerve he’d already wrecked once tonight.
His pace was different this time. Less urgent. More deliberate. Like he wanted to make sure you remembered every second.
And Archons, you would.
“You take me so well,” he muttered, watching your face twist with each thrust. “So tight—like your body knows who it belongs to.”
You moaned beneath him, fingers clawing at the bedding, head tilting back as his mouth traced your throat, marking you again with heat and teeth.
“You’re not going to sleep tonight,” he promised darkly, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Not until you’re shaking in my arms over and over. Not until I’m satisfied.”
Your legs trembled around him. You were already close again—he knew it. Felt it in the way you clenched around him, the way your breath stuttered under his hand.
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“Come for me again, sweetheart,” he growled. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
And you did—helplessly, hungrily, your second climax ripping through you like lightning, your muffled cry caught in his palm as you writhed beneath him.
But he didn’t stop.
He didn’t slow down.
He was still moving—deep, punishing thrusts that made your overstimulated body tremble violently beneath him, your eyes glazed and mouth open in silent cries as he chased his own end.
And when he came—biting into your shoulder to keep from groaning aloud—it was with a groan of your name and a final, devastating thrust that left you ruined, full, and utterly spent beneath him.
He collapsed over you, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours, bodies soaked in sweat and heat despite the freezing world outside.
And then, breathless—he laughed.
A low, hoarse sound that shook through both of you.
“Still think I should’ve left?” he asked, voice rasping as he kissed your temple.
You smiled lazily, fingers dragging down his spine.
i hope that I'm not the type of author that doesn't tag properly / or uses too many body headcanons for my x reader fics weeps... i see a lot of posts about people getting annoyed about writers using too many body headcanons and it ends up taking away from the enjoyment of the fic ... and I've always strived to make sure that my fics are as neutral as possible (besides the fem/male/gn reader seperation )so I really do hope you guys enjoy my fics (´ . .̫ . `) please feel free to send me something anonymously/comment if you ever feel like there's something i could improve on!
CHPATER TWO IS DONEEEEE waiting for my beta reader to read through it and I'll be posting it after that !!! they're a lil busy atm so it might take a bit
you try to divine a future where you’ll stay with him forever, yet the stars refuse to heed your call. but jing yuan doesn’t need forever.
all he needs is you.
★ featuring; jing yuan x gn!reader
★ word count; 3.2k words
★ tags; reader works at the divination commission, the woes of mortality, short life species!reader, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort
★ notes; as uze, crossposting here is late :p i've been told a lot by people that they like how i write jing yuan, and coincidentally i, too, like how i write jing yuan so here we are!!!! this is a bday fic for a dear friend over on x, but i thought to share with you as well :3c
READ ON AO3
The headache bloomed behind your eyes around midafternoon, but you ignored it like you always do.
You were supposed to log off two hours ago, yet you’re still transcribing the fourth permutation of Fu Xuan’s “minor” revisions to the celestial calibration doctrine. The ink is drying too fast on your sleeves and too slow on the sigils. Your stomach growls—loud enough to make your ears burn from embarrassment, even though no one’s around to hear it. Probably.
But just when glance over to check an astrological aberration in your notes, the light shifts in the doorway.
“You were meant to be home by the sixth chime,” comes a familiar voice, smooth and impossibly calm. “But instead, I find you composing a symphony of stress.”
You glance up to see Jing Yuan leaning against the doorframe, one brow slightly raised like he has all the time in the world. His hands are occupied with a dark-lacquered lunch box, and the scent of the food reaches you in delayed waves. Your stomach growls again, but you ignore it completely.
“I just needed to finish a few edits before the deadline.”
Jing Yuan hums. “You said that four deadlines ago.”
He’s not smiling. There’s an amused flicker behind his eyes, but the rest of his face is composed into something more serious. You press your fingers to your temples and try not to wince when he steps inside.
“Don’t tell me,” he says, now close enough for the warmth of his presence to register across your skin. “No lunch. Medication left at home. And judging by the clumsiness of your sigils—don’t pout at me—you haven’t had any water in hours either.”
You let your arms fall to the desk. “Why are you like this?”
He blinks innocently. “Like what?”
“Too perceptive. Too… annoyingly attentive.”
He sets the lunch box down beside your elbow, brushing aside a curled slip of annotated paper. His fingers glance against yours—light contact, but enough to startle you out of your irritation.
“I pay attention,” the Arbiter-General says simply. “Especially when the people I care for are trying to quietly ruin themselves under a mountain of work.”
Your breath catches. The words are too soft and direct, even for him. You’d been expecting teasing. Not this.
“I’m not trying to ruin myself,” you mumble. “I’m just… trying to keep up with work.”
