synopsis : you never expected to find yourself in the land of your enemies, let alone fall for the golden boy who you declare is far out of reach. phainon, in turn, vows to always stay within arm's length. in simpler terms, bonding with phainon during sparring matches lalalalala. ╱ word count : 1.2k
dedicated to : @agnellae <3 happy birthday!!!
characters : phainon x kremnoan!gn!reader
content : fluff? id say this is pretty fluffy. canon compliant—but also canon compliant in a "wrote this from memory" way. no established relationship yet...
warnings : mentions of food. use of weapons. physical fighting—you and phainon are sparring. the yearners. first time writing for panini press; might be ooc. homesick!reader—i tried. the timeline of this is very wonky so please please please just hear me out TT. this is Not proofread #NoBetaWeDieLikeAllOfTheHeirs
join my taglist : @tragedy-of-commons @kazuinvocation @florinoir @aelatus
notes : happiest of birthdays to sumisumi sumire!!!! you've brought up sparring with phainon on a couple occasions and my neurons started firing heh. I LOVE YOUUU
When Phainon had first raised his broadblade in your direction, it had been less than a week since your feet first touched down on Okhema’s blessed soil.
Boyish was he, the grin on his face so bright you dare say it rivaled Kephale’s daunting glow, a thought that should’ve made your insides curl, yet you followed him out to the worn training grounds without much reluctance. It was there that you realized just how little you knew of this man. Mydeimos had instilled great trust in this bloodborn enemy of Kremnos but little was known besides the word on the street. The Deliverer, the golden boy of Okhema, the usher of Era Nova. None of it meant anything to you, why would it? You had not grown up here. The people made sure to remind you so.
Phainon seemed none-the-wiser to your plight. Perhaps that was for the best; his eyes filled with pity would’ve been the last straw. He tossed you a sword from the rack and you vowed to wipe the sunny disposition off his face as quickly as possible. If not for Kremnos, then for yourself.
✦ ✦ ✦
The second time you sparred was the first time you learned anything of him.
Eyes tilted to the low-hanging sun and the purpling clouds, the limestone of the plaza sparkled in the fainting light. It was hard to remember the last time you’d seen such a sight. Once the birthplace of such a sight, Kremnos was now an inky blotch of night and tide where no light by the sun would show again, a place that many had fallen to during the initial breakout. Hand pressed to cheek, the rays danced over your skin to the barely present breeze. You imagined this was still home, that you were pressed into the high up nooks of the colosseum and the reflection bouncing off the armour of warriors in the setting sunlight blinded you instead of the openness here. The crowd would cheer and you’d shake your friend’s shoulders with a gentle sort of excitement and you’d dine in a cosy canopy in the aftermath of the fight, the grapes on the platter plump and glowing—
You sighed, catching yourself before you grew to be too hopeful. Hope was a dangerous thing.
“Mydei informed me you’d be found here.”
His voice was hard to ignore even if you wished to. The lilt and melodious cheer that seemed infectious to everyone, except you, captured audiences—and the attention of many grandma’s—with ease.
“Say…” he trailed off, his sun-baked eyes glued to your lit form, “are you by any chance fre—”
“Was the first beating not enough for you, Deliverer?” you said, getting up from the rooftop you’d claimed as your seat. “My five to your one not a good enough defeat for your tastes?”
“Not nearly,” he laughed, a weird sound coming from a polished figure such as himself. “You could’ve scored higher.”
You snorted, “Why do you still approach me?”
“Because you are like me, Outlander.”
You paused. He waited. The words tumbled around your head like a mason would do to unpolished stone, grating the finery of your nerves and internal monologuing.
“... That does not mean anything.”
“It means everything,” he said, voice dropped to a whisper. “Spar with me.”
You did score higher. Much higher. Dust stained the leather of your training gauntlets and shin guards, sword off to the side as the world cooled and Kephale’s glow appeared brighter against the sinking backdrop. The sun never truly set. You were a little grateful for that fact though perhaps part of you missed the rising dawn and the cycle of new days.
“The sun here does not feel the same as the one on home soil,” Phainon said between sips of water.
You hummed.
“The fields used to glow such a rich gold and honey colour during the peak of the day,” he continued, eyes growing wistful—hopeful. “The bees would hum in the air and the wheat would dance in the wind, unlike the stone here.”
