reading glasses on

the table is set ۶ৎ

[moineauz]

𑁍ࠬܓ WHO ARE WE ? YOU'RE LOCAL MAGAZINE! verdant is here to provide you a stunning visual & written experience; ranging from poignant stories to the highlights of glittering shows and smiles. tender, wistful and affable: a magazine here to serve.

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little message… welcome to verdant happy to have you here! feel free to send asks! likes and reblogs are always appreciated 🫶🏼 have fun mwah!

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COLUMN 04. THE CREDITS → divider . divider 2

[ohmyjulai]

[moineauz]

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

SYNOPSIS: a final conversation with your husband- ANAXAGORAS and the lingering promises that remain.

NOTES: anaxa has one of my fav character designs. also i kept misspelling his name every sentence omg. no wonder people just call him anaxa. might by my fav piece too ngl

extra ノ gn reader . established relationship . angst . spoilers for the latest story quest .

SOMEHOW YOU KNEW YOUR HUSBAND- ANAXAGORAS- would not be coming home tonight.

Call it intuition, a feeling, years worth of careful observation which finally led to this.

Even now- with his body next to you, eye shut in peaceful repose- you know the scene before you is liminal. It is a space of waiting: taut with anticipation, bursting at its seams, ready to unravel the moment your fingertips graze his cold cheek.

Your husband is gradually retracting. His body cold, skin pale, hands inexplicably dry and stiff. He is a corpse experiencing rigor mortis. A dead man exuding the fiery remnants of life.

In Okhema the sun never sets. But your body tells you it’s dawn. Early hours. Quiet awakening. How? Because Anaxa is lying next to you, breathing slowly, as if he is milking each sip of air.

“Anaxa.”

“Mm?” he hums, his one eye still stitched close. His eyelashes quivering slightly.

You curl in, bringing your body closer, attempting to share the warmth he can’t keep, “It’s funny, you know.”

Anaxa shifts, accommodating your body with his, “What is?”

His voice is flat, and you smile; pressing your lips together to suppress a childish giggle.

“How you let me call you Anaxa instead of Anaxagoras”

Now his eye flutter open, dawns reflects in his iris, “Didn’t you say ‘Anaxagoras’ was too long?” sighing, he then rubs his temples. An act you’ve seen him perform more often now.

“Well yes, I did,” you pause, eyes flickering towards his hand, “But—”

Your hand slides up his wrists, interlocking with his fingers and the lines of red you could trace by heart. You shiver slightly, he notices.

“Anaxa is meant for you to say,” his fingers curl inwards, pulling your hand into a tight embrace. He squeezes it. The force is firm enough to reassure, not warm. “There, happy now?”

You retract your hand and smile, “I am fully satisfied.”

Except, you aren’t.

How could be satisfied? How could you be content with your decisions? Could you live on memory and his fleeting cologne? Does it not ache to feel him slip, to see the regret lingering within his iris, the tentative curl of his hands through your hair?

Yet, you allow it. There are no defeated sighs, no objections or hasty pleas. Just you and him, lying together like yesterday. As if tomorrow was just another promise to keep. Another hour spent reading, walking, talking.

Have the Chrysos Heirs ever been a selfish? Do they dream of absconding, of abandoning their divine role?

Anaxa may be a variant, a strange vagabond compared to the rest of Okhema- maybe even all of Amphoreus. A blasphemer. The great performer. A man who refuses to believe in the ancient prophecies.

But golden blood still thrums in his veins. At the core of his wicked being, he’d still fuse himself with the Titans core flame. He’d still take his stand in the limelight. He’d still give it all up.

A voice in the back of your head says it includes you too.

“Stop thinking.”

You blink.

Anaxa reaches for your cheeks, his countenance firm, grave with devotion, "As much as I admire that mind of yours..." he stops, letting his words hang in the air, fermenting, "You make too many assumptions."

"Assumption?" you mutter, incredulous.

Anaxa blinks then sighs. He returns to your face and in knowing, he wraps his hand across the back of your head, pulling you into his chest. Magnetic and swift like the wings of a bird tucking treasure. He shields you from eternal light, bringing you into the sheltered darkness of his chest- the one place where an inkling of warmth remains.

You shiver.

"You're leaving me."

Anaxa does not stir. In fact, he draws you closer, clasping onto his drifting soul through you.

"No," he states, firm and unwavering. Relentless in nature just as he is.

Anaxa, your husband, breathes into your ear, pulling you impossibly closer. He attempts to bridge that gap, to fill the widening chasm that he wedged between the two of you.

"I'm not leaving you," he breathes, releasing the truth from the cavern of his lungs, "I'm merely-"

You don't tilt your head up, you don't pursue that curiosity. You hear it instead: your husband's reverberating voice. The way it skims across each individual vertebrae. It unnerved you when you first met him, somehow it still does- but in different ways. Gentler ways. Ways that rest underneath the skin.

"Anaxa," you call, cutting through his sentence.

That triggers something.

"The Titans, this prophecy," he seethes, "Means nothing to me."

"Anaxa."

"And I know you don't believe me. After all I've done, what I've put you through. My restless pursuit-"

"Anaxa."

"It means nothing. It does- it truly does."

"Just hold me."

"Titans can't you see?" Anaxa pulls back, detaching himself. Now his one eyes locks into your two. He peers into them, ripping past the sheen veil of liquid salt which rest on your bottom eyelid. Past the clear lens of your cornea. Past your optic nerve.

He darts straight into your soul: into the vessel he's studied for decades. Into the only being he tided himself to- that even the prophecy, the Chrysos Heirs, his life's work- fades into the background. Trivial.

Fate and destiny did not tie onto Anaxa- he bluntly refused, even if it is true.

Anaxa chooses his ties.

"You're right, I am leaving you."

You sink, Anaxa gazes deeper.

"But only for the meantime."

Your eyebrows furrow, "The meantime?"

"Yes," he sighs, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. He breaks into a smile, utterly brilliant, "A temporary predicament, that is all."

"Besides," he adds, gazing momentarily at his gleaming wedding ring, "What kind of spouse would I be?"

WHEN ANXA RAISED HIS HANDS, SURRENDERING THE COREFLAME OF REASON, his one eye kept sight of his wedding ring.

When his lips curled into a wicked smile, he caught a glimpse of your face. The scrunch of your nose when you’re caught between a difficult passage of text. He saw you by the kitchen counter, your hands busy with food and laughter. Anaxa saw you. No “what ifs” or alternate versions— just you. The you in bed currently, or perhaps the you by the markets. Maybe even the you who leans on the balcony, counting the number of dromas.

Anaxa did not feel peace when his body wilted away; drifting into golden dust.

He felt impatient, slightly vexed.

And somewhere, tucked away from eternal light, you sigh and heave. Knees to chest, wrestling with the wild torrent of brilliancy you called your husband— Anaxagoras.

Because it seems to you- with all of Anaxa’s blunt promises and unsaid devotion- you’d lose him for just a little while. Enough so that when you'd finally have him back, he'd no longer be so cold.

masterlist.

[moineauz]

LOVE ACROSS THE MILKY WAY ┊various

SYNOPSIS: just as the universe expands and unfolds, so to the paths that intersect and collide— but just how do they keep them together? IN OTHER WORDS… what is a long distance relationship like with them?

NOTES: i thought of this when i the gym a couple of days ago. can you tell how who i like the most. anyways, this took wayyy too long to make. the original list of characters for this was MUCH longer but i genuinely could not write any more for this fic.

extra ノ gn reader . 3k+ wc . mix of fluff & angst . typical long distance relationship issues (i think) . maybe occ? . i just want to give sunday a hug . established relationship . subtle spoilers for hsr plot . terms of endearment .

including ノ jing yuan . dr ratio . sunday .

JING YUAN is the patient partner– out of necessity and sake. On the outside, he is practical and annoyingly at ease: there are no unnecessary questions or mind games played. He is a simple man after all, trust goes without saying. Underneath the golden hues of his iris, though, he longs earnestly and occasionally, toys; staring outside the high walls of the Seat of Divine Foresight, running his aged mind through bottlenecked dreams. All of which lead back to you. 

“So tell me,” you laugh, bringing your knees to your chest, hugging warmth, “Has Yanqing finally stopped buying swords? That kid can fill a whole closet with them!” 

Jing Yuan chuckles into his phone, pressing it against his shoulder and cheek while he stirs the garlic, it sizzles in response, “Not as often now, no. Though, it doesn't mean he’s stopped all together,” Jing Yuan glances at the dining table, "Unfortunately."

You burst into laughter, his phone vibrates slightly. 

“Tell him I miss him, will you? Oh! Tell him he owes me a rematch too.” 

“You’ve never been good with swords, dear.” 

"Doesn't mean I can’t try and shoot them.” 

Jing Yuan takes the phone and places it on the counter, putting it on speaker. The garlic has released its aroma, the rest of the vegetables follow. The water evaporates instantly, rising in lush curls of steam. Unbridled and figureless. 

“What are you cooking?” you ask, shifting in your tent, the dimming fire cackles outside, “Smell’s good to me.” 

“It’s just a stir fry,” he answers, rocking the wok in a wave like motion, the vegetables jump in glee, “What do you smell?” 

“Mmm, let me think,” you pause, closing your eyes for a brief moment. 

Jing Yuan blinks, the stovetop flame winks at him, he frowns slightly. 

He can picture you in the moment, eyes closed, knees to chest, cradling yourself, hugging warmth. He envisions your coy smile, the dry sarcasm and hungry eyes. How they ran from one passing thought to the next, never staying long enough to linger. 

Jing Yuan knows your answer. 

“Garlic. Lots of garlic,” you groan, shaking your head, “I bet you smell like garlic now.” 

“And what’s so wrong with garlic?” 

You can sense him smirking through the black screen, eye twinkling, “Too much garlic is unappetizing, Jing Yuan.” 

He chuckles at your insistence, “Oh? Well, that depends on your definition of ‘too much’. Personally I find–” 

“You’re lucky I love you.” 

“I know.” 

“Even with all the garlic you use.” 

“I know dear.” 

A gust of wind rushes through the camp, you shiver.

“You’re in the Asdana Star System, yes?” prompts Jing Yuan, clutching the handle of the wok, “Are you near Penacony?

“I’m on the outskirts of the star system, yes. A distant planet really. It doesn't help that there’s memoira everywhere– and don’t get me started on the weather here,” you groan, tilting your head back, eyes closed, “Turns out the sun only comes out every five moons.” 

Jing Yuan gives the vegetables a final stir, flicking off the heat, he watches the pepper and salt blend into nothing, “I take that it’s cold, yes?” 

“Most definitely.” 

An envelope of silence falls like snow, you pull the phone closer to your ear, body melting. 

“I hope you’re not alone.” 

“Oh no, not this time around thankfully. It would seem us Galaxy Rangers are ‘closer than fudgin’ ever’ as Boothill would say.” 

“Perhaps I should meet this ‘Boothill’ one day.” 

“Oh aeons,” you laugh, shaking your head, “Wouldn’t that be something.” 

The remaining hour is filled with your voice then his. Alternating, interrupting, riding the waves of invisible rhythm and whim. In the background, your ears follow the clatter of dishes and the faucet’s incessant squeal. You tell him to replace it, he says it’s fine. You ask if his workload is the same, he says yes. He asks if you’ve eaten, you say no. 

“The locals are already struggling, it would be wrong to ask.” 

Jing Yuan glances at the two plates. 

 “Do you think you can pay a visit to the Luofu soon?” he asks, stifling the quiet aches in his mind. 

Jing Yuan hears the rustle of your blanket through the speaker, he imagines your lying down now. 

You swallow, allowing yourself to dream, “I hope so.” 

“That’s all I need.” 

In the emptiness of his own home, a chasm is filled, and your voice bounces off the walls like chimes; dancing through the air like birds and blades. Tomorrow the day will be lighter, notes Jing Yuan. The Seat of Divine Foresight quieter, the universe slowing on its almighty axis for just a moment. Enough for the two of you to savor a thousand light years apart. 

“Save me a meal, won’t you?” 

“Always.” 

When the call ends, Jing Yuan is seated at the dining table. The lights are dim, creating a fixed golden haze across the table: a mirage of something softer. Across from him is your plate, vibrant and full– fuller than his. 

It’s the one with less garlic. 

“Cheers.” 

When Jing Yuan takes the first bite, he hopes you sleep full. 

There is a knock at the door. 

And somewhere– nestled behind the roles of tactician and general– his old heart lurches forward, a movement so akin to a fool. He wonders how exactly it came to meet him, how long it will hold in its rightful place. 

Jing Yuan sets his utensils down and with a mellow smile, he heaves, swinging tomorrow open.