“You’ve already proven yourself a hundred times over.” Jing Yuan crouches beside your chair, arms resting on his knees. “You don’t have to keep burning yourself down to ash just to stay visible.”
You look down. Away from the sincerity in his gaze.
“But I don’t want to fall behind,” you tell him stubbornly. “I’m not like you, Jing Yuan. I don’t have centuries to perfect everything. Every mistake feels heavier. Every year feels like it matters more. Like if I waste a single one, it’s already too late.”
He goes still.
You didn’t mean to say it. But once it’s out, it lingers between you like smoke.
A quiet hum vibrates in his throat. “You think I’ve perfected anything?” he says at last. “I’ve just lived long enough to regret more things.”
You glance at him sharply, but his golden eyes are somewhere far away.
“I’ve seen brilliance burn out young. And I’ve seen it slowly dim in silence. Time doesn’t make it easier. It just makes it… Bearable.”
There’s a pause. And then he exhales, like he’s pulling it somewhere deeper than his lungs.
“You always think you’ll have time,” Jing Yuan murmurs. “Until you love someone who doesn’t.”
That lands with more force than anything else. Because it’s not about deadlines or documentation anymore. It’s about the deep unfairness etched into the bones of your lives: that while his story stretches on indefinitely, yours will always have a final chapter.
“That’s your comfort speech?” you ask, a strained laugh escaping before you can stop it. “Outlive the pain, rack up regrets, and call it wisdom? You do realize that felt more like a lance to the chest than reassurance, right?”
“I am only as candid as I am with you because you’ve never needed sugarcoating,” he says softly. “You’ve always been strong enough to hold the truth, even when it hurts.”
Then, quieter: “Especially when it hurts.”
You laugh again, because what else is there to do?
As you rub at your aching forehead, you can’t help but marvel at the absurdity of it all—how a short-life species like you ended up falling for the man who’s occupied the Seat of Divine Foresight for nearly seven centuries. He walks through decades like they’re seasons. You count time in birthdays, deadlines, missed meals, and yet here you are. Tethered to him irrevocably.
But maybe the greater folly is his: loving someone fleeting, when he’s already weathered more losses than most hearts are built to bear. For all his calm and his poise, for all the wars he’s led and years he’s survived, Jing Yuan still chooses you—knowing exactly how little time you have to give.
“Alright, fine. I’ll eat. You win.”
“This is not about winning,” he says. “It’s about keeping you around long enough to make fun of me when my knees start failing.”
You blink. “…You know damn well that mine will go first.”
His grin fades, just a little, and it tugs at your heart more than it should.
“I know,” he says softly.
Jing Yuan straightens and offers his hand, and you take it without hesitation, fingers twining with his like they’ve always belonged between the spaces. As you stand, the room tilts slightly—your knees stiff, your skull light with fatigue and hunger. He notices, of course, and he slips an arm around your back without a word, steadying you as you find your balance.
There’s nothing overbearing about it—just quiet support, the kind that says he’s done this before and he’ll keep doing it for as long as you let him.
“You always show up when I look like death warmed over,” you grumble as you grab the lunch box he brought.
“On the contrary,” Jing Yuan murmurs, guiding you outside, toward the hustle and bustle of the Exalting Sanctum, “I happen to think you’re at your most captivating when you let yourself be mortal.”
You bury your face in his sleeve, hoping he won’t feel how sharply your heart skips. But you suspect he already knows. He always does.
No one expected it.
Fu Xuan certainly didn’t—though she muttered she should’ve seen it in the stars, if you hadn’t constantly “disrupted the Omniscia’s celestial patterns with your interpretive nonsense”.
You’re a short-life species with a long-life temper. A fast-burning match in a hall of timeless candles. Too sharp-tongued, too stubborn, too hungry.
The youngest diviner in the Commission to ever draft a triple-thread predictive matrix all on their own, and the only one to do it while arguing with a senior archivist mid-simulation. Not quite a formal title, but “the most talented diviner with the worst sense of self-preservation” is what the Cloud Knights have taken to calling you.
You wear it like a badge. The stars have favorites, and so do you.
The first time you were in Jing Yuan’s presence, you didn’t even see him. You were too busy arguing with one of your superiors.
It was supposed to be a routine oversight meeting. You’d been summoned to explain why your astral forecast readings directly contradicted the Omniscia’s predicted trajectory for the Luofu. Which pissed you off beyond belief. Their trajectory calculations were wrong. The math didn’t lie, but the higher-ups refused to acknowledge it. They clung to outdated, comfortable visions of the stars as if they hadn’t already begun to shift.
