{ # GET YOUR SCOOP BEFORE IT MELTS! 📸 } TODAY'S HEADLINE: LOCAL BAKER CLAIMS TO NOT HAVE A SWEET TOOTH?! “i like muffins though,” is all they have to say in defense. what irony! so preposterous! but here's some more details about them . . .
𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚 (she/any) 𖥔 18 𖥔 aventurine's lucky charm & ayato's princess 𖹭 𖥔 serving pastries for genshin impact + honkai star rail 𖥔 friendly but responses may take time ⋆˚₊⋆ 〜 feel free to look around and don't forget to do your daily click! ★
✦ 〜 「 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐒! 」
WHAT IS THE BAKER UP TO? happy 3rd anniv to this silly place!!! passing out balloons 🎈 🎈 + would you guys wait for me if i say i have things cooking in the oven
EXPLORE THE SHOP? about me (carrd). shop brochure (rules & info). menu (masterlists). taglist form. reveries in cups! (event).
ADMIRE THE SHOP'S DECO? navia pfp is official art. banners by me. dividers by @/magicalboything and @/firefly-graphics on tumblr. carrd tutorial by lovjbini on yt + sona art drawn by 🕸️ anon. desktop theme by @/xuethms on tumblr.
# A MESSAGE FROM THE BAKER 🗞️ . . . tw's are tagged as "#cw: [insert tw]"! e.g. #cw: leaks. please refrain from spam liking! asks, comments, or reblogs are preferred since spam likes may get me shadowbanned.
although more than capable of healing himself, mydeimos finds no harm in seeking out medical help for convenience — and when he does, it's almost always and only from you. { 1.2k words }
#STARRING. mydei & healer!reader (gn).
#GENRE. slice of life, fluff, established friendship with feelings.
#NOTES. set pre-3.1, mentions of a minor injury & treating it (pls forgive inaccuracies!), one brief instance of close proximity, mentions of phainon as a tool of banter which leads to jealous mydei, reader is a bit of a gremlin & a tease.
#THOUGHTS. my first try writing for amphoreus charas and it's mydei !!! :-) bcs the concept of him w/ a healer!reader is so hdhshfhs. this was also supposed to be shorter but i got carried away. pls enjoy reading this short drabble! 𖹭
Befitting of the Kremnoan pride he bears, it comes off as no surprise that MYDEI’s gaze is closely accompanied by smoldering heat that can scald those who dare to catch a mere glimpse.
But as he stands before you now with a hand over his wounded flesh, whatever flame that persistently lingers ablaze within his sunset eyes seems to have faded into something else... something more akin to avoidance.
Avoiding your gaze, more specifically.
At this point, the entrance to your small clinic might as well be considered a close friend of Mydei’s thanks to the many times he has paid this place a visit. For as often as his feet have stepped here though, it still gets annoyingly difficult to take even a single step inside when you're looking at him like that.
“This is the third time this week,” you let out a deep sigh. You aren't a fool. Obviously, the smooth cut of his injury and the prior ruckus you heard outside point to one thing: another argument-turned match between him and Phainon over... anything, really.
The disappointment in your voice doesn't bother to conceal itself and its presence alone is enough to cause the mighty warrior to flinch slightly. He doesn't question why the thought of disappointing you stings almost as much as his wounds do.
The pen in your hand has been put down, scribbled footnotes about patients are set aside, and your mind forsakes your papers in favor of addressing the looming presence at your door. Looming in appearance but not so much in attitude with the way he still refuses to look you in the eye.
"...I know,” Mydei grumbles. No resistance and no hostility, only acknowledgement towards this particular lecture of yours that he has heard several times before.
“I might have to start using webs as gauzes in the future,” you shake your head. “You and Phainon are going to be the reason I'll run low on medical supplies one of these days.”
This time, he frowns—a fearsome sight, if it weren't for how familiar you are with it in less than fearsome settings—not at you but at the issue proposed by your statement. Mydei glances around to scan your workspace and although it lasts briefly, his conclusion seems firm as he finally looks you in the eyes.
“...I'll bring it up with Aglaea next time,” he crosses his arms against his chest. Carefully, of course. Even with immortality running through his veins and his gradual numbness to the prickly touch of pain, he still can't risk getting a sharp glare from you for being inconsiderate towards his “bodily misery”.
There are times you think that Mydei can be considerate in his own way, though. Just like right now. “Oh, I jest,” you can't help the way your eyes soften around the edges. “I still have leftover supplies from the last time you did that. I'd rather not trouble her again.”
“Well then,” you quickly usher him to the empty chair near your desk before any sort of protest can escape from his mouth. “Allow me to take a look?”
He clicks his tongue—either at your act of rushing him or refusing his offer or both of them—but doesn't protest. Taking a step forward is already enough to indicate his agreement. One, two, three, four. . . exactly four steps from the doorway to reach the empty chair, a rhythm that Mydei doesn't even realize he's gotten used to.
You don't waste time getting to work as soon as he takes a seat. Following your routine, your eyes meticulously examine the wound on his skin to assess its qualities. The silence doesn't have the opportunity to stretch long as you pipe up with a particularly, frequently asked question.
“So, who won this time?” you hum as your hands deftly grab a few items off your shelf, moving on to cleaning his wound.
“Ha, as if you even need to ask,” Mydei proclaims haughtily. It's never not amusing to witness his inherent boldness resurface... after getting nagged, that is.
“Let me guess. Phainon won?” you deduce, but it's less of a deduction and more of an attempt to get on Mydei's nerves. The offended look he gives you afterwards is the exact reward you wish for.
“Don't try to be funny—” he shoots you a scowl, then hisses when you dab a damp washcloth to the area around his wound.
“Worth a try,” you smile amusedly before offering him a small apology. There is a tinge of guilt in your conscience for not giving him a heads-up about it. Cries of pain are never a melody to a healer's ears, after all. You direct your focus back to cleaning his injury, your movements more gentle: “Thankfully, your wound this time isn't as deep as your usual ones. The bleeding is also lessening faster than normal which I assume to be your ability at work,” you observe out loud.
“...Just say it's a curse,” he sighs. “No need to sugarcoat it, healer.”
“Different interpretations,” you counter.
“Whatever,” he relents, an indifference that is betrayed by his flushing cheeks. Hm, is it the heat? You're very sure all the windows in your clinic are ajar, though.
“Let me take one more look,” you scooch a little closer to inspect his injury again. The sudden shift in proximity effectively throws Mydei's senses into overdrive. He can quite literally smell the fragrance that sticks to your clothes with you this close. It only lasts for a few moments, however, and it's when you pull away that he realizes he's been holding his breath.
“Hey, you look like you're burning up,” you frown as you give him his space back. “A wound accompanied by a fever could indicate—”
“I'm fine,” his response is hastier than he would've preferred. Not enough to preserve the pieces of dignity he feels he has lost just now, but he can pick them up just fine.
“Alright then, would you like a kiss after?”
(Now, he really has to pick those pieces back up with his own bare hands.)
“I— what?”
Mydei looks at you as if you've lost your mind, as if the black tide has materialized out of nowhere to help you accomplish that.
“After I wrap up your wound,” you explain, trying your utmost best not to keel over from laughter right then and there. You know what you're doing. “Children ask me for them all the time. Says it helps with their recovery.”
Mydei can't even choose which aspect of this absolute incredulity he should address first: the logic (or lack thereof) in the sentence itself or the sheer audacity you have to ask him that. Amidst his loss for a response he deems proper, the only thing he can manage to utter is this: “Never suggest something so preposterous ever again.”
You ignore the horror in his voice in favor of fueling the flames a little more. “Not even to Phainon?” you ask, just a tiny bit goading.
“Especially him,” he snarls, “unless you want me to hurl him at death's door myself.”
“Duly noted.”
Ironically, Mydeimos thinks you are going to be the death of him someday. If that's even possible.
─ ⊹ ⊱ ・・・・・・☆・・・・・・・⊰ ⊹ ─
— THANK YOU FOR READING! another reminder: please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.
aventurine can't stand having his outfit exposed to the elements nor to the rude hands of clients that won't cooperate – luckily for him, he has you to take care of it all. { aventurine with a bodyguard!reader. }
⎯ fluff & angst. 2.9k wc. headcanons w/ some written scenes. the plot is vv subtle but it's there a.k.a aventurine simps for you (jokingly) but you both end up catching feelings (not jokingly). mentions of violence, death & russian roulette. pre-penacony timeline. a self-indulgent piece to celebrate this blog's 2nd anniv! ★
aventurine who graciously welcomes you under his employment with a game. just a little something to ease your nerves and get you used to his ways. you look at him with such incredulity as if he just fell and hit his head silly. he pays no mind to this – finds it to be amusing a great deal, actually. keep it up, newcomer!
“heads or tails?” he asks, flipping a coin in the air and catching it seamlessly. a routine for him, you would've figured from the sight. “that's. . . an odd way of saying hello,” you point out but your tone bears no hint of protest. he notices that.
“i've heard that one before,” aventurine tilts his head with a smile, nonchalant. “so what's your guess?”
“tails,” you reply without any delay. it's a mindless answer; getting it wrong this way would prove to bear less disappointment compared to putting actual thought in it. “heads for me then,” he whistles.
aventurine opens his palm. it's heads. you frown as if to suspect foul play—but you don't because you know about his notoriously good luck—and your new boss chuckles, almost placatingly.
“looks like i win,” he grins without a care in the world at all. “aren't you starving? let's fetch ourselves a meal, friend.”
a loss rewarded with a prize? you blink. with grace so in contrast to the whiplash you feel, aventurine walks past you with a trail of expensive perfume in his wake. obviously, he expects you to follow and you do after a moment's reluctance.