DR. RATIO is the controlled worrier. The one that consistently asks for updates: who hovers over his phone, glancing every few seconds for that stupid ping. It’s not an issue of trust (he is the least bit insecure), rather, a sad cry of repressed longing. (He won’t admit it). He’ll talk your ear off, be it frustrations or his peculiar observations– nothing is left unsaid for the doctor, not when he finally has an active listener. Expect him to do the same. Dr. Ratio insists his daily messages and voice memos are just for your health and his overall peace of mind. Though, onlookers assume much, much more.

Dawn stretches over the horizon, and so do you.

Gradually, you shift to your nightstand, attempting to reach your phone all while fighting through bleary eyes and the gentle hand of sleep. You tap the screen twice, it glows against your dim room.

Veritas: “Morning, have you eaten yet?”

It’s the first text you read.

You smile, taping the message. Your cold fingers swiftly run across the screen, a faint clicking fills the room.

Once you send the message, it doesn't take long for your phone to vibrate in your hands: incessant and rushed.

You pick up. It’s a request for facetime.

At first you say nothing, allowing your bed covers to swallow you up, leaving only your eyes and nose to be seen. You suppress a grin, your hands warming. Golden light bleeds through the curtains.

“Still in bed now, are we?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, doctor?”

Veritas stands the phone against his desk lamp, he leans into his chair, allowing for a near full view of his upper body, “It’s early there, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why did you text?”

You watch his shoulders shift, he crosses his arms over his chest, you giggle slightly.

“Miss me?”

He lets out a little scoff, playful. You burst into laughter now, your voice all the more raspy and muffled against the covers.

“I just wanted to check on you,” Veritas paused, feeling the corners of his lips rise, “Have a good day, alright? I’ll text you later.”

You nod, blinking at him brightly.

“Come on, show me your face.”

“Veritas!” you exclaim lowly, eyebrows furrowing slightly, “I look terrible.”

“You make it sound like I haven’t woken up to your face before.”

“Still,” you mumble, sinking deeper into the covers. A particular warmth spreads across your cheeks.

Somedays, Veritas wonders if he could just reach through the screen alone– by sheer force or otherwise– just to tilt your chin up towards him.

“You don’t look terrible,” he begins, bringing the phone closer to his face, “Trust me.”

The call ends shortly after, his office all the more quiet. Your face still flashes through his mind in gentle bursts. Much like muted fireworks: all the curves and edges, the blue light reflected in your iris, feathers and all. Memorized by mind and filed away meticulously. Even the first rays of morning light which permeated through your windows, resting briefly on your visage.

Veritas glances at the clock, it’s 8:43 pm. The minute hand ticks loudly.

His phone rings again. Though, not from you this time.

It’s Aventurine.

He sighs, swiping right as he rises to his feet, peering through the open window. Night sweeps across the streets.

“I’m shocked you answered.”

“What do you want?”

Veritas hears Aventurine’s grin through the black screen.

“You do know the IPC and the Intelligentsia Guild are hosting a gala a week from now, right?”

Veritas glances at the calendar pinned against his walls, “GALA” is written in large cursive loops.

“Yes, I am aware.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“I applaud your observation skills.”

Aventurine pauses, Veritas raises his eyebrow.

“What?” heaves Veritas, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Maybe you can finally bring that little bird of yours to the gala.”

Veritas pauses, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Did I strike a nerve, doctor?”

“Don’t start.”

“I heard they’re Halovian.”

“Oh, will you shut it?”

Aventurine laughs, light and airy.

“Sure doctor. I’ll keep my mouth shut–” he smirks, then pauses, his voice lowering slightly, “I can imagine long-distance isn't really your style, is it?

Veritas stops, the picture frame on his desk gleams against the overhead light.

“I’ll see you next week, gambler.”

He hangs up.

— 

As students filed out of the lecture hall, Veritas quietly reached for this phone, the screen face down.

His lockscreen is a dark, solid canvas of red. When the phone unlocks, your face greets him with warmth.

The photo is clearly rushed, the edges blurred slightly. Your hands are covered in clay, one sleeve rolled up to your elbow while the other slides down to your forearms; dangerously close to the pottery wheel. Your fingers act as a scaffold; supporting the clay as it leaned into the warmth of your palms and the crevices of your fingers. Veritas remembers. The winter breeze which overtook your city in frenzied torrents, how your dim studio lights shone brightly upon your placid figure. What was once a small abandoned firehouse, became intrinsically yours: a spacious art studio with pillars of history in awkward places, exposed beams, and inordinate windows that attracted busy onlookers with a mere glance.

It’s how Veritas met you, after all.

The photo– his homescreen– is one Veritas has opted not to show you. Not yet at least. Not when you’d critique it like all your vases, ceramics, and sculptures scattered perfectly across your studio like falling leaves. Not when your eyes– honed with painful prowess– mellowed as your body fell in dance with the clay. Your back is hunched forward, bending into excitement while your hair escapes from its slick prison, framing your face in wispy strands. A gentle grin spreads across your face, breaking into gladness like the yolk of an egg and your feathers, finally, rest in its imperfection.

“The beauty in truth is that it never changes, even when no one understands it.” That’s what Veritas had always thought, it was true to him and true for those who– similar to him– strive to contain truth so it could be packaged for others. When all else could be stripped away– there remained truth, his truth even as the universe tripped over its own foot in ad nauseam. Dr. Ratio’s creed remained burned into his chest, laid bare for the universe to see.

Until he met you. Until he watched truth unfold over three hour calls, playful dinners on facetime, and clay stained hands. All those stupidly nervous drives to pick you up, and the whisper of fear when he watches you pack your clothes in a suitcase– all of it.

When the lecturer hall is devoid of sound, Veritas clicks on his messages, your name the first on the list.

He sends a voice memo.

“I know you're busy teaching– make sure to turn on the kiln by the way– but could you call me when you’re free? There is a gala about six days from now and I’d like– no want you to come.”

He pauses, breathing slowly.

“I love you.”

A couple of hours later, when Veritas is teaching again– an evening class– his phone vibrates silently. A message pops up on the screen.

(Name): “sooo, is this your sad attempt at asking me out?”

Veritas: “And what if it is?”

(Name): “then expect to see me soon hehe. I have a feeling you’ll like the new clothes I bought”

A small smile threatens to pull at his lips, he stifles it, allowing only a fraction of anticipation to run across his chest.

Veritas: “We can go to the art exhibit I mentioned after the gala, I’ll bring more comfortable shoes for you.”

When Veritas sets his phone down– a group of students at the front are whispering.

“What is it now?” he deadpanned.

The students freeze, paralyzed.

He sighs, “Go on, this is a class for rhetoric, is it not?”

Silence.

“Nothing? Alright then, your next essay should be discussing–”

“Is it true that your partner is the Halovian sculptor? (Name)?”

A layer of ice settles over the lecture hall.

Veritas turns gradually, meeting the eye of the student– who despite their original confidence– shrivels under his gaze.

“Yes, they are.”

—

“You’ve got gut's Ratio, I’ll give you that.”

Aventurine is now in Dr. Ratio’s office– much to his dismay.

“I simply answered a question.”

“And now the entire Intelligentsia Guild won’t shut up about one of its council members."

“Shame on them then.”

Aventurine tilts his head, a small smirk spreads across his face.

“You had it all planned out, didn’t you? I take it they’re coming to the gala?”

Veritas stares up from his work, “The Guild and your department would see them and I both at the gala anyways, no?”

Veritas returns back to his work, this time, biting back a smile.

SUNDAY is the quiet ruminator. Otherwise known as the overthinker. His relationship with his sister is long-distance enough, and that alone causes him bouts of stress. How much more you? You're his partner after all, and Sunday has never thought of himself to be capable of having or maintaining a romantic partner. The fear of misunderstanding plagues him, his pragmatism declares it to be doomed, but there is a passionate ache in his chest: an ache so far removed from himself, so utterly defiant and chaotic, that he can’t help but marvel aghast. Still, despite it all, you remain and remain and remain against all the odds of his heart. 

It was Sunday’s sixth evening aboard the Astral Express. All is quiet. 

Between helping with chore duties, entertaining March 7th’s and Stella’s antics, and conversing with Welt, the “spare time” Sunday had to wrestle with nearly consumed him. 

Back on Penacony, he was perpetually busy. Time slots filled. Members to consult. Plans to execute. He did it all with assiduous grace: a kind of “alien meticulousness” as you dubbed it. 

Now, there are no burning plans or falling ceilings. Nothing. All is quiet. 

Except Sunday. 

His room– described by March 7 as “small”– stares back at him, the space much too wide for himself. The room beats, drumming away to a melody Sunday doesn't know. Can’t know. It is empty and full, teetering between dream and reality. 

He closes his eyes. 

The phone rings. 

Turning to his right, the phone vibrates with excitement. Almost twitching with anticipation. 

He swipes right, your voice emerges from the device instantly. 

“Sunday!” you beam softly, “I saw the pictures you sent. Tell me, have you played something dramatic on the piano yet?” 

Sunday can hear your smile. 

“No dear, I am yet to touch it actually,” he puts you on speaker, setting the phone back to the right side– where your head could be. 

“Ah, a shame then.” 

The conversation lapses into silence. Sunday fidgets with his finger.

“Sunday.” 

“Yes?” 

If Sunday leaned just a bit closer, he swears he could feel the warmth of your exhale rippling across his cheek. 

“You’re thinking too hard.” 

Sunday paused, blinking slowly, “How can you tell?” 

The question is selfish, he knows that. He believes he knows your mind, its idiosyncrasies and bending path: like rivers which curve towards song. Sunday– he surmises– wouldn’t mind traversing the facets of your mind. He’d like to learn– if he dares– all the many versions of you. 

“I love you,” you state, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world, “That’s why.” 

You never cease to amaze him. 

He lets out a small laugh, almost in disbelief, “It’s that simple, isn't it?”

You smile, your voice steadfast, firm, “Yes Sunday, it is.” 

—

The next time Sunday calls you, it’s on facetime. He is seated at the piano, the phone leaning on the music rest. 

“So,” you smile, resting your cheek on your hand, “What are you going to play me?” 

“Anything you’d like, dear.” 

Sunday’s response is mellow, his eyes jumping from his gloved hands and the twinkle of your earrings. 

“How’s Penacony?” Sunday manages, he plays the first note. The tempo is slow and enigmatic; drawing up from the wells of his soul. 

Sunday glances above briefly, he sees you shifting in your seat. 

“All is well,” you responded placidly, “Nothing much going on here.” 

The melody leads Sunday’s right hand an octave higher. Quarter notes become eighth notes, the music spills onto the floor. His left hand steadies itself, the lower notes pulling him down. The flats are throwing him off, his right hand plays A natural. Sunday winces. Out of place. 

You notice. 

“That’s good then.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sunday?” 

Just before he reaches the final string of melodies, Sunday— selfishly he thinks— steals another fleeting glance at you. 

It is there, in that strange space before pressing his finger to the next note or the rest at the start of a measure, that his mind fully, truly sees you. Your slightly tousled hair, the glow of light against your skin, and the furrow of your eyebrows. 

But it’s your eyes that undo him. 

You’ve searched his very being with those eyes. Nothing escaped them. Not under those gentle hues. 

He stops playing. 

“Sunday?” you whisper, bringing your face closer to your phone, “Please talk to me.” 

When Sunday finally locks eyes onto you, his gaze pools into your own, retreating into the inner recesses of your mind. 

“I’ll never get tired of you,” you blurt, “Is… that what you’re thinking?”

Sunday blinks. His golden eyes soften in relief. 

— 

“I didn’t know you had a partner, Sunday.” 

Sunday nearly jumps from the piano seat– his wings flapping slightly. 

“Oh, Mr. Yang, I didn't see you there.” 

Welt smiles softly, ambling towards Sunday, “If I recall correctly, I don’t believe I saw them when you were saying your last goodbyes to Penacony.” 

Sunday nods, “Yes. I had already bid farewell to them. Or at least, tried to.” 

“Oh? How so?” 

It is there that Welt observes Sunday. 

“Well,” Sunday manages, his voice mellowing, “They can be quite stubborn– in all the right ways of course. And despite my failures–” he stops, breathing in slowly, “They are never far from my side.” 

Welt nods, a small pang of pride permeating his chest, “I’m glad to hear that Sunday.” 

A pocket of pleasant silence opens, Sunday smiles and turns. His gaze falling outside amongst the millions of stars. 

“Who knows,” muses Sunday, unmoving, “Perhaps they shall board the express too.” 

Welt raises an eyebrow, smiling.

Sunday turns. 

“Only if that is alright with the Express,” Sunday adds promptly, “I am only a passenger after all.” 

“There will always be room for more.”  

Sunday nods, a small laugh escapes him. 