He looked at you and you looked back at his warmed skin and eyes lit with longing. For the future? For the riddance of the Black Tide? For a man who had lost all but gained so much yet nothing in return, you could only think of wanting the world at his fingertips.
“The world used to sing,” you muttered as it dawned on you.
He nodded. “And now it doesn’t.”
✦ ✦ ✦
You’d come to notice that Phainon wielded his blade as if he were angry by the third instance.
When you were not sparring you were watching him. He is masterful, the hilt sitting confidently in his perfect grip (“Not too tight, you cannot crush the bird’s wings,” your master said when you picked up the sword for the first time, a guiding hand on yours, “but not too loose so that it could fly away. You will find true freedom in having control.”) as the blade sings through the air in welldone arcs, singing to the world with every stroke. But you knew wrath and thirst and hunger for blood. And Phainon was a lit fuse bundled into the shape of a gold-exterriored man.
The Trial of Strife.
Phainon had approached you with a deadset expression. He did not ask for your approval of the decision for him to traverse instead of Mydeimos, but he wanted it. And you gave it to him in kind by raising your sword to his chest.
Heels dug into the ground, Phainon swung his blade out with a lunge, missing your soft spot by an inch. His brow was furrowed and you could tell by the shake of his arms that this was not his best. You swung back, using the hilt of your own sword to bruise his ribs.
“Focus,” you shouted from across the area when he fell back to clutch the sore area. “How are you meant to defeat the trial in this state?”
“What if my best isn’t enough?” he choked out from between gritted teeth. “What if I fail and we—the chase, the heirs, the people—are doomed?”
He lashed out with less than steady precision, the attack clumsy and uncoordinated as you side stepped him.
“Do not speak in that way.”
“But—”
“You will be back,” you grunted, parrying his next hit despite the lack of form and shoving him back to create distance before the tip of your sword pressed against the soft weakness of his leather, “and we will spar again when you are a demigod.”
He sat there on the dirt for a moment and you truly thought that he’d crumble for the first time, soaring wings and wrath getting the best of him in that melting pot of a chest. But instead he smiled, a different kind from the ones you’d grown used to seeing pass by on the street, one that was highlighted by dimples and eyes that beamed as if they were the very suns themselves, and for that moment the world fell away from your feet.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“Do not tha—”
You hit the ground with a thud and before you could spring back up, the tip of his blue-gold blade hovered over the precipice of your throat. You scowled before a laugh, the first in a long time, bubbled free from the confines of your chest.
“Never let your guard down,” he said with a tilt of his head. “I will see you again soon, Warrior.”
“And I to you, Deliverer.”
commentary : hello hello welcome to my yapping corner yayyy.
the first section is kept short to portray how the reader does not think much of phainon, meaning the first spar was nothing to be remembered by. #Silly
LOOK MAN. THE BEES PART. AEDES ELYSIAE REALISTICALLY HAS SOME SORT OF POLLINATORS REGARDLESS OF WHETHER THEY ARE BEES OR NOT. BEES WERE JUST THE OBVIOUS CHOICE PLEASE DO NO FLAME ME ON THE CANON FOR THIS
um um um hope?? people enjoyed?? my really bad take on phainon??? it's time for me to hit the hay
synopsis : as a baker in the business district under the IPC's ruling, you dream of a better and more flavourful future where fruits are indeed low hanging and ingredient are not limited to resource tickets. but the law is the law and you are not above it. until you find blood splattered along your kitchen floors and a dying man who'd risk it all for you. ╱ word count : 2.3k
characters : rebellion member!blade x baker!gn!reader
content : mainly fluff i swear. dystopian setting / not canonverse. law abiding citizen x criminal kind of vibe. slow burn.
warnings : word count got slightly out of hand. possibly ooc blade. a lot of descriptions of food and baked goods. mentions of blood and injuries, knives, and other weapons in general. mentions of physical violence. i swear this is fluffy though. ooc IPC btw.
join my taglist : @tragedy-of-commons @kazuinvocation @florinoir @dawnsigil @aelatus
notes : happy holidays to you, @millurie, from your stellaronhvnter secret santa! i apologize beforehand if he's ooc; despite also being blade fan i've never written for him up until now! also sorry if my writing flow is a bit messy TT im very rusty kjdfhjkdgf happy holidays!