(this guy is more confusing than the stellaron.)
aventurine who grows quite fond of seeing you acquiesce to his wishes, whether serious or trivial. could you ward off those reporters? could you pour him a drink? could you play a game of poker with him? could you join him for lunch? you're always so professional that he starts to find some mirth in pushing your buttons (never too much). unlucky for you, he does it to be affectionate and lucky for him, you always say yes even if you roll your eyes every single time.
aventurine who trusts you with his credit card. . . to a worrying degree. when asked if he's sure about this, he just waves it off and says it'll be safer in your hands. seriously, this card has been in your possession longer than it's ever been in his. sometimes, he does ask for it back – only to drop some 200k credits to your account. “a tip for doing a good job,” he'd wink casually while you're flabbergasted beyond belief.
aventurine who finds it extremely attractive whenever you step in to protect him from harm. dealing with uncooperative clients is a day in his life, yet some are so brutish they resort to getting physical – but he has you to make sure their hands stay off him. a gun in his direction? knocked off before the trigger even has a chance to get pulled. reaching out to grab him by the collar? they're already on the ground, your foot threateningly pressed on their back as a warning. what a dashing sight – and thanks to you, his pristine outfit has been saved more times than he could count at this point.
aventurine who likes to call you his “knight in shining armor” teasingly. awh, you don't like it? he thinks you're more than deserving of that title with the way you always swoop in to get him out of trouble. if the thousands of credits he gives you aren't enough yet, won't a cute title suffice? “it sounds corny,” you tell him with a grimace—and maybe, yes—but he just chirps coyly, “dunno. i think it's fitting.”
aventurine who makes it his responsibility to check on you after a rough mission. credits are no problem, he'd even reserve the most expensive private doctor in the cosmos if that means you'll recover faster. sadly, he has little to no medical skills – so the most he can offer you is bandages. sure, you can take a bullet to the stomach and handle a punch or two, that's your job, but what about tiny scratches? . . .don't tell him you're about to reject his kind offer.
“what's your favorite color?” he queries, somewhat out of the blue considering the situation where he is helping you tend to a minor cut on your finger. you raise an eyebrow, “why do you wanna know?” as he gently plasters a plain-colored bandage on your skin (which he's only been granted permission to after minutes of begging you to let him do it).
“for the bandages,” aventurine answers. he finds no need to hide his intentions as he runs a thumb over the bandage, softly as to not hurt you, to keep its position secure. “so that the next time you ask, i'll have some in your favorite color for sure.”
“how. . . thoughtful of you,” you snort, amused.
(briefly, he resists the urge to ask if he can place a kiss on your cut for 'luck'. but if he does, you might have his head. so, he'll try another time.)
aventurine who slowly begins to find a sense of comfort in your company. maybe, it's the way you scoff at his quips with a smile or the way you always tell him to be careful. maybe, it's the way you take him seriously or the way you stay by his side—is your job description the only reason why?—or maybe, he's just pathetic and reeks of so much loneliness you feel sympathetic. he can't tell, but he hopes the luxuries he has can persuade you to stay just a little longer. even if you don't actually care. (you do.)
aventurine who notices how anxiety brims in your gaze when you watch him gamble at the table – with a sum too high to be considered sane and sometimes, his own life. he can see it all; how your hands shake as if you want to reach out, how your lips tremble as if you want to tell him to stop. but this is what he's made for, is it not? he'll survive one way or another. . . until fate decides the bill for all his past good fortune is finally due. and when the time comes, he'll be ready for it. (will you?)
a game of russian roulette.
it always starts with thrills only to end with carnage spilled all over the table. luck is the only thing worth praying for at that point and oh, is luck not the dearest friend aventurine ever had? hence the reason why he always agrees, not with a yes but with a “why not?”.
you're there as his protector, yet utterly condemned to the role of a witness as soon as aventurine nods along to that darned game. panic rushes through your veins as the gun is passed around so relaxedly, so easily with laughter all around. aventurine's next in line, you realize grimly. the next decision that comes after is spontaneous, so different from your usual calculated nature – you drag him out of the casino in a frenzy before the weapon even lands in his hand. in your head, there is no other thought louder than: he could've died.
“a shame i didn't get to the fun part,” you hear him hum from behind you, too disturbingly calm for your liking. the bustling noises inside the establishment have all but faded into the background. “that was close, hm?” he laughs, a sound you would've found endearing if this was another occasion. any occasion that doesn't involve teetering dangerously on the precipice of death.
you stop in your tracks and aventurine, behind you, naturally follows. your silence is something he first takes note of and the way your hand shakes as it holds his is the second. you still haven't let go. what's going through your mind? he calls out your name softly, perplexed at your lack of explanation.
“. . .why did you say yes?” you respond with a bitter question. “you could've died. you almost died,” you try to hold back a shout – yet, your words are spat in such a fusillade he feels a seed of guilt starting to bloom inside his lifeless heart. he discards it in favor of putting on a frivolous smile.
“oh, relax,” he lets out a chuckle, one that sounds so ignorant of the taut tension in the air. “it's just some russian roulette. why so serious?” he shrugs as if to physically brush off any seriousness clinging to his figure. his remark gives off the assumption that every single hint of your worry has flown over his head.
“it is serious. . .” you bite your bottom lip. he sneers in return, “yeah? since when?” as if to challenge you to give an actual answer. his life is full of risks, to say otherwise would be a lie. “you're sweet for worrying but you don't actually care about me that much, do you?” he snickers to himself. like the thought of your caring about him can't possibly be true, like it's all just a terrible joke.
but he's the only one laughing.
aventurine falls quiet and finally, genuinely meets your gaze for the first time that night. he doesn't like what he sees. your lips are downturned, unamused and saddened—you do care, a realization that has been left unsaid—and all remainders of levity in him are replaced by immediate dread. it only now registers that the anger, concern, frustration on your face are for him; they're the unavoidable consequences from caring about him.
(his eyes widen. no, no, no.)
“c'mon, you—” he covers it up with a carefree smile, as feigned as it came. he shoves his hand in one of his pockets. it's shaking. “. . .worry too much. you've seen me play a handful of games before. i've never lost a wager, remember?”
you don't look convinced at all. in fact, you look as if you've arrived at the brink of seething. “and if you do? for once in your life, you lose?” you prod him for more. for something, for anything – perhaps, for a promise that he won't do it again.
(but you know aventurine, you know there would be no such promise.)
“then i lose,” he says, final and resigned. “there's really nothing else to it,” he tries to offer you another smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “hey. at least, you'll be there to witness my spectacular fall, right? it'll be a show to remember.”
he nearly doesn't manage to keep up the façade. it's already as precarious as it can be. you don't reply to him this time – instead, you let go of his hand to wipe at your cheeks. his gaze trails after your fingers and it freezes upon seeing the pearly tears falling free from your eyes.
aventurine has never seen you cry before. you're always so stone-faced, so hard to break that he recalls almost cheering when he heard you laugh for the first time. that was when you finally won a round of poker against him. a pity, he would've reminisced about the memory more. . . if only the matter of losing and winning a game isn't as serious as it is now.
“don't say that,” you mutter, harshly wiping away at the incessant tears pouring from your eyes more than you'd ever allow them to. some make their way into your mouth, they taste just as bitter as your current frustration. does he truly value his life so little? you can't fathom it, you can't fathom him at all.
but there is one thing you were certain of, at the very least: “you hired me to protect you,” you shake your head unrelentingly, “so i'll do it. until you throw me away, i won't let you die.”
you've stopped crying then. aventurine feels remorse; the tears that you shed because of him are starting to dry. the selfish part of him wants to reach out and brush them away with his thumb – but would you let him? would this lead you further down the rabbit hole that is him? in the end, he decides against it.
“. . .i'm sorry,” he sighs instead, raking a hand through his messy blond hair. whatever it is he is apologizing for, he doesn't have a clue either. he lets his eyes slip shut. he can't bear to look at you, can't bear to look at his pitiful reflection in your eyes.
(he's not worth caring about, can't you see? he dances hand in hand with death – there is no need to subject yourself to being a spectator.)
the two of you then part ways that night with shallow pleasantries on your tongues. no inside jokes, no evident yearning for the other to stay, no more than an awkward exchange of “i'll see you tomorrow.”
on his way 'home', regret and relief clash to form something inexplicably hollow inside kakavasha's chest. he wanted to wipe away your tears—what a regret—but if he did, they would've burned on his skin and became another mark to haunt him—what a relief he didn't. and frankly, if destiny is about to reap his debt, he'd rather go with no regrets at all.
whether those regrets include you? he doesn't have an answer just yet.
(the name at the bottom of his contract with fate is signed as kakavasha. but you wouldn't recognize that name. not as him, at least.)
aventurine whose eyes can't flutter close at night ever since thoughts of you fill his mind more than they already do before. you care for him, you want him to live—all his fault, he allowed himself to get too close—but these realizations are rooted in too deep and refuse to leave. what to do, what to do, what to do?
it isn't supposed to turn out like this.
what he and you have is meant to be transactional; he'd be spared from unnecessary scuffles and you'd be compensated with monetary payment. he means to keep it superficially fun; for him to tease you with jests—so you'd stay and save him from the deafening silence in his head—and for you to dismiss him with that adorably annoyed look on your face. just some silly banter, that's it.
so then, since when are there rounds of poker where he'd coo over your frown when you lost? or the sound of your lecturing after he secretly got you a high-end item? or meals shared together where you'd bicker over the bill? or bandages in your favorite color kept inside his bedside table? since when do you start to care? . . .since when does he start to care?
think of something else.
kakavasha tosses and turns in his bed, but the soft pillows and blanket do nothing to quell these bothers of his. are feelings always this complicated? he places a hand over his eyes, tired and exhausted, and stares at the ceiling as if it could provide him with an answer.
but there's no use.
in a moment void of logical thinking, he reaches for his phone and hovers a finger over your name in his contacts. he is usually good friends with bad ideas – but not this time, he sets his phone down and lets out a frustrated sigh that only his expensive pillows are there to hear.