— 

Much later, when his bedroom doors slide closed, Sunday– for the first time since he’s boarded the express– allows his shoulders to unwind. To fall from its high mantel. From his own unsaid fear.

His phone buzzes. 

(Name): Did I ever tell you your hands look so sexy when you play? The piece sounds so dreamy, I love it.

Sunday’s wings flap. 

Another message follows. 

(Name): Thanks for sending me all the images of the Astral Express, if I didn’t have to run the bar here, I’d be the one serving you drinks! Haha. 

(Name): Have fun out there. Don’t worry too much. 

A cacophony of noise springs to life in his mind, like fireworks bracing together, singing with each quiet explosion. The corners of Sunday’s lips pull into a smile. It is unhampered: brilliant in the loving darkness of his room and your messages. Each of them crossing the vast sea of the universe for it's recipient. Silence embraces his body, rest follows shortly after. 

When he closes his eyes, he dreams of you.

masterlist.

[lowkeyren]

—honeytrap

in which : jealous blade is your favourite blade (re: your boyfriend is salty asf)

honeytrap [noun]: a stratagem in which a person entices another person into revealing information or doing something unwise.

wc: 2k, established relationship, stalking (it’s blade lol), reader is a tease #hellyeah, skinship bcus he can’t help but be touchy when he’s jealous (source: i said so). art by @/guaisanmu on x.

in celebration of blade n kafka x fortnite collab ig.

when blade first heard about the mission you were assigned, he showed no obvious interest. no questions asked, not even a glance in your direction. which, if anything, made you more suspicious.

after all, he had a (terrible) tendency to “coincidentally” appear on nearly every assignment of yours, regardless of how often you insisted he stay behind.

for once, he complied—begrudgingly, but still. he stayed put, just like you asked. 

that much is true.

right up until kafka casually mentioned, almost offhandedly, that she’d seen you with dan heng earlier.

does that explain why he was now stationed on the opposite side of the cafe you and dan heng were seated at?

maybe. 

but it’s okay, he justifies to no one in particular. it's perfectly fine as long as you don’t notice him. he needs to make sure you are doing your job properly, is all.

from his hiding spot behind the wall, he sees you invite dan heng to tea under the pretense of a friendly conversation; wearing the guise of a traveling merchant, you chat enthusiastically with him about trivial matters, your tone disarmingly harmless as you subtly pried for information on the astral express. 

“so the express usually stops by this area for repairs?” you ask, idly stirring your tea. “must be hard to maintain such a big train while traveling.”

he watches as dan heng hesitates before answering, clearly weighing how much to share.

your eyes lit up at his explanations, your head tilting in that familiar way, so similar to the expression you wear on the rare occasions blade speaks about his day.

blade folds his arms and leans against the wall, his gaze never leaving you. from this angle, he can see the way you smile patiently at dan heng, gently coaxing words out of him.

he knows this is all for the sake of the mission, but it still rubs him the wrong way to see you act so close with someone else, especially dan heng, of all people. (not like he’d ever admit that to you though.)

couldn’t you have chosen the trailblazer instead? why did it have to be dan heng? the more he thinks about it, the darker his expression grows, a faint scowl forming as his fingers dig into the rough surface of the wall—

“ah,” an elderly voice chuckles from behind him, amused. “admiring the young couple, are you? they certainly look good together.”

when blade gives no response, the old man follows his line of sight, glancing between you and dan heng. “you know them?”

“they’re my lover”, he wants to say; but he swallows the voice down, and stays fixed on the table by the window.

leaning forward across the table, you prop your chin on your hand, nodding along at dan heng occasionally. and as if he’s examining you under a microscope, blade’s eyes narrow slightly at your every movement. 

it’s not anger, not quite—more of a slow, simmering displeasure. like the faint itch he feels after you bandage his wounds. not unbearable, but all the more aggravating and impossible to ignore.

as if to rub salt into said wound, you reach your hand out, thumb brushing lightly against the corner of dan heng’s mouth, wiping away the faint trace of tea from his lips. the gesture looks to be intimate from your boyfriend’s vantage point, though you probably have no idea.

dan heng freezes. his eyes flicker wide for a fraction of a second before he looks away, ears faintly tinted red. even the old man beside blade can’t hide his reaction, letting out a quiet whistle, “young love these days.”

…

so far, you’re doing well.

your soft smiles and carefully chosen words has dan heng lowering his guard, answering your questions more freely than before.

but he doesn’t like how well it’s working.

he doesn’t like that you’re laughing at dan heng’s unfunny remarks (are they even good jokes, or are you just humoring him? whatever it is, it can’t be that funny.)

seeing your fond expression aimed at him makes blade’s chest tighten unpleasantly, it irks him to the point that he blurts out—

“they don’t look good with him.” the comment slips out in a flat tone, directed to the old man’s previous harmless compliment.

blade imagines you standing beside him instead, fingers intertwined with his, every ounce of your attention focused on him and him alone.

“they look better with me,” he adds, more so muttering to himself.

the man laughs at his reaction, shaking his head. “ah, so you’ve got competition, then.”

his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. competition? what a joke. as if he’d ever allow anyone to take you from him. 

“…do you feel like we’re being watched?” dan heng asks quietly.

you blink, taken aback by his question. “huh? by who?”

you follow his earlier line of sight, gaze drifting toward the wall at the end of the street. there’s nothing there—at least, nothing anyone else would notice.

but you know better. 

the faint traces of spider lilies left behind essentially confirms your guess.

and you can’t stop the small, mischievous smile tugging at your lips.

the mission wraps up smoothly.

you’re the last to arrive at the gaming cafe, spotting blade leaning against the wall near the entrance while silver wolf is still inside, aggressively mashing buttons at a machine.

“took you long enough,” the latter mutters without looking away from her screen.

blade says nothing yet his gaze flicks over you once, making sure you’re fine.

normally, he’d turn away after confirming you’re unhurt. today, he doesn’t. he pushes off the wall and steps closer instead, close enough that his shadow falls over you. 

“we’re meeting kafka and firefly at the shopping channel,” you say, stepping closer. “they’re finished too.”

silver wolf finally wins her round. “ugh fine. but i’m not carrying the bags.”

blade’s hand hovers at the small of your back—

“yo.” silver wolf leans over your shoulder, oblivious to what’s going on, her chin brushing your shoulder as she squints at whatever’s in your hands.

—before it drops back to his side.

silver wolf straightens. “you good?” she asks, tapping your arm lightly. “you froze for like, two seconds.”

“yup, im fine.”

you are absolutely not fine.

out of the corner of your eye, you see blade turn around a little too quickly, like he’s suddenly very interested in anything that isn’t you—conveniently avoiding silver wolf’s narrowing, suspicious stare.

he rubs the back of his neck, and now you can’t stop imagining what might’ve happened if silver wolf had shown up just two seconds later.

the street’s lively, bright lights reflecting off storefront glass. silver wolf skips ahead, hands stuffed in her pockets, rambling about her new console game while you trail behind with blade.

things are quiet between you two, which is unusual since you’re normally the talkative one. but your mind keeps drifting back to earlier; he rarely initiates kisses, so the thought of it now leaves you surprised and honestly, a little giddy.

he shifts slightly, and you notice him starting to take off his coat. “oh, i’m not cold—”

in one smooth motion, blade pulls off his coat and instead of draping it over your shoulders, it lands squarely over silver wolf’s head.

“—what the—?!”

you hear her exclaim in the background but your attention snaps back to your boyfriend almost instantly.

he uses the brief distraction to pull you close, one hand sliding to your waist, the other steady at your back. you barely get a word out before he leans down and kisses you.

“why is it dark—get this off—”

blade pulls back just enough to let you breathe, but his forehead stays pressed to yours.

“missed you,” he whispers.

people usually exaggerate this part in dramas, but somehow, you can actually feel your heart skip a beat.

the moment is abruptly broken when silver wolf finally wriggles free, gasping, half-annoyed. she stops dead in her tracks, staring at the two of you, before recoiling dramatically.

“ew!” she yelps, making an exaggerated gagging motion. “can’t you guys do that somewhere private?!”

you step back quickly, flustered at being caught by your colleague.

blade, however, seems completely unfazed. he takes his coat back from her and slings it over his shoulders with a casual shrug.

silver wolf groans, making another retching noise, and storms ahead. “i’m telling kafka!”

blade doesn’t even flinch at her half-hearted threat, which elicits a giggle out from you. he glances down and you catch the faintest hint of satisfaction lingering in his eyes.

this time, he doesn’t let too much distance form between you as you continue walking.

on your shared bed, your boyfriend lies flat on his back, and you settle yourself atop his lower abdomen.

“blade… i didn’t know you read,” you tease.

a rhetorical statement, of course—you’ve never seen this man pick up a book in his free time, not even once.

“why are you ignoring me?” you press, tilting your head and leaning just enough to peek over the top of his book. “aren’t you the one who said you missed me?”

you tap the edge of the book with your index finger, nudging it down toward him.

he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, and looks away; revealing the top of his ears just barely reddening under his hair.

“...are you done?”

you ignore his attempt to act indifferent, changing the topic.

“y'know… i have to say, you must be a real genius to make sense of all those words.”

before he can even ask what you mean by that, you reach over and flip the book upside down (or rather, right-side-up). 

"really?"

"..."

it’s not like blade usually pulls stunts like this, you know he’s never been good at putting his feelings into words. but at least he makes them known to you. somewhat.

you’ve gotten good at reading his hints, though really… who could possibly miss them? he’s surprisingly so easy to fluster when it comes to you, even when he tries to hide it, it’s written all over him. only someone dense as a brick would fail to notice.

but you feign ignorance even now, its nice to hear him admit it himself once in a while. 

“is this because you’re jealous of dan heng?”

for the briefest moment, he visibly stiffens. ah. so it is about earlier.

he blinks, gaze traveling slowly from your thighs straddling his lap to your face, taking in every detail as if savoring the view.

“and you still decide to mention his name?”

he doesn't miss the small tug of your lips at his admission. he continues, “then, did your hard work pay off?”

“actually… he already found out a while ago.”

“good,” he says immediately, a not-so-subtle satisfaction threading through his tone. “so he knows you’re mine.”

“yes yes, but that’s not really the point—”

he buries his head in your shoulder, almost nuzzling into your neck. and you can’t help but think he’s just like a black cat staking its claim on its owner. 

“ahem, what i’m trying to say is… i got the info we needed in the end thanks to a source dan heng gave me.”

his hand slides along your side before his lips press against your neck, hair brushing softly against your skin.

you roll your eyes, fully aware he hasn’t been paying attention to your words at all.

instead, he seems far more interested in the way you react—how your shoulders tense when he decides to press a deep kiss under your ear, and how your breath hitches while you stubbornly bite your lip.

the book lies forgotten at the edge of the bed, its pages crumpled where it had been carelessly set aside.

whatever pretense he’d had of reading is long gone now as his fingers curl a little more firmly at your waist, thumb tracing idle patterns against the fabric there as though committing the shape of you to memory.

a faint, smug hum vibrates against your skin. so much for pretending the effect you have on him doesn't work just as well on you.

he still won’t admit it outright; but the little quirk of his lips, the subtle flush at his ears… 

those will have to keep you satisfied for now.

obligatory smau section (click in for full screenshot)

dh pov once he finds out abt your relationship w blade:

(d*n h**g is like a trigger word for ur bf plz dont mention it around him again)

MASTERLIST

[moineauz]

You were 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 and Wriothesley merely watched askance.

The prison walls could not bother to contain your volition, that fact echoed through chambers and erupted in fervent pits of laughter. Yet, to Wriothesley, you possessed a spirit only matched by the infinite allure of vast skies: intangible and fugitive. Wriothesley's eyes have followed the nimble yet cunning movements of your fingers: observed how you milked the sky's breath and turned it into silk and honey. It flowed down your arms: sticky, smooth and subtly sweet. From there, you sink your hands into the merriments and ardour of the soul. Pressing it together like clay, weaving it until your hands bled.

You built masterpieces out of rust and the woes of inmates- spindling yet sound- from the tendons of your hands and the ladder of your ribcage. The Fortress of Meriopide has never been so- ironically-effeverescent. Brought to life by smitten winds and the rouse of a pleasant spring.

Wriothesley would sigh and shake his head as you drew closer to inmates and created harmonies with metal and dust. Thus, Wriothesley scolded you, furrowed his eyebrows and opted you stay with Sigewinne for your sake, if not his.

Nevertheless, you laughed in his face and bumped him on the shoulder. Bright and luminescent yet untouchable. You were a vagabond; drifting in the vast open ocean, lusting for the transcendent yet liminal space of creation and music. Ignoring the rest.