⟡ 𝐈. 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ⟡
You are a law-abiding citizen. You swear by it.
Settled neatly between the slate greys and muted blues of corporate towers along the street, your bakery stands to be the only splash of colour. Open every day of the week—except Saturdays—it’s also the only bakery and cafe around for the next ten blocks. It’s not that competitors didn’t try to open up near you—the business district is perhaps the best district to direct a food service in—and it wasn’t that you sabotaged them, but just… luck.
The last coffee shop that tried to run its storefront across the street had barely made a dent in your sales. Claiming to be the next best mega brand, regulars crawled back to you and whispered about stale roasts and dry croissants, that the specialty drinks were “painfully chalky” in texture and were “trying too hard to be modern.” It wasn’t long before the shop was deemed “unfit” by the IPC’s code of conduct and their load of grunts that roamed the streets. They shut it down the next month. No one has tried to open since then.
Silky batter gleams under the kitchen lights. Not once over-mixed, not once underdone, your hands tremble with a soft excitement at the perfection resting in front of you. With a careful touch, you evenly divide and pour it into two pre-prepped round cake trays, scraping down the sides of the bowl until it is practically clean, and leveling them to just the right height.
The oven timer goes off right as you wipe your hands of any excess. Nestled in the warmth rests two trays of muffins, each one plump and healthy in serving. Reaching your oven mitt-clad hands into the heat, you pull out one set to reveal their round tops baked to perfection and golden-brown streusel topping. Along them, blueberries have softly burst along the top, leaving behind small puddles of deep purple that soak into the crevices. The second tray comes out with a similar result, though instead of blueberry, the flourishing scent of lemon hits the air. Splitting one open, you examine the speckles of poppy seed dappled about the soft body, marveling at the flawless spacing before taking a bite.
The sun has just begun to peek over the horizon by the time the cake trays take over the heat. You set a quick timer before popping the rest of the muffins out of their confinement and resting them in the front display case. Next come the loaves of pound cake you left off to cool. You make quick work slicing them evenly before they too go into the display case. Cookies are stacked, the cakes from earlier are cooled and iced, the coffee is set to brew, and once everything is in its place, you flip the sign.
The morning rush comes and goes, followed by lunchtime stragglers and the few birthday orders sent in. It’s become rare to receive requests for birthday cakes these days and although other bakeries would turn them down to conserve ingredients, you never do. You bake, you make drinks; you take credits from firm hands and take pity on those who fall short; a fact the Peace Corps never needs to know about; and run the register until the last customer has walked out.
Cleaning up is quick work. A few standing tables, no chairs, the bakery is usually doused in silence aside from the bell above the door and the clinking of credits being passed around. Nobody makes small talk. You don’t start any. The silence, though lonely at times, has become more of a shield than the enemy of your life. Quiet keeps you safe. And safe means no IPC breathing down the back of your spine. Sweeping away the last bit of dust that isn’t really there, you turn off the lights and hang up your apron, ready for the same old thing the next day.
⟡ 𝐈𝐈. 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⟡
Blood and baked bread are two smells that do not go well together.
There’s a hint of rust in the air when you walk into the bakery the next morning. You frown. You’ve never had a problem with rusted equipment and the warranty for everything should still be good to go. You realize what it’s all about soon enough.
A man sits on the floor of your IPC-industrial-standard kitchen. Though his head is lolled forward and his hair shadows his face, you can confirm he is nothing like the done-up corporate workers you’ve grown awfully used to serving. His clothes are dirty in a charming manner and you wonder if he’s from the farming district, far out in the interior. His shirt looks more to be the type of fishers and those by the seaside with a loser cut and linen sleeves. But his shoes tell a different story; too polished and from style alone they seem well above the paygrade of even the richest farmer or fisher. A thief?
Either way, he is not from around here.
District hopping is forbidden by the Peace Corps. You have half the mind to report him. It could get you a sweet bonus of credits. Perhaps even double the usual allowance if he does turn out to be a thief. But the more curious oddity of this man, one that draws you away from the red button pasted to the underside of the counter, lies in the growing pool of red that sits alongside him on the quarry tile. Part of you hopes he just happened to have shattered the jar of preserved strawberry jam you’d been saving for a special occasion. Another hopes it isn’t. Finding that jam was a stroke of luck and you’d hate to see it wasted.