(for gaiathra's sake, he hasn't even told you his real name yet.)
aventurine who becomes awfully distant the next time he sees you. you accompany him to meetings with clients per usual, but it's different. . . he talks to you succinctly, not verbosely with that trademark grin of his. his face is bereft of the things you grow to like seeing on him. a sincere smile instead of one just for show, for example. but even that's difficult to ask for since he only speaks to fill the silence with empty chatter. he doesn't look you in the eyes either; you feel a pang of hurt, you've always loved his eyes.
aventurine who discards all thoughts of you as soon as he steps inside pier point to be assigned a project. a conclave between the stonehearts is a matter of top confidentiality and you, dutifully, are ordered to wait for him outside the office. though, he'll admit; your absence by his side actually does leave a gaping void—such hypocrisy, really—but at least, those pesky voices in his head know how to shut up when it comes to work.
“penacony. . . is diamond finally ready to do something about it?”
aventurine rests his left hand on the small of his back, fiddling with the clubs-shaped detailing on the fabric there. it looks like an act of idleness from afar, but anyone observant enough would know it's a way to subdue whatever nerves he wishes to hide.
he waits for the person in front of him, gazing at the purplish-red sky of pier point at sunset, to speak. for their next words shall mark the start of his next journey in fate's course.
aventurine who hesitates to let you come to penacony with him at first. but it'd be poor reasoning not to, since some might have a bone to pick with him as the corporation's representative. . . and he knows you'll protest to come with anyway. fine then, situationship discomfiture be damned – not even a second after he steps out of the meeting, his neon eyes finally meet yours. “so, how does a trip to penacony sound?” he announces with a confident smile. you blink, noticing how his lips are wobbling at the sides. you don't say no, however. (if only the two of you know what sort of ride you're getting yourselves into.)
— thanks for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. why don't we all sob over this man like it's a cryfest ♡
⎯ there is a certain touch of beauty to witnessing a side of theirs revealed to you so naturally. it becomes as easy as breathing if you just let it happen... so, will you? ( or in other words, a way you enable them to be themselves. )
#STARRING. aventurine, dr. ratio, sunday, dan heng ft. gn!reader. { 4.2k words }
#TAGS. fluff, established relationship. more: minor spoilers for aven's backstory (described mostly abstractly), ratio is referred to by his first name, i called sunday a nerd (sorry), dr. ratio & dan heng are certified workaholics.
#P/S. i think i may have yapped a little considering the word count but i hope it ends up being a good kind of yapping. tysm for reading! ♡
will you let aventurine hold you close when he sleeps? . . . whether it's an arm slung over your hips or his nose buried in your shoulder or fingers tracing shapes onto your skin. he doesn't ask for too much; only that you grant him the permission to cradle you in his arms, somewhere within his reach. it's a habit, he hopes you don't mind.
you have to wonder, though. considering the plenitude of pillows on the bed, why do his hands still seek you out? with all the credits he spent on those cotton-stuffed angels, you thought aventurine would relish them a bit more. but ah-ah, see? that is where you're wrong. sure, the pillows are extremely comfy but he always has a preference for things with much, much more value.
and the truth — well, his truth — is that even the softest cushions from oti mall couldn't compare to the privilege of laying his head on your chest, he'd say. especially when you brush his hair with your fingers - oh, one of the easiest ways to paradise. truly, the best value there is! can you blame a man for being honest and a little lovesick?
(“sappy,” you accuse. he pouts, offended.)
but aventurine has a flair for theatrics, you know that. his witty quips are as feather-light in weight as light-hearted they are in intent. but his touch - in the forms of kind caresses or rhythmic taps to a tune from his forgotten culture - lingers on your skin, with a yearning so heavy. you question whether it could be nostalgia or instead, silent awe at a reality he never imagined could ever be his.
(kakavasha remembers. clinging onto you for warmth like he once did to his sister, falling asleep with her prayers to mama fenge in his ears. the avgins believed gaiathra triclops to be the symbol of humility; so naturally, their prayers to her should also be humble, not too quiet but not too loud. all in moderation. for a frail child like him, those gentle prayers alone were enough to let him drift into a dreamless slumber and to ignore the shackles of reality if not for the briefest moments.
time passed. came a time where the melody he associated with slumber was no longer a soft voice lulling him but pure static, a noise to distract his mind from the chains around his wrists. they burned themselves onto his skin, searing, but he was already too familiar with the sensation to care. the mark on his neck was unwelcome, laughing at him, but he too laughed at his own pitiful reflection so what's the difference, anyway?
time passed again, the call of slumber then turned into clattering noises of chips doused in gold and dice thrown onto a surface. he thought it'd stay that way forever but before long, it morphed into up-and-down waves he couldn't decipher initially. they're gentle, faint like a human's breathing: your breathing as you allowed him to lie beside you for the first time, he realized back then. although he deems himself unworthy, an ugly grime on your pristine existence that still insists on cradling him — but despite it all, he finds this last melody to be his favorite so far.)
✧ a moment among the stars:
ticklish.
the sensation, minor yet still impactful enough, causes you to stir out of sleep. the light of noon greets your eyes and you become vaguely cognizant that the root of it all is the tufts of blond hair brushing against your neck.
there is a solid weight on your torso and a pair of slender arms loosely wrapped around your waist - but they're nothing you haven't grown used to. you comb your fingers through the messy locks licking at your skin, instinctively, and the fragrant scent of what you register as penacony's limited edition perfume kisses your nose.
“...ugh, what system time is it?” you let out a grunt, shifting around slightly to let your limbs breathe. you don't get an answer to your question, instead, aventurine's arms reestablish their hold on you. hooking you closer to him as if to wring out whatever proximity is left, if there is even any. his simple proclamation of “who cares?”, in a sense.
there it is again, that ticklish feeling. you feel soft lips grazing feather-like kisses against your collarbone. oh, he definitely isn't letting go just yet. truly merciless, a dozy morning thought accompanied by your tired sigh. the noise still comes out fond, however, so your feigned act of annoyance is fooling no one.
“it's warm, you know,” you grumble. but the yawn escaping your mouth right after betrays whatever stern image you're trying to adopt. not like you can ever be too stern with him. aventurine knows this, yes, and he gives you an A+ for effort each time.
“mhm,” he finally speaks, snuggling into your chest with no care about anything in the world, “g'morning to you too, lovely.”
his favorite mornings aren't his favorite if not thanks to your innocuous complaints and delightful attempts at pushing his pretty face away, no? a lazy grin graces the stoneheart's lips and eyes like exquisite gems, although sleepy, flutter open to gaze at you languidly. he takes the sight of you in then lets out a sigh - a fond noise just like yours earlier; the both of you really are two peas of a pod.
you must look a terrible mess right now and yet, the sight of you has aventurine smiling dazedly. “ah, what a spectacular sight. i really am the luckiest man in the galaxy,” he hums in approval. you want to roll your eyes but stops as he leans up to pepper (ah, one necessary correction: smother) kisses all over your face, arms dragging you closer to his chest like a cage. your eyes widen comically. what a nefarious trap, he has the advantage!
every remnant of sleepiness clinging to your mind evaporates. you squeal with laughter, shoving at his shoulder using the strength of a baby deer because no, you don't really want him to stop. he knows that too, of course.
“mwah, mwah, mwah—”
“pfft...! kakavasha, i can't breathe!”
(he has half a mind to pinch his skin, as if to remind himself that this is real. he can feel your giggles tickling his skin as if to tell him in return: yes, you are.)
will you let veritas pour his heart out after a long day? . . . well, that could count as too much of an overstatement. others say, “that man is like a brick wall!” some more dare to whisper, “doesn't his temper already exhaust whatever emotional quota he has?!” needless to say, everyone knows that dr. ratio is a man ruled by the mind, not by the heart. alright, that's quite true - but does that imply he has discarded the latter altogether? if so, then you beg to differ.
(not in the literal sense, of course! the heart is a vital organ of the body. saying otherwise would be akin to spitting on his shiny phd in biology... or his seven other phd's at that.)
the pedestal which the public places veritas ratio on reaches still great heights, even if it may not rival an ivory tower a member of the genius society resides in. it is so high up that mundane troubles of those below can't reach a genius like him, surely? well, as tall as he stands - somehow, the universe grants you a front row seat for a particular sight that proves otherwise.
if only they knew the doctor has a habit of mumbling these incomprehensible (more like barely intelligible) grumbles under his breath, striking a resemblance similar to a grumpy old cat. if you strain your ears hard enough, you might catch a “...this has to be it...” or “...i dare not think so...” from time to time as he roams around the room with materials in his hands.
(absurd, people would say. but you think it's extremely cute.)
veritas doesn't say it out loud - but you can tell by the hunch in his stiff shoulders, by the one or two sighs he huffs every six minutes - that he is itching to tell somebody of all the tomfooleries he has encountered today. of course, the topics he laments about vary; it's only when you hear him exhaling the loudest sigh that you get to find out.
mostly though, it's about his students and remarks on how they can further improve their performance — sure, he could phrase it a little gentler — but you still find it sweet that he cares. if not that, then it'd be about indolent colleagues, complicated formulae and more. on some days, he'll even let out an exasperated “truly mind-boggling! could you believe that?” to which you'd reply with an “uh-huh, go on.”
at the end of a ranting session, veritas takes careful note to leave a kiss on your person afterward. no matter where it is - on the lips, the cheek or your hand. no matter where you are - sitting on the couch beside him, behind the kitchen counter or across the room. the warmth that stays on your skin when he pulls away is somewhat tingly. appreciative, you think, especially when he looks at you with such loving eyes that his colleagues would be sure to retch in shock if they were a witness.
looks like you are right on the money; he has never discarded his heart, after all. so yes, to rephrase - will you lend veritas a listening ear when he needs it?