If Wriothesley could wager, you would contently drown deeper into the puzzle of creation, your enamourment with the raw and exposed enlarging as you sink in delight.

You were drunk on life, on art, on turning soul into spirit, of loving every smile except yours as you ran your fingers through the tuffs of his uncombed hair. Like a forest, wistful and brimming with memory.

Who could live like a halcyon? Who could touch the sky yet long for the seams of the universe? Who could drag the sun down to its feet and melt before it like a candle? Every curve and crevice that his callous hands grazed over; melted fondly.

Wriothesley gut spun summersaults at the thought of knowing that stark definition fell onto your sleeping figure- as delicate as a feather.

"Don't leave," mumbled Wriothesley as he pressed the warmth of his lips onto your cool cheek.

Eyes still stitched together, you respond, placidly, "I'm not going anywhere."

Your bare closet began collecting dust that dawn- a skeleton whose bones possessed the secret of blossom. Your bag overflowed with rust. Wriothesley drew crisp morning air into his lungs, and by the time his chest fell:

You were gone, like the wind.

masterlist.

quick little piece to get me back again... wc: 444

[st6rly]

❛ merry christmas; please don't call. ❜

synopsis : 　 as a baker in the business district under the IPC's ruling, you dream of a better and more flavourful future where fruits are indeed low hanging and ingredient are not limited to resource tickets. but the law is the law and you are not above it. until you find blood splattered along your kitchen floors and a dying man who'd risk it all for you. 　╱　 word count : 　 2.3k

characters : 　 rebellion member!blade x baker!gn!reader

content : 　 mainly fluff i swear. dystopian setting / not canonverse. law abiding citizen x criminal kind of vibe. slow burn.

warnings : 　 word count got slightly out of hand. possibly ooc blade. a lot of descriptions of food and baked goods. mentions of blood and injuries, knives, and other weapons in general. mentions of physical violence. i swear this is fluffy though. ooc IPC btw.

join my taglist : 　 @tragedy-of-commons @kazuinvocation @florinoir @dawnsigil @aelatus

notes : 　 happy holidays to you, @millurie, from your stellaronhvnter secret santa! i apologize beforehand if he's ooc; despite also being blade fan i've never written for him up until now! also sorry if my writing flow is a bit messy TT im very rusty kjdfhjkdgf happy holidays!

⟡ 𝐈. 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ⟡

You are a law-abiding citizen. You swear by it. 

Settled neatly between the slate greys and muted blues of corporate towers along the street, your bakery stands to be the only splash of colour. Open every day of the week—except Saturdays—it’s also the only bakery and cafe around for the next ten blocks. It’s not that competitors didn’t try to open up near you—the business district is perhaps the best district to direct a food service in—and it wasn’t that you sabotaged them, but just… luck. 

The last coffee shop that tried to run its storefront across the street had barely made a dent in your sales. Claiming to be the next best mega brand, regulars crawled back to you and whispered about stale roasts and dry croissants, that the specialty drinks were “painfully chalky” in texture and were “trying too hard to be modern.” It wasn’t long before the shop was deemed “unfit” by the IPC’s code of conduct and their load of grunts that roamed the streets. They shut it down the next month. No one has tried to open since then. 

Silky batter gleams under the kitchen lights. Not once over-mixed, not once underdone, your hands tremble with a soft excitement at the perfection resting in front of you. With a careful touch, you evenly divide and pour it into two pre-prepped round cake trays, scraping down the sides of the bowl until it is practically clean, and leveling them to just the right height. 

The oven timer goes off right as you wipe your hands of any excess. Nestled in the warmth rests two trays of muffins, each one plump and healthy in serving. Reaching your oven mitt-clad hands into the heat, you pull out one set to reveal their round tops baked to perfection and golden-brown streusel topping. Along them, blueberries have softly burst along the top, leaving behind small puddles of deep purple that soak into the crevices. The second tray comes out with a similar result, though instead of blueberry, the flourishing scent of lemon hits the air. Splitting one open, you examine the speckles of poppy seed dappled about the soft body, marveling at the flawless spacing before taking a bite. 

The sun has just begun to peek over the horizon by the time the cake trays take over the heat. You set a quick timer before popping the rest of the muffins out of their confinement and resting them in the front display case. Next come the loaves of pound cake you left off to cool. You make quick work slicing them evenly before they too go into the display case. Cookies are stacked, the cakes from earlier are cooled and iced, the coffee is set to brew, and once everything is in its place, you flip the sign. 

The morning rush comes and goes, followed by lunchtime stragglers and the few birthday orders sent in. It’s become rare to receive requests for birthday cakes these days and although other bakeries would turn them down to conserve ingredients, you never do. You bake, you make drinks; you take credits from firm hands and take pity on those who fall short; a fact the Peace Corps never needs to know about; and run the register until the last customer has walked out. 

Cleaning up is quick work. A few standing tables, no chairs, the bakery is usually doused in silence aside from the bell above the door and the clinking of credits being passed around. Nobody makes small talk. You don’t start any. The silence, though lonely at times, has become more of a shield than the enemy of your life. Quiet keeps you safe. And safe means no IPC breathing down the back of your spine. Sweeping away the last bit of dust that isn’t really there, you turn off the lights and hang up your apron, ready for the same old thing the next day.

⟡ 𝐈𝐈. 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⟡

Blood and baked bread are two smells that do not go well together. 

There’s a hint of rust in the air when you walk into the bakery the next morning. You frown. You’ve never had a problem with rusted equipment and the warranty for everything should still be good to go. You realize what it’s all about soon enough. 

A man sits on the floor of your IPC-industrial-standard kitchen. Though his head is lolled forward and his hair shadows his face, you can confirm he is nothing like the done-up corporate workers you’ve grown awfully used to serving. His clothes are dirty in a charming manner and you wonder if he’s from the farming district, far out in the interior. His shirt looks more to be the type of fishers and those by the seaside with a loser cut and linen sleeves. But his shoes tell a different story; too polished and from style alone they seem well above the paygrade of even the richest farmer or fisher. A thief? 

Either way, he is not from around here. 

District hopping is forbidden by the Peace Corps. You have half the mind to report him. It could get you a sweet bonus of credits. Perhaps even double the usual allowance if he does turn out to be a thief. But the more curious oddity of this man, one that draws you away from the red button pasted to the underside of the counter, lies in the growing pool of red that sits alongside him on the quarry tile. Part of you hopes he just happened to have shattered the jar of preserved strawberry jam you’d been saving for a special occasion. Another hopes it isn’t. Finding that jam was a stroke of luck and you’d hate to see it wasted.

You get closer and crouch by his side. Holding out a finger under his nose, you sigh at the feeling of breath along your skin. 

“That’s a good start,” you mutter and poke his cheek in hopes he wakes at the disturbance. He doesn’t. 

There are no doctors around you. Calling for one could spell death for the man should you just sit and wait for one. Or worse, send the Peace Corps to your door when you fail to explain what happened. 

Laying him fully down on the floor, you slice open his shirt—or what’s left of it—with a knife. The wound is ugly, just under the length of a ruler and running horizontally under his right ribcage, but not that deep. You think. And though you are no professional, you’ve patched up your fair share of aprons and worn socks. Running through the back, taking two stairs at a time, you scramble around your little apartment above the bakery and grab hold of whatever you deem useful before rushing down back to his side. 

 “Alright, buddy,”—you roll up your sleeves and snap on a pair of gloves—“no dying on bakery property. That’s a biohazard.” 

You sterilize what you can—if he gets infected it’s partially his fault for not seeking a medical centre to faint in instead—and as it turns out, sewing up skin is much harder than you imagined. Up and over, you whipstitch the slash close and tie it off with a firm knot at the end. A bit uneven in spacing, you shrug and wipe it clean before wrapping the area in the hopefully clean bandages you’d found. 

“Would be really helpful if you woke up right about now,” you say with a glance back at the clock, watching the minutes slip by. 

Pushing him into the back corner of the kitchen, you hastily clean up everything. The blood, the sparse medical supplies, the knife you used to cut his shirt open, you leave no trace. And when you dawn your apron right after with your hands washed, it’s like nothing ever happened. 

The day is faster than you expected. You bake, you restock the display case, take orders and brew coffees with way too many shots of espresso, all while praying the man in the back either wakes up and leaves through the back door or doesn’t and stays quiet until your hours are over. Fortunately for you, it’s the latter. You practically slam the sign against the glass door when flipping it to “Closed”, tossing your apron onto its designated hook and running back to check on your unconscious guest. 

He finally awakes on the third day of his stay. You had set up a makeshift cot in the empty pantry. Shelves that once housed all kinds of special ingredients like flavoured extracts and spices now sit blank and empty. Jumping to your feet, you cross your arms and glare down at his bleary face. 

“Look who’s finally joined us,” you say. 

His left arm is tied to the leg of the cot, a fact he realizes as he reaches up to push his hair back out of his face. He only looks up at you, silent, and red eyes piercing through yours. 

“You… going to tell me your name or…” 

You sit back down when he refuses to answer. 

“Come on, dude,” you groan. “I saved your life, risked my own life by harbouring a potential district hopper, and you’re not even giving me a th—”

“Thank you—” 

You smile, a puff of pride expanding in your chest. 

“But you shouldn’t have.”

⟡ 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⟡

“What’s your favourite dessert?” 

Blade’s—you were successful in prying his name free from his mouth eventually and laughed at it right after—eyebrows crease together at the question, lips pursing into a small frown. He looks over and stares at you, his gaze intense as if willing you to look away. Unfortunately for him, you don’t. Three days you watched over him in his unconscious state and for another three he has been sitting in your home. He told you he’s waiting on a message before he can leave. So the least he can do until then is answer a few questions. 

“Well?” you prod. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

His eyes track you while you bounce from one end of the kitchen to the other, mixing and pouring batters. It’s Saturday, but you’ve been itching to test run some new treats. 

“Of course it matters,” you snort. “Desserts can tell you a lot about people, you know.” 

When he doesn’t reply, you continue on, cleaning up the mess on the counter. 

“Tāngyuán,” you say under your breath. “Mine’s tāngyuán.”

Desserts and foods deemed "unnecessary for human productivity” were struck by the IPC. Ingredients are rationed and monitored with food tickets and any hint of someone reaching too out of the normal was to be swiftly dealt with. That doesn’t mean you can’t dream. The first time you had any sort of baked goods besides standard bread, cookies, and muffins was in the cozy comfort of your grandmother’s house. She had sat you on her lap with a soup spoon in hand, passing you small bites of the chewy rice balls and warm sesame paste. She taught you everything you needed to know about baking, about honouring heritage through food and stomach. You wonder what she would think of life now. You take the sheet cake from out of the oven.

“... My mother used to make that for me,” he replies with a similar whisper to yours. 

Spreading a thin layer of strawberry jam and hand-whipped cream, you roll the cake up before slicing it into even pieces. 

You smile down at the sight.

“Too bad I can’t make any for us,” you say. 

“Mm,” he hums back.

⟡ 𝐈𝐕. 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⟡

“What’s all of this?” 

Firefly had warned him about breaking away from the mission, but there was no way he was going to return to camp without leaving the Peace Corps in some sort of disarray. It was just by luck on their part they snagged a hit. He didn’t know how far he ran before they stopped their chase. 

But when he awoke, it was to you.

You are an oddity to Blade. Strict to the rules, threatening to turn him in, but not once did you get anywhere near the red button he knew sat under the counter. He could’ve left earlier—he knew the way out of the district, multiple ways even—but he lied instead. 

The Hunters had contacted him the minute he went quiet during the scuffle, but he ignored it in favour of staying behind to watch. It was like you opened up new worlds just by baking, entering a headspace that seemed to float above the clouds. Your stitches to his side were sloppy, but you moved around the kitchen with such grace. Not the type of poise crafted by the IPC, but one that showed you truly enjoyed what you did and what you made. He wondered what it would be like to insert himself into that peace you had made and in the end, he couldn’t see himself there.  

True to his word, the minute Blade was better, he messaged Silverwolf and left. He didn’t want to stick around for long and leave you in a tougher spot. 

But untrue to his self-made promise of staying away, he came back. 

“Ingredients,” he says. 

“I… can see that, but”—you look back at him—“for what?” 

He purses his lips, trying to stifle a frown. He gestures to the bag again. 

“Rice flour, brown sugar, ginger… black sesam—wait wait you want me to—” 

“You said it was too bad you couldn’t make it for the both of us.” He shrugs. “Now you can.” 

You pause and for a moment, Blade thinks you’ll turn him away from the door, curse at him for bringing contraband into the quaint life you’ve tried so hard to maintain. 

“Do I want to know what you do for a living?” you huff with a small smile threatening to break your stern face. You go back into the bakery, leaving enough space for him to walk through the door. 

He follows. 