So you stood there, voice sharp and rising in tempo with every slide projection you slammed into the air. You were sweating through your outer robe and still speaking in clipped, defiant tones that silenced the room like a severed thread.
You didn’t even notice when the most important man in the Luofu entered the hall.
Not until later, when a summons arrived in your quarters: Arbiter-General Jing Yuan requests a private follow-up regarding your methodological deviation. Please prepare a brief report.
You showed up an hour late with a half-eaten peach in one hand, and a stack of annotated star maps in the other. You didn’t bother bowing.
“These are written with love and care and excessive overtime,” you said, dropping the papers on his desk. “So please read them thoroughly.”
He raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing across his handsome face.
The Arbiter-General asked thoughtful questions. You gave him answers laced with just a hint of defiance that would probably get you fired. But he didn’t reprimand you. He just listened. Somewhere in the middle of it, when you were ranting about the inconsistencies in the astral convergence model, he smiled. Faint and brief, like someone recognizing an old constellation in a new sky.
You told yourself it meant nothing.
But when Jing Yuan asked for you back again—and again, and again—you started bringing two peaches instead of one.
Just in case.
Now, you're curled sideways on your couch back home—throat raw, sinuses aching, eyes gritty with exhaustion. Your star charts lie scattered across the floor, victims of an earlier outburst when the numbers stopped making sense and your patience finally snapped. Between the fever clouding your thoughts and everything else quietly unraveling, it’s fair to say the day has not been kind.
Nothing was lining up. Not the timeline on the prophecy Fu Xuan gave you yesterday, not the medication schedule you forgot to follow, and definitely not the part where you were supposed to eat hours ago.
The door to the living room creaks open.
You don’t look up. You just sigh.
“I brought soup,” Jing Yuan greets with a lopsided smile. “And medicine.”
“Fu Xuan’s been tattling again,” you mutter.
“No,” he replies, and you hear the soft clink of ceramic as he begins unpacking something from a bag, “your silence tattled all on its own. You haven’t contacted me in exactly twelve hours.”
You bury your face deeper into the pillow, equal parts mortified and moved. Your apartment smells faintly of incense and dried oranges, and now, of medicinal broth. It’s the scent of care wrapped in routine—something you’ve never been especially good at holding onto. The quiet comfort of being cared for without having to earn it, ask for it, or explain why you need it.
Jing Yuan sets the bowl on the coffee table and crouches beside you.
“You skipped the noon dose,” he says quietly.
“I was working.”
“You also skipped breakfast. And your charting shows signs of mental fatigue.”
You pull the blanket over your face. “Stop reading my patterns like they’re reports.”
“I’d rather read you than any report.”
You hate how fast your heart reacts to that. Because he always says things like this. Soft, steady declarations delivered like promises, like you’ll be around long enough to carry them with you.
But you won’t. And you both know it.
That’s the grief neither of you are brave enough to name. The quiet, inevitable sorrow that lives between your hours. He will still be here when your bones are dust. When your name is nothing more than a footnote in some archival file, tucked away on a shelf he’ll walk past for centuries to come.
You burn bright, and he endures. That’s the curse. The stars never lied. You just kept trying to make them.
Just last week, when the corridors had emptied and the Divination Commission was asleep, you broke protocol. Lit a soul-compass alone and trembling, laid out your personal threads with ink-stained fingers and a desperation that bordered on madness. You tried to divine a timeline—any timeline—where your life ran long enough to match his. Where you didn’t have to leave him so soon.
You whispered Jing Yuan’s name like a prayer. You begged the stars to show you something. A future where you grew old in the shadow of his smile.
But the threads refused to yield.
Or maybe they did. Maybe they answered you in a language you already knew—one written in silence, in absence, in the terrible stillness of a map with no road leading forward. You couldn’t finish the reading, couldn’t bear to see it printed in starlight. Because if you did, you’d have to admit what you already fear most:
That no matter how tightly he holds you now, he was never meant to keep you.
Jing Yuan brushes your hair back from your forehead, startling you out of your thoughts. You hadn’t noticed he’d moved closer.
“I wish you wouldn’t push so hard,” he says, fingers warm and careful. “You are not a dying star. You don’t have to burn out to be brilliant.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” you murmur hoarsely. “You have time.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—like a candle guttering in a sudden rush of wind.
“That’s exactly why I say it,” he replies. “Because I know what time does. How it stretches. How it hollows.”
Jing Yuan brushes his thumb over your temple, a soothing pass of warmth and worry. “You think I don’t see it? The way you measure your days like rationed light? You’ve convinced yourself that every second has to be earned. That if you rest, you’ll fall behind. That if you slow down, the world will forget you.”
Your breath catches.
“But I won’t,” he says simply. “Even when time pulls you away from everything else, I will still remember.”