✧ a moment among the stars:
“...yet another headache.”
as unsubtle as ever, the doctor's complaint is barely hidden behind the guise of a mumble. those neatly styled violet bangs of his aren't doing an excellent job at concealing that frown strewn across his forehead either. veritas's posture is tense, a dead giveaway, as he goes over the piles of documents on his desk.
you cock an eyebrow upon seeing the stamp belonging to the intelligentsia guild on one of the papers. definitely work. it has been two system hours since he took a seat at the work desk, you concur, or lifted a finger to do something besides flipping through drafts. a mere glance at the stack of documents is enough to convince you that those researchers at the guild must really value veritas's input.
a perk of being a genius, maybe? the phantom of a weight lands alight on your shoulders. with a mug of black coffee in hand, you make your way to him. your footsteps are without a sound, only the noise of porcelain being placed down onto woodenware is enough to announce your arrival. “rough day at work?” you ask, peering down at his progress.
(a doctor's handwriting really is something. you resist the urge to squint.)
veritas doesn't seem to mind. if the way he smiles at the sight of you, albeit tiredly, is any indication. “hah,” he rests a hand on his temple and scoffs wryly, “so much grievances like you wouldn't believe.”
oh, he is teetering on the precipice of a tangent but stops himself. “...fret not, i'm fine. this is hardly something beyond my expertise,” he shakes his head, the motion causing his reading glasses to slide down a smidgen down the bridge of his nose.
you're too familiar with the self-assured bravado he puts on. you're quite endeared, actually. “okay, mr. i-require-no-rest,” you take the glasses off his face and he breaks into a frown. at the childish tone you're using or for having his reading glasses taken away, you don't know.
“why don't you take a little break?” you suggest. veritas sighs, “need i remind you that dilly-dallying is for fools who wish to waste their time?” and crosses his arms defiantly. he knows your strategy, he has come face-to-face with it several times.
“do you think a break with me is a waste of time?” you present him with a rhetorical question, quite the difficult adversary.
(and he keeps losing to it every single time.)
“well, that's—” the doctor nearly splutters, taken aback. “that's different if you insist on inserting yourself as a variable,” he infers, putting emphasis on the last part accompanied by an incredulous look.
“the answer is up for debate then,” you shrug with a cheeky smile. your hand then deftly lifts the mug you previously set down to your lips, veritas's eyes dilate in bewilderment. “so,” you hum at the rich taste of your handiwork, “wanna tell me about your day? haven't heard about the council in a while.”
“you—” he gasps in defeat, “i thought that was supposed to be my mug of coffee.”
(he has a slight pout on his face, but you dare not point it out lest it disappears in the blink of an eye.)
“our mug of coffee,” you take a few more sips with an innocent decadence. “all is fair in love and war, doctor.”
“i can never win with you,” he buries his face in his palm with a groan. you laugh heartily, a sound that chimes like quaint little bells in his ears - it elicits a reaction from his lips, for them to quirk up at the corners in the smallest of ways.
“regardless. . .” veritas relents and reaches for your free hand. you let him. “it seems a break wouldn't be so amiss, after all,” he then presses a kiss on the side of your wrist, affectionate.
(your heart skips a beat.)
will you let sunday regale you with facts you've never heard of before? . . . a man of eloquent words, no less a man of educated mind. you have no doubt that the books in the dewlight pavilion really aren't just there for show - not that you're allowed to browse through them at your own desire. a servant's voice would stop you in your tracks should your fingers ever brush against something in the family's secret bookshelf.
how mysterious.
but sunday makes it known to the staff that you, in particular, are allowed more access to the shelves - perhaps, not too much - but more than even mr. mccoy, at least. with the way you have to crane your neck far up to pinpoint the tallest height that the shelves reach, you wonder: has sunday gone through everything here personally?
your immediate answer is most likely. you know sunday fairly well; to have something that he hasn't scrutinized from the inside out in his possession will surely gnaw away at his psyche incessantly. not being in the know at all times is a looming fear for him. but of course, you have other ways to confirm the answer for yourself.
pick out a book from a shelf there, either intentional or purely arbitrary, and watch as sunday carefully traces his steps towards you. his curiosity is piqued, which topic has caught your interest this time? but he tucks it under proper cordiality. with a hand behind his back, he'd utter your name in the softest tone and ask the familiar question of “would you like to know more?” — asking for your permission to ramble, essentially — you find this tendency of his to be charming, so you nod each time.
(and he smiles when you do. a smile less refined at the edges, kinder and relaxed.)
the best place to start from is always the beginning. you think sunday agrees because he often starts by telling you the history and its origins before moving on to its impact on the galaxy, then his personal stance on the topic. it's a pattern, you notice, his ramblings have a pattern. and it's consistent every time, you might've believed he was reading off a script. and what's more? sunday is blissfully oblivious of it.
fascinating. you ponder: what kind of things you can do with this information? decisions, decisions, decisions. . . but ultimately, you opt for keeping it a secret like a treasure only you're allowed to see.
(that might be true in a way. you don't doubt that robin, his dear sister, is familiar with this side of him. does that mean he treasures you like he does her? your chest starts to feel a bit lighter.)
if you were to point it out, you fear you might never witness it again - goodness, to know that he has been displaying such foolishness or rather, what he viewed as an embarrassing freudian slip in front of you? his wings might as well resort to covering his face for good until the end of time.
as you listen to him talk (with such elegance at that), you can't help whatever tender look you have on your face. really, who would've thought the head of the oak family could be such. . . a nerd?
(you hope in secret that sunday will be more willing to show sides like these to you in the future. and that they're not a weakness at all, not when they're shared with you.)
✧ a moment among the stars:
“it looks like you're fascinated by the dreamscape nursery rhyme this time.”
sunday spares the article in your hold no further inspection. one glance at the cover and walls of memorized information rush to the front of his mind. he looks familiar with it; could it be a part of his childhood too? but then again, everything found here is within his knowledge.
“i am,” you say with intrigue, “it got me ruminating for a while.”
you meet his gaze, stumbling upon yellow irises that glimmer akin to gold under penaconian chandeliers. you think you see a hint of affection in them, swimming around your reflection like a school of fish in a pond. it makes you smile.
he smiles back, oblivious to your thoughts but returns your gesture. he asks, “how so?” and you reply without delay, “i read through it and the morbid undertone took me by surpri—”
or at least, it's supposed to be without delay until you realize sunday has stepped closer in order to peer down at the page you're holding open. and suddenly, you're extremely aware of every minute detail like how his breath brushes against the side of your cheek and how his chest rumbles as he hums in acknowledgement.
(you flush in the neck and he perceives this reaction of yours with mirth.)
“my apologies,” sunday chuckles and pulls away, “i've simply forgotten the rhyme and wished to refresh my memory.”
“somehow, i feel that isn't the case...” you mumble accusingly. that seems to amplify whatever little amusement he gets from flustering you. “oh, my dove. i can assure you that it is,” he caresses your head, a little placatingly.
most times, sunday isn't so laidback about giving affection in public — since he has an image to maintain — so you assume the fact that the servants are out and about, leaving only you and him here, plays a role in his unusual boldness. you accept the gesture with a bashful pout.
“now, where were we?” sunday clears his throat, “ah, yes. some people have noted on the nursery rhyme's strange quality but still, it retains its popularity in penacony. it is also widely assumed that the hound resembles the bloodhound family while—”
you hold back an amused sigh, but it's more out of fondness than anything. he'll start from the history then the effect on the general public, as per usual, but you're not the only predictable one here. you'd listen to him anytime too, won't you?
(you do adore when the head of the oak family would put off his public figure mask around you. if only for just a while.)
will you let dan heng rest his head on your lap when it's just you two? . . . the sense of comfort it provides isn't something he can explain with words. as if he has ever been good with words in the first place. saying a sentence bereft of logical reasoning or witty remarks doesn't come easily to the express’ guard. neither does intimacy. . . but you know that already, don't you?
after all, it isn't a secret that dan heng prefers speaking with his actions. if to show one's intentions is the end goal, then actions are the fastest route to choose. words, although able to sweeten the trip like how a beautiful scenery can, will eventually lead to actions regardless so why take the extra step?
but you're different from him; you articulate what you think and what you mean. you're honest in ways that keep catching dan heng off guard without fail — just like the first time you offered your empty lap to him when his head was swirling in pain — but he supposes that is one of your charms. “words can be useful. we're not all born mind readers,” you told him once and he hummed, accepting of your perspective.
(“look at you two! opposites attract!” march chirped. he recalled shooting her a look of indignation and she rubbed the back of her head sheepishly in response.)
dan heng has learnt to grow used to your propensities - but by far, your shameless invitations are still one matter that can't be comprehended even with time. he cannot understand; how you smile as you sit on his futon in the archives (he doesn't mind), how you link gazes with him so effortlessly, how you pat your lap knowingly and say, “why don't you rest your head here?”
(he has to restrain himself from bursting into flames like a heliobus.)
sometimes, he'll accept reluctantly or he'll decline with an underlying tone of longing he doesn't want you to notice. because as much of a good hold dan heng has on nonchalance, he cannot deny that this particular gesture of yours has left a mark on him.
(it remains persistently.)
when he rests his head on your lap, he can't help but take a deep inhale - your fragrance fills his senses and he discards the selfish desire to keep it all to himself. your fingers are soothing as they thread through his hair gently. the feeling that washes over him is serene, almost comparable to submerging himself in the pure waters of scalegorge waterscape.
when overcome by such a tranquil state of mind, dan heng wonders what expression he might be making at that moment? he always keeps his eyes closed, so it's a shame he may never know. but you do, and you don't think you've ever seen him look so at peace before like he does now.