“Best not to.” 

commentary : 　 and then you guys eat tangyuan and it's al happy. man it’s been a while since i’ve written but i hope you enjoyed this! just some extra little bits of info i thought i’d mention when writing this hahah

inspired by: the list by patricia forde, the hunger games series, and heartless by marissa meyer

reader was originally going to be a florist but considering 1) your theme is abt baking and 2) i bake a lot myself and know jack-shit abt being a florist, i thought switching reader’s occupation to be a baker was more fitting

i went through 5 completely different ideas before landing on this one when it came to writing this fic TT

each section (fermentation, rising, etc) is related to the process of baking bread!

i had to cut so much out of this fic to make the deadline because otherwise it could've very well made it to 4.5k kdfjhkjfg so im very sorry if the world building doesn't make too much sense I WENT ON AUTOPILOT AT SOME POINT KFDJH

© ST6RLY. all rights reserved. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, use for asmr role-play, feed into ai, or claim any of my writing as yours.

[moineauz]

LOVE ACROSS THE MILKY WAY ┊various

SYNOPSIS: just as the universe expands and unfolds, so to the paths that intersect and collide— but just how do they keep them together? IN OTHER WORDS… what is a long distance relationship like with them?

NOTES: i thought of this when i the gym a couple of days ago. can you tell how who i like the most. anyways, this took wayyy too long to make. the original list of characters for this was MUCH longer but i genuinely could not write any more for this fic.

extra ノ gn reader . 3k+ wc . mix of fluff & angst . typical long distance relationship issues (i think) . maybe occ? . i just want to give sunday a hug . established relationship . subtle spoilers for hsr plot . terms of endearment .

including ノ jing yuan . dr ratio . sunday .

JING YUAN is the patient partner– out of necessity and sake. On the outside, he is practical and annoyingly at ease: there are no unnecessary questions or mind games played. He is a simple man after all, trust goes without saying. Underneath the golden hues of his iris, though, he longs earnestly and occasionally, toys; staring outside the high walls of the Seat of Divine Foresight, running his aged mind through bottlenecked dreams. All of which lead back to you. 

“So tell me,” you laugh, bringing your knees to your chest, hugging warmth, “Has Yanqing finally stopped buying swords? That kid can fill a whole closet with them!” 

Jing Yuan chuckles into his phone, pressing it against his shoulder and cheek while he stirs the garlic, it sizzles in response, “Not as often now, no. Though, it doesn't mean he’s stopped all together,” Jing Yuan glances at the dining table, "Unfortunately."

You burst into laughter, his phone vibrates slightly. 

“Tell him I miss him, will you? Oh! Tell him he owes me a rematch too.” 

“You’ve never been good with swords, dear.” 

"Doesn't mean I can’t try and shoot them.” 

Jing Yuan takes the phone and places it on the counter, putting it on speaker. The garlic has released its aroma, the rest of the vegetables follow. The water evaporates instantly, rising in lush curls of steam. Unbridled and figureless. 

“What are you cooking?” you ask, shifting in your tent, the dimming fire cackles outside, “Smell’s good to me.” 

“It’s just a stir fry,” he answers, rocking the wok in a wave like motion, the vegetables jump in glee, “What do you smell?” 

“Mmm, let me think,” you pause, closing your eyes for a brief moment. 

Jing Yuan blinks, the stovetop flame winks at him, he frowns slightly. 

He can picture you in the moment, eyes closed, knees to chest, cradling yourself, hugging warmth. He envisions your coy smile, the dry sarcasm and hungry eyes. How they ran from one passing thought to the next, never staying long enough to linger. 

Jing Yuan knows your answer. 

“Garlic. Lots of garlic,” you groan, shaking your head, “I bet you smell like garlic now.” 

“And what’s so wrong with garlic?” 

You can sense him smirking through the black screen, eye twinkling, “Too much garlic is unappetizing, Jing Yuan.” 

He chuckles at your insistence, “Oh? Well, that depends on your definition of ‘too much’. Personally I find–” 

“You’re lucky I love you.” 

“I know.” 

“Even with all the garlic you use.” 

“I know dear.” 

A gust of wind rushes through the camp, you shiver.

“You’re in the Asdana Star System, yes?” prompts Jing Yuan, clutching the handle of the wok, “Are you near Penacony?

“I’m on the outskirts of the star system, yes. A distant planet really. It doesn't help that there’s memoira everywhere– and don’t get me started on the weather here,” you groan, tilting your head back, eyes closed, “Turns out the sun only comes out every five moons.” 

Jing Yuan gives the vegetables a final stir, flicking off the heat, he watches the pepper and salt blend into nothing, “I take that it’s cold, yes?” 

“Most definitely.” 

An envelope of silence falls like snow, you pull the phone closer to your ear, body melting. 

“I hope you’re not alone.” 

“Oh no, not this time around thankfully. It would seem us Galaxy Rangers are ‘closer than fudgin’ ever’ as Boothill would say.” 

“Perhaps I should meet this ‘Boothill’ one day.” 

“Oh aeons,” you laugh, shaking your head, “Wouldn’t that be something.” 

The remaining hour is filled with your voice then his. Alternating, interrupting, riding the waves of invisible rhythm and whim. In the background, your ears follow the clatter of dishes and the faucet’s incessant squeal. You tell him to replace it, he says it’s fine. You ask if his workload is the same, he says yes. He asks if you’ve eaten, you say no. 

“The locals are already struggling, it would be wrong to ask.” 

Jing Yuan glances at the two plates. 

 “Do you think you can pay a visit to the Luofu soon?” he asks, stifling the quiet aches in his mind. 

Jing Yuan hears the rustle of your blanket through the speaker, he imagines your lying down now. 

You swallow, allowing yourself to dream, “I hope so.” 

“That’s all I need.” 

In the emptiness of his own home, a chasm is filled, and your voice bounces off the walls like chimes; dancing through the air like birds and blades. Tomorrow the day will be lighter, notes Jing Yuan. The Seat of Divine Foresight quieter, the universe slowing on its almighty axis for just a moment. Enough for the two of you to savor a thousand light years apart. 

“Save me a meal, won’t you?” 

“Always.” 

When the call ends, Jing Yuan is seated at the dining table. The lights are dim, creating a fixed golden haze across the table: a mirage of something softer. Across from him is your plate, vibrant and full– fuller than his. 

It’s the one with less garlic. 

“Cheers.” 

When Jing Yuan takes the first bite, he hopes you sleep full. 

There is a knock at the door. 

And somewhere– nestled behind the roles of tactician and general– his old heart lurches forward, a movement so akin to a fool. He wonders how exactly it came to meet him, how long it will hold in its rightful place. 

Jing Yuan sets his utensils down and with a mellow smile, he heaves, swinging tomorrow open.

DR. RATIO is the controlled worrier. The one that consistently asks for updates: who hovers over his phone, glancing every few seconds for that stupid ping. It’s not an issue of trust (he is the least bit insecure), rather, a sad cry of repressed longing. (He won’t admit it). He’ll talk your ear off, be it frustrations or his peculiar observations– nothing is left unsaid for the doctor, not when he finally has an active listener. Expect him to do the same. Dr. Ratio insists his daily messages and voice memos are just for your health and his overall peace of mind. Though, onlookers assume much, much more.

Dawn stretches over the horizon, and so do you.

Gradually, you shift to your nightstand, attempting to reach your phone all while fighting through bleary eyes and the gentle hand of sleep. You tap the screen twice, it glows against your dim room.

Veritas: “Morning, have you eaten yet?”

It’s the first text you read.

You smile, taping the message. Your cold fingers swiftly run across the screen, a faint clicking fills the room.

Once you send the message, it doesn't take long for your phone to vibrate in your hands: incessant and rushed.

You pick up. It’s a request for facetime.

At first you say nothing, allowing your bed covers to swallow you up, leaving only your eyes and nose to be seen. You suppress a grin, your hands warming. Golden light bleeds through the curtains.

“Still in bed now, are we?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, doctor?”

Veritas stands the phone against his desk lamp, he leans into his chair, allowing for a near full view of his upper body, “It’s early there, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why did you text?”

You watch his shoulders shift, he crosses his arms over his chest, you giggle slightly.

“Miss me?”

He lets out a little scoff, playful. You burst into laughter now, your voice all the more raspy and muffled against the covers.

“I just wanted to check on you,” Veritas paused, feeling the corners of his lips rise, “Have a good day, alright? I’ll text you later.”

You nod, blinking at him brightly.

“Come on, show me your face.”

“Veritas!” you exclaim lowly, eyebrows furrowing slightly, “I look terrible.”

“You make it sound like I haven’t woken up to your face before.”

“Still,” you mumble, sinking deeper into the covers. A particular warmth spreads across your cheeks.

Somedays, Veritas wonders if he could just reach through the screen alone– by sheer force or otherwise– just to tilt your chin up towards him.

“You don’t look terrible,” he begins, bringing the phone closer to his face, “Trust me.”

The call ends shortly after, his office all the more quiet. Your face still flashes through his mind in gentle bursts. Much like muted fireworks: all the curves and edges, the blue light reflected in your iris, feathers and all. Memorized by mind and filed away meticulously. Even the first rays of morning light which permeated through your windows, resting briefly on your visage.

Veritas glances at the clock, it’s 8:43 pm. The minute hand ticks loudly.

His phone rings again. Though, not from you this time.

It’s Aventurine.

He sighs, swiping right as he rises to his feet, peering through the open window. Night sweeps across the streets.

“I’m shocked you answered.”

“What do you want?”

Veritas hears Aventurine’s grin through the black screen.

“You do know the IPC and the Intelligentsia Guild are hosting a gala a week from now, right?”

Veritas glances at the calendar pinned against his walls, “GALA” is written in large cursive loops.

“Yes, I am aware.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“I applaud your observation skills.”

Aventurine pauses, Veritas raises his eyebrow.

“What?” heaves Veritas, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Maybe you can finally bring that little bird of yours to the gala.”

Veritas pauses, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Did I strike a nerve, doctor?”

“Don’t start.”

“I heard they’re Halovian.”

“Oh, will you shut it?”

Aventurine laughs, light and airy.

“Sure doctor. I’ll keep my mouth shut–” he smirks, then pauses, his voice lowering slightly, “I can imagine long-distance isn't really your style, is it?

Veritas stops, the picture frame on his desk gleams against the overhead light.

“I’ll see you next week, gambler.”

He hangs up.

— 

As students filed out of the lecture hall, Veritas quietly reached for this phone, the screen face down.

His lockscreen is a dark, solid canvas of red. When the phone unlocks, your face greets him with warmth.

The photo is clearly rushed, the edges blurred slightly. Your hands are covered in clay, one sleeve rolled up to your elbow while the other slides down to your forearms; dangerously close to the pottery wheel. Your fingers act as a scaffold; supporting the clay as it leaned into the warmth of your palms and the crevices of your fingers. Veritas remembers. The winter breeze which overtook your city in frenzied torrents, how your dim studio lights shone brightly upon your placid figure. What was once a small abandoned firehouse, became intrinsically yours: a spacious art studio with pillars of history in awkward places, exposed beams, and inordinate windows that attracted busy onlookers with a mere glance.

It’s how Veritas met you, after all.

The photo– his homescreen– is one Veritas has opted not to show you. Not yet at least. Not when you’d critique it like all your vases, ceramics, and sculptures scattered perfectly across your studio like falling leaves. Not when your eyes– honed with painful prowess– mellowed as your body fell in dance with the clay. Your back is hunched forward, bending into excitement while your hair escapes from its slick prison, framing your face in wispy strands. A gentle grin spreads across your face, breaking into gladness like the yolk of an egg and your feathers, finally, rest in its imperfection.

“The beauty in truth is that it never changes, even when no one understands it.” That’s what Veritas had always thought, it was true to him and true for those who– similar to him– strive to contain truth so it could be packaged for others. When all else could be stripped away– there remained truth, his truth even as the universe tripped over its own foot in ad nauseam. Dr. Ratio’s creed remained burned into his chest, laid bare for the universe to see.

Until he met you. Until he watched truth unfold over three hour calls, playful dinners on facetime, and clay stained hands. All those stupidly nervous drives to pick you up, and the whisper of fear when he watches you pack your clothes in a suitcase– all of it.

When the lecturer hall is devoid of sound, Veritas clicks on his messages, your name the first on the list.

He sends a voice memo.

“I know you're busy teaching– make sure to turn on the kiln by the way– but could you call me when you’re free? There is a gala about six days from now and I’d like– no want you to come.”

He pauses, breathing slowly.

“I love you.”

A couple of hours later, when Veritas is teaching again– an evening class– his phone vibrates silently. A message pops up on the screen.

(Name): “sooo, is this your sad attempt at asking me out?”