You shut your eyes.
Because how do you live with that? How do you carry the knowledge that you’ll fade—and he’ll carry what’s left of you? That long after your name is lost to history, he’ll still be here, meandering through centuries, with your memory folded quietly between each one?
“What if I could find it?” you whisper. “A future where we stay like this. Forever.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the silence stretch between you, gentle and solemn. Then:
“I don’t need forever,” Jing Yuan sighs. “I only need you.”
You go still.
He shifts a little closer, his voice steady in that way that breaks you more than if he were shaking. It’s the kind of calm that comes from someone who has made peace with the things he cannot keep.
“If all I have is one year with you, or ten, or fifty… I’ll take it. And if you leave this world before I do, then I’ll remember you longer than any stars ever could. You’ll live in every breath I take, in the pauses between them. In the quiet where your voice used to be. That will be enough.”
Your throat burns, and this time, the ache comes from deep inside your chest.
“Even if I forget myself,” you murmur, “you’ll still remember me?”
He smiles—tired and fond. “You think I could forget the person who always acted like my summons were a waste of time, yet continued to bring peaches for me anyway?”
You huff a soft laugh, the tears threatening to spill over. He presses the cup of soup into your hands, wrapping his fingers lightly around yours.
“Drink,” he encourages. “Live.”
And you do.
Because even if love like this can’t rewrite the stars, Jing Yuan makes it feel like every moment might still be worth defying them.
You sip the soup slowly. You still feel like hell, but the tightness in your chest has eased—less from the broth, and more from the quiet way he sits beside you, steady and present. Across from you, Jing Yuan watches with an expression that always lingers on his face: a flicker of amusement dancing at the edges of his eyes.
“I should do this more often,” he murmurs. “Show up uninvited, bring food, get you to actually rest. It worked last time, too.”
You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of the cup. “You act like I’m difficult.”
“You’re infamously difficult,” he says smoothly. “Even Lady Fu agrees. I believe her words were, ‘that reckless little star-stain will work themselves into a coma if you don’t bribe them with food or a raise.’”
You snort. “She did not say that.”
“She absolutely did.”
You slump back into your nest of blankets, grumbling. “Bribes, huh.”
Jing Yuan shifts forward slightly, resting his elbow on one knee. His tone turns casual—too casual.
“Well. If bribes work... maybe I’ll make you a deal.”
You eye him warily. “What kind of deal.”
He holds your gaze, voice dipping just a shade lower.
“If you eat your meals. Take your medicine. Sleep when I tell you to…” He pauses, just long enough to let the implication settle. “You get a kiss for each task completed.”
You blink. Then squint at him.
“Is this supposed to be a threat or a reward?”
“Depends,” he says mildly. “Are you planning on misbehaving?”
You toss a pillow at him. He catches it with one hand, laughing, and for a moment, your small living room feels a little bigger—lit not by lamps, but by something gentler.
Something like love. Something like hope.
You don’t get sick anymore. Not like that, anyway.
Since that week, you’ve started taking your breaks when you’re supposed to. Eating proper meals. Sleeping like a semi-responsible adult. Fu Xuan nearly choked on her tea the first time you turned down an overtime simulation with the words “I’ll finish it tomorrow.”
It wasn’t easy—learning to slow down, to stop treating your life like a countdown timer you had to outrun. But it helped. You recovered faster than you expected. Stronger, even. As if your body had simply been waiting for you to stop working against it.
And true to his word, Jing Yuan kissed you for every completed task. Every dose taken. Every empty bowl he found in your sink.
Even when you got better—when you stopped updating him like clockwork, when you went back to managing your schedule without spiraling—he didn’t stop.
He still shows up.
Still kisses you when you hand him a used meal container or let him see your pill sleeve half empty.
Still presses warm, lingering gratitude into your skin for doing something as simple as taking care of yourself.
Which is how you end up outside Fu Xuan’s office, in full view of a handful of baffled attendants, with Jing Yuan leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth like you’re not standing two steps from the Divination Commission’s most sacred archives.
You jerk back, blinking. “Jing Yuan!”
“What?” he says, entirely unrepentant.
You glance around, mortified. “People are going to see! What are you even doing here?”
The Arbiter-General just smiles, slow and absolutely shameless. “I saw you eating your lunch earlier. Very good.”
You smack his arm, half laughing, half scandalized. “You’re unbelievable.”
But you don’t move away when he kisses your cheek again.
And when he slips a peach into your hand before vanishing down the corridor like he hadn’t just committed affection-based misconduct on government property, you can’t help the stupid grin that follows you all the way back to your desk.
You were never meant to last forever, but Jing Yuan seems like he’ll love you that long anyway.
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