(perhaps, that's why you keep offering him this in the first place.)
✧ a moment among the stars:
“someone looks tired,” you state with a pointed stare. the archives isn't a room too spacious and the only ones here are you and him. the target of your sentence is obvious.
but dan heng doesn't take the bait, barely looks away from the entry he is currently authoring. still, he spares you a glance and hums glibly, “are you projecting? if so, feel free to use my bed in the meantime.”
you let out a noise, something gibberish that conveys disappointment but it is effectively drowned out by the typing noises. “you haven't even touched the food i bought you,” your voice becomes mellow, “why don't you rest for a while?”
he isn't convinced, you think, since his fingers are still hard at work. the new info the team brought back must've been a lot if he's that focused.
“dan heng?” you try again, hopeful for the last time. you don't take him for a fool, of course, he'll know when he reaches his limit and have proper rest then. but would that really be ideal? a second passes and that hope flickers like a dimming light. but just an inch before the edge of giving up, the typing slows to a stop.
“. . .alright,” he murmurs. finally, after a good hour spent drawing patterns on his backside with your eyes, dan heng turns around to face you. he look tense, you note with abject concern.
“here,” you usher him to your lap, empty and conveniently so. dan heng shoots you a blank look - this isn't the first time you offered and this isn't the first time he reacted like that. you try to suppress a laugh, failing gloriously at it. “just for a little bit,” you utter through a stifled fit of chuckles.
dan heng shakes his head, not in rejection but in defeat. his eyes slip close, second nature, as he leans to situate his head on your lap. you welcome him with a hum and let your fingers card through his hair. a calm sigh falls from his lips like a water droplet in springtime.
“this. . . is nice,” he admits, sudden and unprompted. you nearly doubt your ears for a moment there. did he— “i don't hate it is, uhm, what i mean to say,” dan heng adds and it dawns on you that your ears are still working. his eyes are still closed, not that you'd expect anything else, he prefers to treat it as a shield from being face-to-face with embarrassment.
(or to avoid your ecstatic gaze. he can feel warmth rushing to his cheeks already.)
“i know,” you smile, brushing away a few messy strands from his forehead. he isn't an open book but you think you've read the pages enough to remember all the little details. “but thanks for telling me. i'm no mind reader but i think i can read yours pretty well.”
“i shall provide no further comment,” he holds back an incredulous exhale, yet his lips still curl slightly at the corner. you feel the teeniest desire to trace the curve of his lips with your fingertip but settle for silently admiring them instead.
“it's fine. i know the answer already,” you say, words dripping with affection. such a shame dan heng never looks up at you during a time like this. because if he did, he wouldn't have missed seeing the sheer fondness in your gaze that rains down on him in light showers. a true shame.
(one day, he'll gather the courage. maybe.)
— thank you for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. ♡
✦ how can you tell? (of how easily i fall at your feet.)
⎯ oh, how love bleeds from just one gesture. ( some telltale signs that they might've fallen for you. )
#STARRING. neuvillette, wriothesley & lyney ft. gn!reader. { 2.4k words }
#TAGS. sfw, fluff & crack, major pining (!!!). more: neuvi has 1 extra part bcs i realized too late, wrio is a rascal /aff, lynette is a professional wingwoman here (everyone, applaud!!), mentions of various fontaine npc's.
#P/S. pardon my rusty writing and ideas but alas, may i entice you with some fontaine gentlemen on this fine day?? (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ) ੭
⎯ neuvillette's love is subtle, hidden behind a veil of formal courtesy. the iudex is the nation's symbol of impartiality; personal relationships, a common factor of inciting bias in one's judgement, are to be sifted through wisely. he can choose which he ends up keeping, yet he cannot choose which he ends up wanting. what of a relationship he desires but cannot keep? a conundrum but still, his affections for you seep through the crevices.
it's in the way. . . your name becomes a beloved among the melusines, you wonder why?
it goes without saying that every citizen of fontaine acknowledges melusines to be friendly creatures. all of them are sweethearts! ...but is it you or is there some form of hidden favoritism here?
for some reason, they always seem to go out of their ways to greet you on the streets. a “hello, mx. [name]!” from the right then a “good day, mx. [name]!” from the left. maybe a “stay safe, mx. [name]!” on days when it's crowded too... you're starting to think the quota of greetings you receive is much bigger than everyone else.
before long, even your arms are getting piled up with favors. one ticket for a seat in the opera epiclese from aeife, a slice of cake from sedene, some high-quality butter from muirne, a free beverage from menthe — you lost count of the freebies you've received already.
what's going on? it is as if there's a badge of approval from someone just hanging over your head. visible to a melusine's eyes, but not to yours. (you've heard that melusines perceive things differently than humans, though.)
but who are you to complain? you're not immune to their contagious smiles each time you pass by. on some days, you even entertain the thought that they are more familiar with you than you are with them. all in a humorous sense, of course.
ironically enough, this theory wouldn't take long to ring true: having received a bouquet of your favorite dessert from café lutece on your birthday from kiara, this coincidence only feeds into your suspicion even more.
a considerate gesture but surely, they don't do this for everyone? you don't recall ever telling your usual order and birthdate to a melusine before. your mind scrambles around for a memory you might've missed. who could've—
“oh, yes... i almost forgot,” kiara holds her chin in thought. “monsieur neuvillette says to send you his regards,” she nods, relieved that the message did not make its narrow escape from her mind. but blissfully unaware of the impact her words have left on you.
“goodbye, mx. [name]!” the melusine bids you farewell with a cheery wave. you murmur back a response but it comes out incoherent at best — you are simply too dumbfounded by the realization.
...so, that's who.
(wait a second, is arouet in on this too?!)
it's in the way. . . he begins to take longer breaks, hoping to run into you in front of the palais.
taking quiet strolls just outside the palais is, more often than not, neuvillette's idea of rest from work. although some might expect the iudex to have chosen a more 'creative' or luxurious location, but he digresses.
this place is near his office so less time is wasted on the journey back, liath also patrols here so he has the opportunity to inquire about her well-being — and occasionally, he stumbles upon you as well.
'occasionally' is the keyword: neuvillette has always preferred order and routine above chances and coincidences. but something about this idiosyncrasy — the tendency to linger beyond his usual duration, the act of stalling to hold onto hope that you might pass by today — is a indication of hypocrisy he wishes not to comment on.
sometimes, he closes his eyes so that his ears may be more attuned to the sound of your voice. sometimes, he opens his eyes so that they may look around for a glimpse of your face. who's to say if he'll ever be graced by your presence? it is all in fate's hands.
call it an odd method of manifestation, a childish one that even neuvillette scoffs at himself for. sometimes, it doesn't work, of course. not that he ever expects it to — but oh, when it does.
“...monsieur?” your voice cuts through the silence in his mind. he takes the sight of you in; a polite greeting on your tongue, several grocery bags in your arms and that beam on your face as you say, “what a coincidence to see you here.”
the iudex finds that he doesn't mind having his privacy briefly interrupted. not at all. not when it's like this, not when it's by you. alas, it seems that fate has smiled down on him today.
“yes, hello. what a serendipitous coincidence indeed.”
neuvillette smiles, he can't help it. perhaps, he might grow a soft spot for coincidences, after all.
(you sneak a brief glance at the sky with a squint. ...is it just you or are the clouds clearing up a little?)
⎯ wriothesley's love is beguiling, the kind of adventure that keeps you on your toes. a forthright gentleman; he is the type to know what he wants and he wants you. with him, you'll taste whiplash like never before. butterflies in your stomach, the urge to throw a shoe at him, you'll get it all. but an adventure isn't an adventure without breaks in between and it's at that very moment where you'll find you adore him the most... when he rests his head on your lap, momentarily free from worldly titles, breathing like the man who longs for warmth that he has always been.
it's in the way. . . he always offers you tea when really, he just wants you to stay.
everyone knows that wriothesley enjoys his tea — but that's only because he sees no need to hide his preferences; not his craving for a cup of tea when afternoon arrives nor his fondness for you either.
he doesn't conceal it, but doesn't bring attention to it either. wriothesley likes to think that only those with discerning eyes can pick up on the miniscule (???) hints he drops. that is, if saying “why not stay for some tea?” is even considered a subtle clue at all... maybe, he's mixing up polite courtesy with flirting a bit too much.
but who cares? in the grand scheme of things, the fun is seeing whether you'll figure it out or not. and let's be frank here; wriothesley is a patient man in all aspects, able to play the long game like no other.
don't worry, you may take as long as you want to — ironic since you're technically the only player in this 'game' — but hey, he has faith in your abilities! besides, you get to enjoy a cup of free tea (and with his company, preferably). surely, you can't complain about that? ...hah, he's just teasing you.
tick-tock! tick-tock!
the clock strikes twelve in the afternoon.
“ah, finally a well-deserved break.” the tone in which wriothesley pairs with that grin on his face is nothing less than devious. the glance he throws your way as he set aside the documents on his desk is something. or rather, it's suggesting something.
and frankly, you've experienced this many times enough to know what the underlying meaning is. “let me guess...” you let out a sigh, “you're asking me to have tea with you again?”
the emphasis on the last word is definitely, wholly intentional. you're sure wriothesley knows that too — “bingo,” he hums at you, sounds almost like a whistle. “you're getting more and more clever. must be all the tea i made you.”
“don't flatter yourself,” you roll your eyes at his attempted jest but you take a seat on his office couch, anyway. your own unique and adorable way of saying yes, he learned. still, wriothesley thinks that exasperated look on your face is an absolute marvel... and maybe, that little smile tugging on your lips you're trying to fight, too.