Veritas: “And what if it is?”

(Name): “then expect to see me soon hehe. I have a feeling you’ll like the new clothes I bought”

A small smile threatens to pull at his lips, he stifles it, allowing only a fraction of anticipation to run across his chest.

Veritas: “We can go to the art exhibit I mentioned after the gala, I’ll bring more comfortable shoes for you.”

When Veritas sets his phone down– a group of students at the front are whispering.

“What is it now?” he deadpanned.

The students freeze, paralyzed.

He sighs, “Go on, this is a class for rhetoric, is it not?”

Silence.

“Nothing? Alright then, your next essay should be discussing–”

“Is it true that your partner is the Halovian sculptor? (Name)?”

A layer of ice settles over the lecture hall.

Veritas turns gradually, meeting the eye of the student– who despite their original confidence– shrivels under his gaze.

“Yes, they are.”

—

“You’ve got gut's Ratio, I’ll give you that.”

Aventurine is now in Dr. Ratio’s office– much to his dismay.

“I simply answered a question.”

“And now the entire Intelligentsia Guild won’t shut up about one of its council members."

“Shame on them then.”

Aventurine tilts his head, a small smirk spreads across his face.

“You had it all planned out, didn’t you? I take it they’re coming to the gala?”

Veritas stares up from his work, “The Guild and your department would see them and I both at the gala anyways, no?”

Veritas returns back to his work, this time, biting back a smile.

SUNDAY is the quiet ruminator. Otherwise known as the overthinker. His relationship with his sister is long-distance enough, and that alone causes him bouts of stress. How much more you? You're his partner after all, and Sunday has never thought of himself to be capable of having or maintaining a romantic partner. The fear of misunderstanding plagues him, his pragmatism declares it to be doomed, but there is a passionate ache in his chest: an ache so far removed from himself, so utterly defiant and chaotic, that he can’t help but marvel aghast. Still, despite it all, you remain and remain and remain against all the odds of his heart. 

It was Sunday’s sixth evening aboard the Astral Express. All is quiet. 

Between helping with chore duties, entertaining March 7th’s and Stella’s antics, and conversing with Welt, the “spare time” Sunday had to wrestle with nearly consumed him. 

Back on Penacony, he was perpetually busy. Time slots filled. Members to consult. Plans to execute. He did it all with assiduous grace: a kind of “alien meticulousness” as you dubbed it. 

Now, there are no burning plans or falling ceilings. Nothing. All is quiet. 

Except Sunday. 

His room– described by March 7 as “small”– stares back at him, the space much too wide for himself. The room beats, drumming away to a melody Sunday doesn't know. Can’t know. It is empty and full, teetering between dream and reality. 

He closes his eyes. 

The phone rings. 

Turning to his right, the phone vibrates with excitement. Almost twitching with anticipation. 

He swipes right, your voice emerges from the device instantly. 

“Sunday!” you beam softly, “I saw the pictures you sent. Tell me, have you played something dramatic on the piano yet?” 

Sunday can hear your smile. 

“No dear, I am yet to touch it actually,” he puts you on speaker, setting the phone back to the right side– where your head could be. 

“Ah, a shame then.” 

The conversation lapses into silence. Sunday fidgets with his finger.

“Sunday.” 

“Yes?” 

If Sunday leaned just a bit closer, he swears he could feel the warmth of your exhale rippling across his cheek. 

“You’re thinking too hard.” 

Sunday paused, blinking slowly, “How can you tell?” 

The question is selfish, he knows that. He believes he knows your mind, its idiosyncrasies and bending path: like rivers which curve towards song. Sunday– he surmises– wouldn’t mind traversing the facets of your mind. He’d like to learn– if he dares– all the many versions of you. 

“I love you,” you state, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world, “That’s why.” 

You never cease to amaze him. 

He lets out a small laugh, almost in disbelief, “It’s that simple, isn't it?”

You smile, your voice steadfast, firm, “Yes Sunday, it is.” 

—

The next time Sunday calls you, it’s on facetime. He is seated at the piano, the phone leaning on the music rest. 

“So,” you smile, resting your cheek on your hand, “What are you going to play me?” 

“Anything you’d like, dear.” 

Sunday’s response is mellow, his eyes jumping from his gloved hands and the twinkle of your earrings. 

“How’s Penacony?” Sunday manages, he plays the first note. The tempo is slow and enigmatic; drawing up from the wells of his soul. 

Sunday glances above briefly, he sees you shifting in your seat. 

“All is well,” you responded placidly, “Nothing much going on here.” 

The melody leads Sunday’s right hand an octave higher. Quarter notes become eighth notes, the music spills onto the floor. His left hand steadies itself, the lower notes pulling him down. The flats are throwing him off, his right hand plays A natural. Sunday winces. Out of place. 

You notice. 

“That’s good then.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sunday?” 

Just before he reaches the final string of melodies, Sunday— selfishly he thinks— steals another fleeting glance at you. 

It is there, in that strange space before pressing his finger to the next note or the rest at the start of a measure, that his mind fully, truly sees you. Your slightly tousled hair, the glow of light against your skin, and the furrow of your eyebrows. 

But it’s your eyes that undo him. 

You’ve searched his very being with those eyes. Nothing escaped them. Not under those gentle hues. 

He stops playing. 

“Sunday?” you whisper, bringing your face closer to your phone, “Please talk to me.” 

When Sunday finally locks eyes onto you, his gaze pools into your own, retreating into the inner recesses of your mind. 

“I’ll never get tired of you,” you blurt, “Is… that what you’re thinking?”

Sunday blinks. His golden eyes soften in relief. 

— 

“I didn’t know you had a partner, Sunday.” 

Sunday nearly jumps from the piano seat– his wings flapping slightly. 

“Oh, Mr. Yang, I didn't see you there.” 

Welt smiles softly, ambling towards Sunday, “If I recall correctly, I don’t believe I saw them when you were saying your last goodbyes to Penacony.” 

Sunday nods, “Yes. I had already bid farewell to them. Or at least, tried to.” 

“Oh? How so?” 

It is there that Welt observes Sunday. 

“Well,” Sunday manages, his voice mellowing, “They can be quite stubborn– in all the right ways of course. And despite my failures–” he stops, breathing in slowly, “They are never far from my side.” 

Welt nods, a small pang of pride permeating his chest, “I’m glad to hear that Sunday.” 

A pocket of pleasant silence opens, Sunday smiles and turns. His gaze falling outside amongst the millions of stars. 

“Who knows,” muses Sunday, unmoving, “Perhaps they shall board the express too.” 

Welt raises an eyebrow, smiling.

Sunday turns. 

“Only if that is alright with the Express,” Sunday adds promptly, “I am only a passenger after all.” 

“There will always be room for more.”  

Sunday nods, a small laugh escapes him. 

— 

Much later, when his bedroom doors slide closed, Sunday– for the first time since he’s boarded the express– allows his shoulders to unwind. To fall from its high mantel. From his own unsaid fear.

His phone buzzes. 

(Name): Did I ever tell you your hands look so sexy when you play? The piece sounds so dreamy, I love it.

Sunday’s wings flap. 

Another message follows. 

(Name): Thanks for sending me all the images of the Astral Express, if I didn’t have to run the bar here, I’d be the one serving you drinks! Haha. 

(Name): Have fun out there. Don’t worry too much. 

A cacophony of noise springs to life in his mind, like fireworks bracing together, singing with each quiet explosion. The corners of Sunday’s lips pull into a smile. It is unhampered: brilliant in the loving darkness of his room and your messages. Each of them crossing the vast sea of the universe for it's recipient. Silence embraces his body, rest follows shortly after. 

When he closes his eyes, he dreams of you.

masterlist.

[moineauz]

LOVE ACROSS THE MILKY WAY ┊various

SYNOPSIS: just as the universe expands and unfolds, so to the paths that intersect and collide— but just how do they keep them together? IN OTHER WORDS… what is a long distance relationship like with them?

NOTES: i thought of this when i the gym a couple of days ago. can you tell how who i like the most. anyways, this took wayyy too long to make. the original list of characters for this was MUCH longer but i genuinely could not write any more for this fic.

extra ノ gn reader . 3k+ wc . mix of fluff & angst . typical long distance relationship issues (i think) . maybe occ? . i just want to give sunday a hug . established relationship . subtle spoilers for hsr plot . terms of endearment .

including ノ jing yuan . dr ratio . sunday .

JING YUAN is the patient partner– out of necessity and sake. On the outside, he is practical and annoyingly at ease: there are no unnecessary questions or mind games played. He is a simple man after all, trust goes without saying. Underneath the golden hues of his iris, though, he longs earnestly and occasionally, toys; staring outside the high walls of the Seat of Divine Foresight, running his aged mind through bottlenecked dreams. All of which lead back to you. 

“So tell me,” you laugh, bringing your knees to your chest, hugging warmth, “Has Yanqing finally stopped buying swords? That kid can fill a whole closet with them!” 

Jing Yuan chuckles into his phone, pressing it against his shoulder and cheek while he stirs the garlic, it sizzles in response, “Not as often now, no. Though, it doesn't mean he’s stopped all together,” Jing Yuan glances at the dining table, "Unfortunately."

You burst into laughter, his phone vibrates slightly. 

“Tell him I miss him, will you? Oh! Tell him he owes me a rematch too.” 

“You’ve never been good with swords, dear.” 

"Doesn't mean I can’t try and shoot them.” 

Jing Yuan takes the phone and places it on the counter, putting it on speaker. The garlic has released its aroma, the rest of the vegetables follow. The water evaporates instantly, rising in lush curls of steam. Unbridled and figureless. 

“What are you cooking?” you ask, shifting in your tent, the dimming fire cackles outside, “Smell’s good to me.” 

“It’s just a stir fry,” he answers, rocking the wok in a wave like motion, the vegetables jump in glee, “What do you smell?” 

“Mmm, let me think,” you pause, closing your eyes for a brief moment. 

Jing Yuan blinks, the stovetop flame winks at him, he frowns slightly. 

He can picture you in the moment, eyes closed, knees to chest, cradling yourself, hugging warmth. He envisions your coy smile, the dry sarcasm and hungry eyes. How they ran from one passing thought to the next, never staying long enough to linger. 

Jing Yuan knows your answer. 

“Garlic. Lots of garlic,” you groan, shaking your head, “I bet you smell like garlic now.” 

“And what’s so wrong with garlic?” 

You can sense him smirking through the black screen, eye twinkling, “Too much garlic is unappetizing, Jing Yuan.” 

He chuckles at your insistence, “Oh? Well, that depends on your definition of ‘too much’. Personally I find–” 

“You’re lucky I love you.” 

“I know.” 

“Even with all the garlic you use.” 

“I know dear.” 

A gust of wind rushes through the camp, you shiver.

“You’re in the Asdana Star System, yes?” prompts Jing Yuan, clutching the handle of the wok, “Are you near Penacony?

“I’m on the outskirts of the star system, yes. A distant planet really. It doesn't help that there’s memoira everywhere– and don’t get me started on the weather here,” you groan, tilting your head back, eyes closed, “Turns out the sun only comes out every five moons.” 

Jing Yuan gives the vegetables a final stir, flicking off the heat, he watches the pepper and salt blend into nothing, “I take that it’s cold, yes?” 

“Most definitely.” 

An envelope of silence falls like snow, you pull the phone closer to your ear, body melting. 

“I hope you’re not alone.” 

“Oh no, not this time around thankfully. It would seem us Galaxy Rangers are ‘closer than fudgin’ ever’ as Boothill would say.” 

“Perhaps I should meet this ‘Boothill’ one day.” 

“Oh aeons,” you laugh, shaking your head, “Wouldn’t that be something.” 

The remaining hour is filled with your voice then his. Alternating, interrupting, riding the waves of invisible rhythm and whim. In the background, your ears follow the clatter of dishes and the faucet’s incessant squeal. You tell him to replace it, he says it’s fine. You ask if his workload is the same, he says yes. He asks if you’ve eaten, you say no. 

“The locals are already struggling, it would be wrong to ask.” 

Jing Yuan glances at the two plates. 

 “Do you think you can pay a visit to the Luofu soon?” he asks, stifling the quiet aches in his mind. 

Jing Yuan hears the rustle of your blanket through the speaker, he imagines your lying down now. 

You swallow, allowing yourself to dream, “I hope so.” 

“That’s all I need.” 

In the emptiness of his own home, a chasm is filled, and your voice bounces off the walls like chimes; dancing through the air like birds and blades. Tomorrow the day will be lighter, notes Jing Yuan. The Seat of Divine Foresight quieter, the universe slowing on its almighty axis for just a moment. Enough for the two of you to savor a thousand light years apart. 

“Save me a meal, won’t you?” 