“same as usual?” he asks, pushing back his chair with a proud grin still plastered on his face that you wish you can wipe off.
but instead, you shake your head fondly at his antics. “mhm,” and rest a cheek on your fist. watching him tiredly, you realize you could get used to this. maybe.
wriothesley smiles to himself. looks like you figured out the tea has always been an excuse, after all.
(you've won the game, congrats! a subsidiary reward is a comment from sigewinne about how this tea routine between the two of you bears a resemblance to an elderly human couple's. she means it, innocently sincere.)
⎯ lyney's love can be faceted at first, one with such a smooth surface that you never imagined there would be so many layers underneath. joy and bliss, sorrow and burdens; all cramped and stuffed together behind his mask of perfection on the stage, a mask akin to a child's treasure chest almost bursting at the seams. you can unravel him if you tried, you can take off that mask if you reached out. and when you do, you'll find beautiful violet eyes staring right back at you, thankful, imploring you to go further.
it's in the way. . . his bravado dissipates around you, nerves scattering like confetti that bursts from his hat on stage.
they say that the first impression is the best impression — or at least, lyney hopes that's the case with all of the interesting impressions he has left on you so far. his instinct by nature is to impress, to bedazzle and that hasn't stopped since meeting you for the first time.
trying doesn't always lead to success, however. you stuttered in front of them twice, lynette pointed out after the first time he spoke to you. that fact spooked the poor magician so much he stayed up rethinking the conversation under the cover of his blanket. lynette isn't wrong per se, but lyney firmly believes that he will leave a better impression... one day, somehow, no matter how many times it takes!
he is a magician; charisma and charms should have or rather, already have come easily to him. his persona on the stage is no lie — just a tiny concerted exaggeration, maybe — but you've been among his audience before. you've seen what he is capable of. so surely, you'd know that lyney isn't really as demure and easily flustered as you might think he is... because no punches held back, he acts like that every time you talk to him.
he can't help it and that, exactly, is what makes it worse.
how many times have he cupped his face and mumbled nonsense into his hands for failing to impress you yet again? you're so wonderful and he's just so... miserable. this is unlike him. he has to wonder why you still look for him after each performance when you know you'll be greeted by his being a wreck.
maybe they like you that way, freminet tried to help. or maybe they like you no matter what, lynette chipped in. that had lyney pondering for a long, long, long time which translates into weeks.
will the day come where he presents you with a rainbow rose and professes his feelings for you without losing his nerves? he can only hope (and try, one day).
it never gets old.
when his feet step off the stage and the curtains have fallen, the satisfaction that spreads all the way to his fingertips never fails to disappoint. but with that, also comes the imminent feeling of anticipation.
for each performance he delivers, a visitor is bound to linger. when all members in the audience would head to the entrance of the opera epiclese to leave, one of them would stay. waiting patiently to be beckoned to the backstage. it's been a routine for so long, after all.
“lyney?”
right on cue.
your voice greets his ears, a sound that he can admit he misses only to himself. he exhales, a placating act to shush his beating heart from growing any louder.
“ah, [name]!” the magician enunciates your name with a certain type of fanfare. “here to lend a hand again, i assume?” he tries to shoot you a confident grin, but you aren't gullible enough to not see the tint of red blooming on his cheeks.
you stifle a chuckle at his (attempt at a) bold opening. “of course,“ said with a nod and a silly thought along the lines of: he's cute.
your honest and calm response takes him by surprise. he blinks a tad. oh, it seems the thrill from the show a few minutes prior still hasn't worn off. perhaps, he's still all too used to the crowd's shouts and cheers... not that he expects you to start yelling, of course!
“i see,” lyney feigns a cough to recollect his composure. now that he is cognizant of the fact it's just the two of you, he shrinks down into a more casual version of himself with a nervous chuckle.
“will you... be staying for long?” he asks, bashful. the question sounds more genuine than just a mere pleasantry. his eyes look hopeful, twinkling at the thought of having your presence around. his fingers have even come up to scratch at the side of his neck, you don't think lyney even realizes he is doing that.
who are you to say no? you smile. “well, my schedule's pretty empty today.”
his lips instantly break into a grin, brighter than one he usually has onstage. “that's actually marv—” he starts.
“that's great,” a familiar monotonous voice cuts in. lynette peers from behind you with a hum, “we could use more hands to pack up the new props.” oh, and that brief glint of mischief in her feline eyes as she watches how lyney gapes at her sudden intrusion.
“sure!” you glance back at her, oblivious to it all. “thanks for letting me in, lynette. i'll try my best to help.” even if you admit that one of the reasons you're here is for lyney, but you can't discredit his twin sister for allowing you to enter here in the first place. a free backstage pass in exchange for free labor, quite a fair deal.
with your back turned to him, lyney takes the chance to mouth his own words of disbelief to lynette. incomprehensible except for that one i can't believe you're doing this! that she manages to catch.
“no problem,” she observes her brother over your shoulder with keen interest, “everyone knows how fond lyney is of you.”
there is a series of spluttering noises behind you. a certain magician finds himself at the verge of choking on mere oxygen.
“lynette!”
but really, she has no doubt that lyney has fallen head over heels for you. hook, line and sinker.
— thank you for reading! reblogs and comments are most appreciated. ♡
SUMMARY. zhongli never lies; he always says the truth as it is, even if it is a hard pill to swallow. or in which you realize you are not his greatest love and that is alright… right? (3.3k+ words)
CHARACTERS. zhongli.
GENRE. major angst, hurt with little to no comfort (sort of?).
CW. insecurities to a partner’s past love and gradual acceptance (?), zhongli’s past love is implied to be guizhong and uses she/her pronouns, use of pet names, possible sappiness. + read the alt text on zhongli’s header for an extra summary!
THOUGHTS. i haven’t written angst in a vv long time, so my sincerest apologies if i’ve become rusty! but i tried my best and writing zhongli always gets me sniffling <//3
EXTRA THOUGHTS. a gift for @medeaheartly! so, do you remember the “special privilege” request you sent me in this ask?? hehe, tadaaaa. happy birthday, jae! <3
✰ main masterlist. // series masterlist.
THE VERY FIRST TIME you asked him that question was on a day like every other. In fact, there was barely anything special about that day that could’ve brought rise to such a forward question. Liyue was as calm as the ocean breezes from the direction of Guyun Stone Forest, the same as ever. You were sitting across from the man of your dreams with delicacies laid out on the table at Third-Round Knockout, the same as ever.
But it was no compulsion, no forcefulness either, just a need to reaffirm. For it still felt like a dream that you were here right now, sitting across from him.
GENRE. warm blanket fluff, slight crack (tighnari), established relationship.
CW. use of pet names, mentions of mud and puddles, philosophies about the rain (zhongli).
THOUGHTS. i was in a sentimental mood while writing this, so this may have turned out more romantic than i intended. hehe, regardless, enjoy reading!
SPECIAL MENTIONS to @meimeimeirin, @silentmoths, @popkorrn, @duckymcdoorknob, my rix anon and others who helped me pick a chara for this work! your responses are well-received, tysm <3
✰ masterlist.
“What a shame, truly.”
As rain droplets fall from the rooftop, AYATO can’t help but let out a little sigh. Oh, dearest rain; as beautiful as it is, this weather only hinders his journey to Inazuma City. Can you imagine all the puddles that would start to gather on the pavement after this shower has passed? His poor and precious clothes are at risk here, it seems he has to put more effort into maneuvering through the road today.
The disappointment on your lover’s face is so apparent it manages to invite a smile to your lips. With a chuckle, you utter, “But you look good in white.”
CW. lowercase intended, use of pet names, written before kaveh and wanderer’s release, scara is referred to as kunikuzushi.
THOUGHTS. this format is a bit different than my regular ones, but i hope this is still able to tickle a little laugh out of someone <3
✰ masterlist.
☆ TIGHNARI!
boyfie!tighnari whose unofficial job is to cook meals for the both of you; he actually doesn’t mind, but what worries him the most is if you step into the kitchen — unless you manage to prove the existence of your culinary skills to him, that is. (#y/nramsay??)
“nari, i’m home!” you chirp, closing the front door behind you. the smell of something tasty wafts through the air and you peek into the kitchen like a curious kitten.
immediately, you are greeted by the sight of tighnari at the stove with your favorite apron on (yes, it has “kiss the cook” on it but tighnari would throw a ladle at you). it doesn’t take long for him to notice your gaze lingering on him. tighnari doesn’t even have to look back as he hums, “welcome home.”
you lean against the wall with an impish grin on your face, “so… what’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
SUMMARY. depraved of sleep, you begin to doze off and before you know it, you’ve fallen asleep with their shoulder as your pillow.
CHARACTERS. tighnari, alhaitham, cyno.
GENRE. sugary fluff, established relationship.
CW. reader has eyebags, alhaitham recites a physics theory (yes, it’s a warning /j).
THOUGHTS. yet another attempt at writing sumeru men because… just because + to celebrate tighnari coming home to me! on the contrary, i hope you guys will win your next 50/50’s <3
✰ masterlist.
Like the dutiful Forest Watcher that he is, TIGHNARI doesn’t hide the offended look on his face when he discovers that you fell asleep while he is explaining important knowledge on how to identify certain mushrooms in the wild — and on his shoulder at that too.
It is either your attention has not been on his speech this entire time or you’ve messed up your sleep schedule… or even worse, both.
Not to mention, those bags under your eyes are ghastly.
Goodness, at what time did you sleep last night? He thought he told you many times already how proper sleep isn’t worth sacrificing just for a few more hours of staying up. Your efficiency rate goes down if sleep is constantly gnawing at you, so it’s better to shake away that sleepiness first.
Hmph, it’s all too ironic to internally nag you like this while your sleeping face is staring right back at him.
Seriously, does his shoulder look like that much of a comfy pillow? Even his tail would be a better suited candidate, he’d admit. Tighnari can only sigh, his ears flicking along like an agreeing sign of exasperation.
But he knows that the reason you stayed up was to push yourself to complete more work — and although Tighnari has his own protests about that mindset of yours, he understands. For now, any lectures that he wants to give about time management and proper rest can wait.
Your comfort is more vital here; as romantic as falling on your significant other’s shoulder seems like, it isn’t the most practical way to sleep. He doesn’t want you to wake up with an aching neck later.
“Sleepyhead,” Tighnari huffs as he lifts you onto his back. You’re oblivious, still very much deep in sleep with your head now resting at the crook of his neck.
Well, he can’t really complain any further, can he? You’re a sleepyhead but you’re his sleepyhead, at least.
SUMMARY. refers to a behaviour or way of thought peculiar to an individual; but in this case, it’s something that they do around you and only you.
CHARACTERS. tighnari, alhaitham, cyno.
GENRE. fluff, a moderate amount of crack, established relationship.
CW. mentions of cute aggression and affectionate bullying (in tighnari’s part), the reader is down bad for alhaitham and he knows it, one dad joke about cryo slimes (in cyno’s part).
THOUGHTS. finally managed to finish this draft while i was on my mini vacay >:) this is my first time writing sumeru men, so feel free to lmk what you think! <3
✰ masterlist.
TIGHNARI … likes to knock you on the head, very softly and lovingly.
No, no, don’t you go around thinking that you can escape his long and stern lectures just because the two of you are an item. Others may think that you’re the only one that has a privilege they don’t, but they can’t be more wrong.
Asking dumb questions? Flirting with him shamelessly? Want a kiss? You’d get a soft bonk to the head personally delivered by Tighnari himself first, if that even counts as a privilege.
Rest assured that Tighnari’s intent is never to hurt you, nor does it actually hurt when he does so. To him, it’s an effective way of hushing you nonverbally and it also, may or may not, be his extremely unique love language. Why?
Well, Tighnari kind of… and he stresses, just kind of likes how you scrunch your nose every time he flicks your forehead, how you would complain so adorably and how you would— ahem. Actually, he has some work to do right now, bye.
GENRE. cotton candy fluff, little bits of crack, teeny tiny angst in kaeya’s part, established relationship.
CW. use of pet names.
THOUGHTS. weewoo, my first multi post! i may have screamed, kicked my feet in the air, and sobbed while writing this and i hope you do too <3 /pos
☆ masterlist.
─ ⊹ ⊱ ・・・・・・☆・・・・・・・⊰ ⊹ ─
XIAO turns his face away nervously. You are silent, yet your gaze speaks many volumes; volumes that he is unable to comprehend properly. What exactly should an Adeptus say to such peculiar manner of staring? Xiao clears his throat, “If you have words to spare, then spit them out.” Bold words for someone with reddening cheeks.
VENTI grins as if he had caught a thief red-handed. “Is it me or is someone awfully shameless today, hm?” Although it is clear as day that you’re not even trying to hide it, this bard sees the opportunity to tease you and he takes it in stride. As a performer, Venti is used to having eyes on him — but to receive such attention from his beloved is so much sweeter, is it not?
they speak in stardust and glances, all golden silence and too-long stares. something ancient stirs beneath your skin. what are you to them—mortal or myth?
ⓘ 3.1k wc 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 no gender specified, mutual pining, semi-character studies, high school! au, mydei ft. phainon, subtle/non-existent spoilers, anxious!reader in cipher’s ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
all works are a property of ꒰ @kurogira ꒱ do not copy, translate, redistribute or feed my works into ai. this is an original work.
Did you find yourself entranced by Aglaea, the student council president? The one appearing bathed in gold, with a beauty that could rival even the divine themselves . . . you wouldn’t be the first. Aglaea was a prized jewel among her peers, always composed and in command—the kind of leader only spoken of in fairy tales. But behind that golden grace was someone who watched the world with quiet longing—someone who glanced your way a little too often, who lingered by the window just a little too long. Perhaps the goddess on the pedestal was more human than she let on. And perhaps she was waiting for someone to see that.
Those who adored her only ever sought her approval, through rose-tinted glasses and overly enthusiastic compliments. She waved them off with practiced poise, drowning in admiration, in gifts and applause wherever she went. Today was no different—Aglaea was, as always, a sight for sore eyes. But you didn’t bring her flowers. You didn’t stumble over your words, or ask for her attention like a wish. You just saw her—and in that rare moment, Aglaea didn’t feel like a goddess adored. She felt like a girl, standing under the weight of gold she never asked for.
(The weight that often felt too much for her to bear, the slender fingers of those who expected the best performance crawling up her spine—shoving her forward.)
She was built like a monument—polished, proud, and impossibly untouchable. People expected her to have every answer, to solve every conflict—to be a prize-worthy role model for those who could only dream of being as successful as she is. Aglaea was pushed into perfection before she even knew who she wanted to be. As a ballerina, she was expected to hide every cramp with a smile—to twirl as if it were the last move she’d ever make. As an athlete, she was expected to make it to every practice regardless of the obstacle. Sickness was an indicator of weakness, an excuse to retreat into the shadows of her bedroom—an escape her parents loathed deeply.
As an actress, she was expected to carry the weight of perfection on her bare shoulders—bruised and broken. A fractured bone, one she was meant to hold with pride.
“Don’t you ever get tired?” you questioned one morning, catching her completely off-guard. If someone were to compare you to her, you were the soil and she the gardener who raised the watering can—showering you in divine springs to help raise you. To guide the sunlight to your roots, expanding your potential to become something even greater.
You disagreed, heavily. You were never soil—never something waiting to be shaped. You had your own roots. You were tired of being someone else’s bloom.
“Tired? Of what?” she asked quietly. The drop in her gaze told you your question had struck something real.
“Perfection.” That was all you said—yet the word itself was Aglaea’s entire world, summarized in a single line. She felt a piece of it crumble beneath her feet.
“Perfection, you say? What gave you the impression that I’m tired of such a thing?” she inquired, the lift of her eyebrows betraying the humanity others believed she never possessed. If anything, she was more machine than human. More doll than girl—something crafted, not grown. Something beautiful, but empty of permission to feel.
“Your eyes.” you muttered, scoffing before turning your head in the other direction. Blue-green eyes that held such guilt, so much uncertainty swirling in their depths—it had been so long since anyone had really looked. “I expect you to act like a regular teenager, not a statue for everyone to polish and praise.”
“So that’s your impression of me.” she placed a hand under her chin, her lips twitching into a small smile. What was it that had changed? Her expression was unlike one you’ve ever seen before. Was it the taste of respite from the world she’d been suffocated in? Was it relief?
“It could’ve been worse, Miss Golden Girl.”
She hummed, arms crossing as she shifted her posture—less perfect now, more casual.
A dramatic gasp escaped your lips. “So you do know how to relax.”
“You’re quite the character, aren’t you?” she sighed, shaking her head with a trace of amusement.
“Enlighten me then. What is it you want from me?”
“For you to relax a little.”
“And what does that mean?”
You let out a mischievous giggle before pulling out a pen and a notepad from your bag, she tilted her head slightly out of curiosity for what you were doing. When you finished scribbling, you tore out the page you had written in and handed it to her. “It means I want to take you somewhere. And by you, I mean the Aglaea this school doesn’t know about. Sound fair?”
She froze. Fingers twitching—almost yearning. As if some hidden part of her ached to reach out.
You were offering freedom. Just like that.
When she’d been taught it had to be earned—through sacrifice, perfection, pain.
(Is it really this easy? No, it shouldn’t be.)
“What’s the catch?”
Her fist clenched tight against the black fabric of her skirt, hiding how cold her hands had become—how they trembled under pressure. Her palms were damp.
“There isn’t one. Go out with me, it’ll be fun.” You gently took her hand, unfurling her fingers and slipping the note into her palm. “Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t mean it that way.”
She pressed her lips together, eyes lingering on the folded paper. Then she looked up—just in time to catch you walking away with a grin that was far too proud to be casual.
She lifted the paper you had given her, finding a string of numbers that resembled a phone number.
“How troublesome..”
You never told them you were watching. That those stolen glances from the bleachers weren’t just passing observations—they were habits. You weren’t sure how it started. Maybe it was the way his shadow stretched longer than it should in the golden hour, or the way he never looked back. But Mydei had rooted himself into your daily routine like something quiet and inevitable.
The bleachers had become your favorite study place. As for how, you couldn’t quite say—constantly looking down at your notebook full of algebraic equations couldn’t possibly be good for your back. You made peace with that fact, somehow. And the view wasn’t half-bad either.
The sky, you mean.
Right?
It definitely didn’t have to do with the track star who entered the school building with sweat dripping down his face. The thought seemed almost offensive.
He ran not to win, but to forget—each footfall an echo of something he could never name, something that felt older than him, older than time. You didn’t understand how he did it, all of that running seemed pointless in your eyes. But you found yourself thinking about it more often. Thinking about him more often. You preferred fresh air and the scent of wet grass to the overly floral perfume sprayed by preppy girls who lived lives that never touched your own.
The only person you ever saw Mydei linger around was Phainon. And while Phainon wasn’t on the track team, the two of them were in more competitions with each other than Olympic champions. Their banter became your source of noise and entertainment, background music to long equations and longer glances.
“Mydei, ready for our next race?” Phainon asked, theatrical as always. You found it quite endearing though, comparing him to Mydei would end in a cycle of differences with minimal similarities—at least at first glance.