“Always.” 

When the call ends, Jing Yuan is seated at the dining table. The lights are dim, creating a fixed golden haze across the table: a mirage of something softer. Across from him is your plate, vibrant and full– fuller than his. 

It’s the one with less garlic. 

“Cheers.” 

When Jing Yuan takes the first bite, he hopes you sleep full. 

There is a knock at the door. 

And somewhere– nestled behind the roles of tactician and general– his old heart lurches forward, a movement so akin to a fool. He wonders how exactly it came to meet him, how long it will hold in its rightful place. 

Jing Yuan sets his utensils down and with a mellow smile, he heaves, swinging tomorrow open.

DR. RATIO is the controlled worrier. The one that consistently asks for updates: who hovers over his phone, glancing every few seconds for that stupid ping. It’s not an issue of trust (he is the least bit insecure), rather, a sad cry of repressed longing. (He won’t admit it). He’ll talk your ear off, be it frustrations or his peculiar observations– nothing is left unsaid for the doctor, not when he finally has an active listener. Expect him to do the same. Dr. Ratio insists his daily messages and voice memos are just for your health and his overall peace of mind. Though, onlookers assume much, much more.

Dawn stretches over the horizon, and so do you.

Gradually, you shift to your nightstand, attempting to reach your phone all while fighting through bleary eyes and the gentle hand of sleep. You tap the screen twice, it glows against your dim room.

Veritas: “Morning, have you eaten yet?”

It’s the first text you read.

You smile, taping the message. Your cold fingers swiftly run across the screen, a faint clicking fills the room.

Once you send the message, it doesn't take long for your phone to vibrate in your hands: incessant and rushed.

You pick up. It’s a request for facetime.

At first you say nothing, allowing your bed covers to swallow you up, leaving only your eyes and nose to be seen. You suppress a grin, your hands warming. Golden light bleeds through the curtains.

“Still in bed now, are we?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, doctor?”

Veritas stands the phone against his desk lamp, he leans into his chair, allowing for a near full view of his upper body, “It’s early there, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why did you text?”

You watch his shoulders shift, he crosses his arms over his chest, you giggle slightly.

“Miss me?”

He lets out a little scoff, playful. You burst into laughter now, your voice all the more raspy and muffled against the covers.

“I just wanted to check on you,” Veritas paused, feeling the corners of his lips rise, “Have a good day, alright? I’ll text you later.”

You nod, blinking at him brightly.

“Come on, show me your face.”

“Veritas!” you exclaim lowly, eyebrows furrowing slightly, “I look terrible.”

“You make it sound like I haven’t woken up to your face before.”

“Still,” you mumble, sinking deeper into the covers. A particular warmth spreads across your cheeks.

Somedays, Veritas wonders if he could just reach through the screen alone– by sheer force or otherwise– just to tilt your chin up towards him.

“You don’t look terrible,” he begins, bringing the phone closer to his face, “Trust me.”

The call ends shortly after, his office all the more quiet. Your face still flashes through his mind in gentle bursts. Much like muted fireworks: all the curves and edges, the blue light reflected in your iris, feathers and all. Memorized by mind and filed away meticulously. Even the first rays of morning light which permeated through your windows, resting briefly on your visage.

Veritas glances at the clock, it’s 8:43 pm. The minute hand ticks loudly.

His phone rings again. Though, not from you this time.

It’s Aventurine.

He sighs, swiping right as he rises to his feet, peering through the open window. Night sweeps across the streets.

“I’m shocked you answered.”

“What do you want?”

Veritas hears Aventurine’s grin through the black screen.

“You do know the IPC and the Intelligentsia Guild are hosting a gala a week from now, right?”

Veritas glances at the calendar pinned against his walls, “GALA” is written in large cursive loops.

“Yes, I am aware.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“I applaud your observation skills.”

Aventurine pauses, Veritas raises his eyebrow.

“What?” heaves Veritas, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Maybe you can finally bring that little bird of yours to the gala.”

Veritas pauses, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Did I strike a nerve, doctor?”

“Don’t start.”

“I heard they’re Halovian.”

“Oh, will you shut it?”

Aventurine laughs, light and airy.

“Sure doctor. I’ll keep my mouth shut–” he smirks, then pauses, his voice lowering slightly, “I can imagine long-distance isn't really your style, is it?

Veritas stops, the picture frame on his desk gleams against the overhead light.

“I’ll see you next week, gambler.”

He hangs up.

— 

As students filed out of the lecture hall, Veritas quietly reached for this phone, the screen face down.

His lockscreen is a dark, solid canvas of red. When the phone unlocks, your face greets him with warmth.

The photo is clearly rushed, the edges blurred slightly. Your hands are covered in clay, one sleeve rolled up to your elbow while the other slides down to your forearms; dangerously close to the pottery wheel. Your fingers act as a scaffold; supporting the clay as it leaned into the warmth of your palms and the crevices of your fingers. Veritas remembers. The winter breeze which overtook your city in frenzied torrents, how your dim studio lights shone brightly upon your placid figure. What was once a small abandoned firehouse, became intrinsically yours: a spacious art studio with pillars of history in awkward places, exposed beams, and inordinate windows that attracted busy onlookers with a mere glance.

It’s how Veritas met you, after all.

The photo– his homescreen– is one Veritas has opted not to show you. Not yet at least. Not when you’d critique it like all your vases, ceramics, and sculptures scattered perfectly across your studio like falling leaves. Not when your eyes– honed with painful prowess– mellowed as your body fell in dance with the clay. Your back is hunched forward, bending into excitement while your hair escapes from its slick prison, framing your face in wispy strands. A gentle grin spreads across your face, breaking into gladness like the yolk of an egg and your feathers, finally, rest in its imperfection.

“The beauty in truth is that it never changes, even when no one understands it.” That’s what Veritas had always thought, it was true to him and true for those who– similar to him– strive to contain truth so it could be packaged for others. When all else could be stripped away– there remained truth, his truth even as the universe tripped over its own foot in ad nauseam. Dr. Ratio’s creed remained burned into his chest, laid bare for the universe to see.

Until he met you. Until he watched truth unfold over three hour calls, playful dinners on facetime, and clay stained hands. All those stupidly nervous drives to pick you up, and the whisper of fear when he watches you pack your clothes in a suitcase– all of it.

When the lecturer hall is devoid of sound, Veritas clicks on his messages, your name the first on the list.

He sends a voice memo.

“I know you're busy teaching– make sure to turn on the kiln by the way– but could you call me when you’re free? There is a gala about six days from now and I’d like– no want you to come.”

He pauses, breathing slowly.

“I love you.”

A couple of hours later, when Veritas is teaching again– an evening class– his phone vibrates silently. A message pops up on the screen.

(Name): “sooo, is this your sad attempt at asking me out?”

Veritas: “And what if it is?”

(Name): “then expect to see me soon hehe. I have a feeling you’ll like the new clothes I bought”

A small smile threatens to pull at his lips, he stifles it, allowing only a fraction of anticipation to run across his chest.

Veritas: “We can go to the art exhibit I mentioned after the gala, I’ll bring more comfortable shoes for you.”

When Veritas sets his phone down– a group of students at the front are whispering.

“What is it now?” he deadpanned.

The students freeze, paralyzed.

He sighs, “Go on, this is a class for rhetoric, is it not?”

Silence.

“Nothing? Alright then, your next essay should be discussing–”

“Is it true that your partner is the Halovian sculptor? (Name)?”

A layer of ice settles over the lecture hall.

Veritas turns gradually, meeting the eye of the student– who despite their original confidence– shrivels under his gaze.

“Yes, they are.”

—

“You’ve got gut's Ratio, I’ll give you that.”

Aventurine is now in Dr. Ratio’s office– much to his dismay.

“I simply answered a question.”

“And now the entire Intelligentsia Guild won’t shut up about one of its council members."

“Shame on them then.”

Aventurine tilts his head, a small smirk spreads across his face.

“You had it all planned out, didn’t you? I take it they’re coming to the gala?”

Veritas stares up from his work, “The Guild and your department would see them and I both at the gala anyways, no?”

Veritas returns back to his work, this time, biting back a smile.

SUNDAY is the quiet ruminator. Otherwise known as the overthinker. His relationship with his sister is long-distance enough, and that alone causes him bouts of stress. How much more you? You're his partner after all, and Sunday has never thought of himself to be capable of having or maintaining a romantic partner. The fear of misunderstanding plagues him, his pragmatism declares it to be doomed, but there is a passionate ache in his chest: an ache so far removed from himself, so utterly defiant and chaotic, that he can’t help but marvel aghast. Still, despite it all, you remain and remain and remain against all the odds of his heart. 

It was Sunday’s sixth evening aboard the Astral Express. All is quiet. 

Between helping with chore duties, entertaining March 7th’s and Stella’s antics, and conversing with Welt, the “spare time” Sunday had to wrestle with nearly consumed him. 

Back on Penacony, he was perpetually busy. Time slots filled. Members to consult. Plans to execute. He did it all with assiduous grace: a kind of “alien meticulousness” as you dubbed it. 

Now, there are no burning plans or falling ceilings. Nothing. All is quiet. 

Except Sunday. 

His room– described by March 7 as “small”– stares back at him, the space much too wide for himself. The room beats, drumming away to a melody Sunday doesn't know. Can’t know. It is empty and full, teetering between dream and reality. 

He closes his eyes. 

The phone rings. 

Turning to his right, the phone vibrates with excitement. Almost twitching with anticipation. 

He swipes right, your voice emerges from the device instantly. 

“Sunday!” you beam softly, “I saw the pictures you sent. Tell me, have you played something dramatic on the piano yet?” 

Sunday can hear your smile. 

“No dear, I am yet to touch it actually,” he puts you on speaker, setting the phone back to the right side– where your head could be. 

“Ah, a shame then.” 

The conversation lapses into silence. Sunday fidgets with his finger.

“Sunday.” 

“Yes?” 

If Sunday leaned just a bit closer, he swears he could feel the warmth of your exhale rippling across his cheek. 

“You’re thinking too hard.” 

Sunday paused, blinking slowly, “How can you tell?” 

The question is selfish, he knows that. He believes he knows your mind, its idiosyncrasies and bending path: like rivers which curve towards song. Sunday– he surmises– wouldn’t mind traversing the facets of your mind. He’d like to learn– if he dares– all the many versions of you. 

“I love you,” you state, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world, “That’s why.” 

You never cease to amaze him. 

He lets out a small laugh, almost in disbelief, “It’s that simple, isn't it?”

You smile, your voice steadfast, firm, “Yes Sunday, it is.” 

—

The next time Sunday calls you, it’s on facetime. He is seated at the piano, the phone leaning on the music rest. 

“So,” you smile, resting your cheek on your hand, “What are you going to play me?” 

“Anything you’d like, dear.” 

Sunday’s response is mellow, his eyes jumping from his gloved hands and the twinkle of your earrings. 

“How’s Penacony?” Sunday manages, he plays the first note. The tempo is slow and enigmatic; drawing up from the wells of his soul. 

Sunday glances above briefly, he sees you shifting in your seat. 

“All is well,” you responded placidly, “Nothing much going on here.” 

The melody leads Sunday’s right hand an octave higher. Quarter notes become eighth notes, the music spills onto the floor. His left hand steadies itself, the lower notes pulling him down. The flats are throwing him off, his right hand plays A natural. Sunday winces. Out of place. 

You notice. 

“That’s good then.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sunday?” 

Just before he reaches the final string of melodies, Sunday— selfishly he thinks— steals another fleeting glance at you. 

It is there, in that strange space before pressing his finger to the next note or the rest at the start of a measure, that his mind fully, truly sees you. Your slightly tousled hair, the glow of light against your skin, and the furrow of your eyebrows. 

But it’s your eyes that undo him. 

You’ve searched his very being with those eyes. Nothing escaped them. Not under those gentle hues. 

He stops playing. 

“Sunday?” you whisper, bringing your face closer to your phone, “Please talk to me.” 

When Sunday finally locks eyes onto you, his gaze pools into your own, retreating into the inner recesses of your mind. 

“I’ll never get tired of you,” you blurt, “Is… that what you’re thinking?”

Sunday blinks. His golden eyes soften in relief. 

— 

“I didn’t know you had a partner, Sunday.” 

Sunday nearly jumps from the piano seat– his wings flapping slightly. 

“Oh, Mr. Yang, I didn't see you there.” 

Welt smiles softly, ambling towards Sunday, “If I recall correctly, I don’t believe I saw them when you were saying your last goodbyes to Penacony.” 

Sunday nods, “Yes. I had already bid farewell to them. Or at least, tried to.” 

“Oh? How so?” 

It is there that Welt observes Sunday. 

“Well,” Sunday manages, his voice mellowing, “They can be quite stubborn– in all the right ways of course. And despite my failures–” he stops, breathing in slowly, “They are never far from my side.” 

Welt nods, a small pang of pride permeating his chest, “I’m glad to hear that Sunday.” 

A pocket of pleasant silence opens, Sunday smiles and turns. His gaze falling outside amongst the millions of stars. 

“Who knows,” muses Sunday, unmoving, “Perhaps they shall board the express too.” 

Welt raises an eyebrow, smiling.

Sunday turns. 

“Only if that is alright with the Express,” Sunday adds promptly, “I am only a passenger after all.” 

“There will always be room for more.”  

Sunday nods, a small laugh escapes him. 

— 

Much later, when his bedroom doors slide closed, Sunday– for the first time since he’s boarded the express– allows his shoulders to unwind. To fall from its high mantel. From his own unsaid fear.

His phone buzzes. 

(Name): Did I ever tell you your hands look so sexy when you play? The piece sounds so dreamy, I love it.

Sunday’s wings flap. 

Another message follows. 

(Name): Thanks for sending me all the images of the Astral Express, if I didn’t have to run the bar here, I’d be the one serving you drinks! Haha. 

(Name): Have fun out there. Don’t worry too much. 

A cacophony of noise springs to life in his mind, like fireworks bracing together, singing with each quiet explosion. The corners of Sunday’s lips pull into a smile. It is unhampered: brilliant in the loving darkness of his room and your messages. Each of them crossing the vast sea of the universe for it's recipient. Silence embraces his body, rest follows shortly after. 

When he closes his eyes, he dreams of you.

masterlist.

[moineauz]

with a heist gone down in the louvre, it brought me back to my heist movie/tv days sooo… i’m thinking about PHAINON who acts as your “personal body guard” when in reality, he’s working with a group of notorious art & jewelry thieves (the chrysos heirs). You’re an artist/famous art collector whose trust Phainon is trying to gain.

But then he realizes he actually doesn’t want to rob you but he’s been lying to you all this timeeee

[moineauz]

what if i said this is in the making…

[moineauz]

this fic is not going ANYWHERE

[moineauz]

with a heist gone down in the louvre, it brought me back to my heist movie/tv days sooo… i’m thinking about PHAINON who acts as your “personal body guard” when in reality, he’s working with a group of notorious art & jewelry thieves (the chrysos heirs). You’re an artist/famous art collector whose trust Phainon is trying to gain.

But then he realizes he actually doesn’t want to rob you but he’s been lying to you all this timeeee

[moineauz]

the dahlia guys

[c1phra]

😔may i request cuddling w aventurine perhaps. i am okay with any other details !!

... ❝ ONCE, TWICE, THRICE. ❞ ft. aventurine x reader

𝒾. ⠀IN WHICH : you find yourself forming an unusual... pattern.

꒰ contents ꒱ pre-relationship; you're coworkers/friendship. gn!reader. fluff + comfort. sleeping together (literally) (in a sfw way). wc : balls

꒰ notes ꒱ i wanna bite him

“Y’know what they say…?” Your voice, thick and laced with drowsiness, is barely a mumble. It’s hard to tell if Aventurine heard it at all, he seems far too preoccupied burying his nose in the top of your head, letting out a shaky breath. “Something about… ‘once is chance…’”

“Twice is a coincidence.” He murmurs into your hair. His arms tighten their hold around you, one hand fisted in the back of your sleep shirt, and the other roaming down your spine, eventually settling on your hip, right where your hemline is. For a brief moment, his thumb slides against a tiny sliver of exposed skin, ungloved fingers cool against your side. It makes you shiver, and he adjusts his touch quickly to rest atop the fabric instead.

“And thrice is a pattern…” You sigh, tucking your head in his neck. Against your ear, his pulse hums, quickening as you press your cheek against it. “I think this is a pattern, Aventurine.”

“Is it, now?” There’s a pressure against your head, the press of lips ghosting above your crown, and it makes you wonder for a moment if he’s going to kiss you, but his face moves before you can finish forming the thought. “Maybe it’s luck.”

“The same man disturbs my sleep not once, twice, but three times—” Your arms squeeze around his waist in irritation—or some misplaced affection; who could tell, really? “—And I’m supposed to call it luck?”

He huffs out a laugh, breathless and almost fond. “I think it says more that you haven’t turned me away.”

At that, you’re silent.

The first time was chance, really. One shared room in a fully booked hotel, with one king-sized bed. It was an equally absurd and frustrating situation—one straight out of a trashy romance novel—but you made the best of it. You took the left, and he took the right, and you pretended not to notice how he seemed to gravitate towards you, and how in your unconscious state, your body molded to fit into his arms perfectly.

When you woke, with his hands gripping your shirt so tightly you couldn’t pull away if you tried—and you tried—you wanted to break away, but your head was fuzzy and your heart was too weak. He looked peaceful, vulnerable. You’d never seen him with such an expression; all of the slyness and trickery drained away, leaving only the softest parts left over.

You did all you that you could do in that situation: fall back asleep with him holding you, like you were something worth holding onto.

The second time, admittedly, it took next to no amount of pressure for you to fold, and let him into your bed again. Truly, if it was any other coworker—anyone else, anyone you hadn’t known for years, who hadn’t been there to witness your ugliest sides and still called themself a ‘friend’ regardless—you would have closed the door in their face. “Two in the morning,” you had hissed.

But the look in his eye wasn’t cunning, nor was it brimming with a mirth you could never quite place. It was unreadable, vaguely tense, and almost… uncertain. As if even he didn’t know why he ended up at your hotel room door. “Ah, my apologies for waking you. I had hoped you were still up. You can go back to sleep.”

The higher-ups had thought ahead and made sure to book you two rooms this time, so why did you find yourself wishing they didn’t?

You don’t know why you stopped him. You don’t talk about it now, and neither does he, but that night you pulled him into the room regardless; without a word, without any hesitation. And he followed, with a weak attempt at banter that was quickly swallowed down by the time his body met your sheets. There was some distance at first—or an attempt of it, at least—but you woke up the same way.

Tangled together like a pair of lovers—and wasn’t that an amusing thought. Aventurine wasn’t the type for partners, as far as you were aware, he’d never pushed beyond surface level flirting and flattery. It meant nothing; it meant nothing when it was directed at strangers, and it meant nothing directed at you. Even these late-night rendezvous, so to say, were nothing more than transactional. I sleep better when I’m with someone, he’d admitted. And even if you didn’t speak it, you had to say the same.

There was no escalation, no romance. No subtext, no subtleties. Nothing you’d want to acknowledge during your waking hours. It was a convenience; nothing more, and nothing less.

“You think too much.” Aventurine sighs. He pulls you closer, somehow, until your body is flush against him. “Just rest, okay?”

“Okay,” You whisper, too tired and too content to fight it. There’s no point clinging to pretenses now; you can worry about that in the morning.

For now, all you do is let yourself drift off, knowing you won’t be alone when you wake up.

©c1phra 2025 : do not copy, translate, repost, redistribute, or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <33

[ciearcab]

keep moving

[moineauz]

PHAINON who knows what you like to drink, when you want a drink, and how to prepare it. Did he understand your little ritual in the beginning? Absolutely not. He first tried to make you coffee— but how could he differentiate a doppio and a lungo? Or robusta beans from excelsa? Coffee is an art, a passion, a pleasure, and a little reward that helped eased yourself into his arms. That fact was just as conspicuous as a fresh cup of coffee.

Of course, Phainon couldn’t ignore the things in life that gave you joy.

“Phainon, what are you doing?”

You’ve just stepped out of the shower, hair damp, body chilling slightly. Evening creeps across the horizon and the TV hums in static voices. Your eyes follow Phainon’s shadow slipping past the kitchen wall. The remnants of the sun’s rays make his figure glow— a warm ghost lining his perfect shoulders.

“Mm? Oh I made some coffee!” chirps Phainon. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes soften, “Go on the couch babe, I’ll bring the coffee over.”

You blink, crossing your arms over your chest while your lips break into a quiet smile, “Alright. You sure you got it?”

Phainon rolls his eyes, you giggle.

“I got it, trust me.”

Phainon flashes another smile— it’s brighter, fuller, almost a bit childish.

Your heart swells.

You find your spot on the couch, bringing your knees to your chest while you rest your chin on top. You curl like a nautilus shell, simmering in golden light.

“Here you go.”

The smell of coffee— smooth, aromatic, and rich— wafts over you in thunderous ripples. Phanion winks, you raise an eyebrow.

“It’s your usual,” he pauses, smirking slightly, “I did it just as you wanted.”

“Really?” you smile incredulously, leaning forward while he settles into the couch, “How many—”

“One shot of expresso. Medium roast. And high pressure.”

Phanion grins. You take a sip of the coffee.

With each sip your body melts; rolling into the atmosphere in soft velvet wisps. The expresso shakes your tongue and tangos with the crema until the moment mellows away— but not before calling you back for another dance.

Phanion’s arm wraps around your body, pulling you closer.

“So…” he starts, turning his head to meet your face, “What do you think? I told you I’d do a good job—”

You press a kiss on his lips.

He can’t tell if the warmth is just from you, or the coffee which lingers faintly on your lips. Addictive and shamelessly beautiful.

“It tastes really good, Phainon.”

“Anything for you.”

It’s said without hesitation.

By the end of the week, you find yourself walking straight to the couch. Blanket draped over your body, hair still damp, and a freshly brewed cup of coffee in your right.

Like the sun sinking into the horizon, Phainon sits by your side, grinning senselessly.

The coffee station rarely see’s your face anymore.

masterlist.

COMMENTS: this was meant to be a part of a long fic but i honestly just wanted to post it now 🤷‍♀️. writing fluff feels like a good warm up. also i kept misspelling his name. these amphoreus names are going to be the death of me… sighs.

[moineauz]

JUST IMAGINE JING YUAN who has a picture of you— bright brilliant smile, glancing off at the passing starskiffs— in his chest pocket, right above his heart.

SO WHENEVER THE SEAT OF DIVINE FORESIGHT TIRES HIM… he reach’s into his pocket and stares deeply into that photograph: his eyes impossibly mellow matched only by a besotted smile.

The Master Diviner can only reprimand him so many times before even she grows tired from his antics! And that giddy teenage affection he holds only for you…

ITS WIDESPREAD KNOWLEDGE IN THE LUOFU (AND EVEN BEYOND) that the esteemed General of the Luofu can’t help but mention his wife at any given moment:

“Well you see, my wife is quite adept at-”

“Oh? Yes, all compliments go to my wife. She helped arrange the-”

“I have my wife to thank for-”

“She’s just lovely isn’t she?”

AND YOU… CAN’T MAKE HIM SHUT UP.

Jing Yuan smile, resting his elbows on the table, the Seat of Divine Foresight now empty. Pardon him and his wife.

You were seated by the other table, reading paperwork.

“Jing Yuan,” you call, eyes not leaving the paper.

“Hm? Yes love?”

“You should stop praising me in public,” you murmur, burying your subtly tinted cheeks in sheets of white paper, “It’s-”

“Embarrassing?” finishes Jing Yuan, who was now found behind your chair, his breath grazing the shell of your ear, “What is there to be embarrassed of dearest?”

You nearly jump, heaving a sigh as you continue to gaze ahead, ignoring his mischievous smile- the one you knew all too well. “Well, it’s unnecessary-”

“You’re not answering my question.”

He leans forward, gingerly reaching for your shoulders; gently rubbing each muscle with finite tenderness. The warmth of his breath matching your own.

You stay silent.

Jing Yuan’s eyebrows furrow, carefully, he guides your head to turn to him, his hand placed gently on your left cheek.

You surrender into his hand, heaving a deep tender sigh.

Your eyes flutter close, silence envelopes, your mouth opens, the words the emerge, quiet and slow.

“I don’t know how I can possibly be-” you stammer, your eyes, now open, gaze at your glimmering wedding ring, “The General’s wife.”

“You’re right.”

Your eyes widen.

He gingerly tilts your chin up, eyes now interlocked in bright golden hues, “I don’t know how you can possibly stay by my side… as insufferable and stubborn of a man I can be.”

Jing yuan continues, his voice lowering, “How you console and charm me,” he chuckles, leaning impossibly closer, “Come, let’s not waste the night here.”

Your lips part slightly, a tender smile forming, all your doubt withers away. “Alright. Home it is then.”

Jing Yuan sends a teasing smile, yet, his eyes betray him: mellow, soft, brimming with tender ardency and unfurling devotion.

He guides you to your feet, wrapping his arms around your waist, his warmth not departing from you. His eyes forever tracing the curves and edges of your visage.

“Yes. Home.”

note: i made this before bed sooo don’t mind me :)