Mydei crossed his arms and furrowed his brows, staring right into Phainon’s fiery gaze. “Are you prepared to lose once again?”
“Lose? I won that last one, actually.” Phainon huffed, rolling his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Only you knew the truth. Because your eyes followed Mydei wherever he went—with intrigue that softened your gaze whenever he was near. Mydei had won that race. Barely. And if you ever brought it up, you weren’t sure either of them would ever agree on a conclusion that would satisfy them both. You giggled at the thought.
Then one afternoon, he stopped. Right there on the track.
“Mydei!” Phainon tossed him a water bottle. “What would you do without me?”
“Hydrate less,” Mydei muttered—but he wasn’t looking at Phainon.
He was looking at you.
Just for a moment. Just long enough.
“Bleachers today,” he said. His voice was low—quiet like something meant for only you. “What’s the occasion?”
You blinked, heart thudding once, sharply. “Sky’s nice.”
He tilted his head. “It usually is.”
Then he was gone, jogged back to the starting line like nothing happened. You let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding in.
(How embarrassing.)
You sighed before grabbing your pen once again.
But your pen didn’t touch paper again for the rest of the hour. Not once.
Something ancient stirred beneath your skin—familiar, electric, inexplicable. And you weren’t sure if it came from the stars above you . . . or the boy running circles just below.
-
The boys developed a habit of coming to you after every early morning race, ignoring your yawns and instead choosing to argue about who won. It ended in ties, or both of them barely outrunning each other on the field.
“Mydei won this time,” you spoke mid-yawn, placing your hand on your chin. “And no, I’m not picking favorites—Phainon.”
“There’s no way he won, my dear friend . . . won’t you speak the truth you hold so close to your chest?” Phainon pleaded, tossing his hands in dramatic despair. “You wound me. Deeply.”
“I call it how I see it,” you replied, eyeing his exaggerated performance with amusement.
Mydei stood off to the side, towel around his neck, chest rising and falling with the ease of someone used to the weight of the world on his lungs. He said nothing, but the barest smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
“Oh, he’s smirking. Great. The silent victory,” Phainon muttered, shooting his friend a glare before nudging you with his elbow. “Next time you’re the judge, try blinking. I think you missed when I passed him at the turn.”
“I didn’t blink,” you said. “But you definitely did. Right when he crossed the line.”
Phainon gasped.
“You’re both hopeless,” you sighed, flipping a page in your notebook you hadn’t written anything on. “If I had a coin, I’d start flipping it just to settle your arguments.”
“That would be fate,” Mydei said, voice low, like he rarely used it.
“Exactly. It’d be out of your hands.” You raised a brow at them both. “Which, frankly, sounds like the only way either of you will ever take a loss.”
Phainon groaned.
Mydei just looked at you. Eyes steady, unreadable. As if you’d said something more profound than you realized.
It lingered—the silence between the three of you, golden and stretched. The sky was just beginning to shift from pale dawn to warm amber, and the field smelled of dew and late spring.
You glanced at him again. Mydei. You wondered what else he’d let the world decide for him, and what he still tried to outrun.
-
The next morning, Mydei came to the field alone—but he didn’t charge straight toward the track as he usually did. Instead, he came to you—leaning a bit too close for comfort.
“You dropped this yesterday,” he said, holding out a worn purple notebook. His fingers brushed yours as you took it.
You blinked, surprised. “Oh, really? So that’s where I left it. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
You glanced toward the track. “Not gonna run today?”
He sat beside you instead, one leg crossed over the other, elbows resting on his knees. “No . . . not today.”
Silence settled between you like morning fog, heavy but not unwelcome.
You tried not to stare, but he wasn’t looking at you—he was watching the sky, as if the clouds might spell something out for him.
“No Phainon today either?” you asked, flipping through your notebook absentmindedly, even though you weren’t reading the pages.
(You weren’t sure why you were worried, Mydei usually had everything under control—didn’t he?)
“No,” he said. “He talks too much in the morning.”
You laughed under your breath. “He talks too much in the afternoon too.”
That earned you a rare smile, small and fleeting.
You hesitated before asking, “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just sat with it. Mydei never rushed his words.
Eventually, he opened his mouth to speak. “Why do you come to the bleachers anyway?”
Whether the question was out of curiosity or concern, you answered with a small grin. “It gets too overwhelming inside of the school building, do you know how many people roam those halls in the morning?”
“Too many?”
“Too many.”
“I don’t understand how seeing me run across the field before classes start is any better, though.” he mumbled quietly, causing your smile to widen just a little more.
“You’re not overwhelming to be around.”
“I’m not?”
“No, you’re not.” you reassured him, rummaging through your bag for a handkerchief before gently dabbing the fabric onto his forehead. “You sweat a lot, by the way.”
He scoffed, “Do I now?”
“You do, but that’s okay too. Just sit still for a second.”
“Sure thing.”
Cipher always made it seem like fun. Like skipping class was the beginning of some great adventure, and not a panic attack waiting to happen. “No one’s gonna notice,” she’d whisper as you tiptoed down the hall behind her, heart pounding like a drum. “They’re all too busy pretending to care.”
And you’d want to believe her—because she said it like a promise, not a lie.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Cipher glanced back, her eyes softer than they ever looked in the daylight. “You okay?”
“I—yeah. I just…”
“Too much?”
“A little.”
She hummed thoughtfully, chewing her bottom lip before taking your hand. Her fingers were warm. Steady. “Then we’ll just go somewhere quiet. I know a place.”
You blinked. “You do?”
“Mhm. Been hiding there since I was, like, twelve. It has snacks.” She said it like that was the main draw—but the way she adjusted her pace for you, let your hand go when she felt it tremble, glanced your way every few steps just to make sure you were still breathing right . . . it was more than snacks.
Cipher was sneaky, sure. But never with you. With you, she was honest in the ways that mattered most.
A smooth-talker, she was. The one with every solution in the book hidden inside of her mind, the one who chooses to carry the responsibility of your fragility on her shoulders—it didn’t make it any better that you reminded her of her old self. The stray cat who would hide in corners, scavenging for a speckle of glimmer within the pile of dull. “Stay calm, won’t you? You’ll be fine as long as you’re with me, remember? Plus, you’re more anxious in the classroom than out of it.”
You couldn’t disagree there, the stress that came with the environment was something you never got used to. You weren’t sure if you ever would. That weight of expectations casted upon you like a pile of dumbbells on your back—you felt sick just imagining it.
Cipher was your complete opposite, that you were certain of. She faced the world with a mischievous smirk and a scheme in the midst. She never faltered either, and she was the kind of person most feared due to her seemingly lax personality.
You’d once asked her if she was ever scared. It slipped out one afternoon, hidden between breaths as you ducked beneath the stairwell she called “home base.” Cipher just laughed, that low, amused kind of sound that felt like it echoed in your bones.
(You loved the sound of her laughter, it reminded you that regardless of what happened—that she would never allow you to collapse into the hole of fear and dread.)
“Scared?” she repeated, like the word was foreign. Then she leaned in, eyes sharp and unreadable. “I don’t have time to be scared. Someone’s gotta steer the ship when everyone else is frozen at the wheel.”
She made survival sound effortless. But even then, you caught it—the way her fingers twitched when she thought you weren’t looking. The way she always kept the exit in sight. She was fully prepared to leave like an alert cat readying its paws to charge out of the scene.
Cipher didn’t flinch when trouble came. She smiled at it, twirled it around her finger, and dared it to try her. And maybe that’s what made her so easy to follow—because with Cipher, you weren’t running away. You were running with her. Side by side, hand in hand—with a pounding heart and quickened breath—you followed her wherever she went and tried not to regret it.
-
“You remind me of how I used to be,” she said one day, flicking a pebble into a puddle with the grace of someone pretending not to care. “Scared. Small. Always asking for permission.”
You opened your mouth to apologize—though you weren’t sure for what.
“But look at you now.” She tilted her head, and for once, her smirk gave way to something gentler. “Still scared. But you’re out here anyway. That’s brave as hell.”
“I like you, you’re pretty cool~!”
You felt your heart skip a beat at the sound of her alluring tone, the way she sung your praises even if just barely—it made your chest ache a little.
“I don’t think so, doing this is still terrifying to me. I’m still really anxious about it all.”
“Then why are you here?”
(Why were you here? Did the sound of her voice lure you in too deep? Were you blindly putting your faith in a known troublemaker? A girl hiding behind several masks, known to lie, known to be deceitful?)
(Were you simply aching for a bit of solace in a place where you knew nothing about? A gamble that you took knowing the possible consequences?)
“I don’t . . . want to be like this forever. I want to be more like you, Cifera!”
That detail surprised her a bit. Why would you ever want to turn into someone like her? A topic of gossip for the teenagers roaming the halls to spread word about? At first glance, perhaps she would’ve thought of you as foolish and naive. But she knew the aching need to escape, to throw all responsibilities out of the window—to take a risk in exchange for your head to be out of water.
“Like me, huh? If that’s what you want . . . you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”
“Huh?” you blinked, noticing your phone had suddenly disappeared into thin air. Your lips formed a pout before you reached out towards her. “Give it back, Cifera!”
HAPPY THIRD YEAR ANNIVERSARY MISS ODIE !! 🥹🎉 ooh, im gonna get teary omg . . . it’s been so long since i first became mutuals with you & look at how much you’ve grown, friend !! 🥂
THANK YOU VESSAAAA 🥹🫂 it's silly how we're getting teary-eyed over this but it's not at all silly actually bcs !!! besides this blog, i'm also celebrating you, one of the moots i've known the longest and despite how much we've grown, i hope you know that your presence has always remained as comforting as it was when we first got to know each other back then. thanks for keeping a spot for me in your space, vessa! i'm eternally honored 🤍