You get closer and crouch by his side. Holding out a finger under his nose, you sigh at the feeling of breath along your skin.
“That’s a good start,” you mutter and poke his cheek in hopes he wakes at the disturbance. He doesn’t.
There are no doctors around you. Calling for one could spell death for the man should you just sit and wait for one. Or worse, send the Peace Corps to your door when you fail to explain what happened.
Laying him fully down on the floor, you slice open his shirt—or what’s left of it—with a knife. The wound is ugly, just under the length of a ruler and running horizontally under his right ribcage, but not that deep. You think. And though you are no professional, you’ve patched up your fair share of aprons and worn socks. Running through the back, taking two stairs at a time, you scramble around your little apartment above the bakery and grab hold of whatever you deem useful before rushing down back to his side.
“Alright, buddy,”—you roll up your sleeves and snap on a pair of gloves—“no dying on bakery property. That’s a biohazard.”
You sterilize what you can—if he gets infected it’s partially his fault for not seeking a medical centre to faint in instead—and as it turns out, sewing up skin is much harder than you imagined. Up and over, you whipstitch the slash close and tie it off with a firm knot at the end. A bit uneven in spacing, you shrug and wipe it clean before wrapping the area in the hopefully clean bandages you’d found.
“Would be really helpful if you woke up right about now,” you say with a glance back at the clock, watching the minutes slip by.
Pushing him into the back corner of the kitchen, you hastily clean up everything. The blood, the sparse medical supplies, the knife you used to cut his shirt open, you leave no trace. And when you dawn your apron right after with your hands washed, it’s like nothing ever happened.
The day is faster than you expected. You bake, you restock the display case, take orders and brew coffees with way too many shots of espresso, all while praying the man in the back either wakes up and leaves through the back door or doesn’t and stays quiet until your hours are over. Fortunately for you, it’s the latter. You practically slam the sign against the glass door when flipping it to “Closed”, tossing your apron onto its designated hook and running back to check on your unconscious guest.
He finally awakes on the third day of his stay. You had set up a makeshift cot in the empty pantry. Shelves that once housed all kinds of special ingredients like flavoured extracts and spices now sit blank and empty. Jumping to your feet, you cross your arms and glare down at his bleary face.
“Look who’s finally joined us,” you say.
His left arm is tied to the leg of the cot, a fact he realizes as he reaches up to push his hair back out of his face. He only looks up at you, silent, and red eyes piercing through yours.
“You… going to tell me your name or…”
You sit back down when he refuses to answer.
“Come on, dude,” you groan. “I saved your life, risked my own life by harbouring a potential district hopper, and you’re not even giving me a th—”
“Thank you—”
You smile, a puff of pride expanding in your chest.
“But you shouldn’t have.”
⟡ 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⟡
“What’s your favourite dessert?”
Blade’s—you were successful in prying his name free from his mouth eventually and laughed at it right after—eyebrows crease together at the question, lips pursing into a small frown. He looks over and stares at you, his gaze intense as if willing you to look away. Unfortunately for him, you don’t. Three days you watched over him in his unconscious state and for another three he has been sitting in your home. He told you he’s waiting on a message before he can leave. So the least he can do until then is answer a few questions.
“Well?” you prod.
“It doesn’t matter.”
His eyes track you while you bounce from one end of the kitchen to the other, mixing and pouring batters. It’s Saturday, but you’ve been itching to test run some new treats.
“Of course it matters,” you snort. “Desserts can tell you a lot about people, you know.”
When he doesn’t reply, you continue on, cleaning up the mess on the counter.
“Tāngyuán,” you say under your breath. “Mine’s tāngyuán.”
Desserts and foods deemed "unnecessary for human productivity” were struck by the IPC. Ingredients are rationed and monitored with food tickets and any hint of someone reaching too out of the normal was to be swiftly dealt with. That doesn’t mean you can’t dream. The first time you had any sort of baked goods besides standard bread, cookies, and muffins was in the cozy comfort of your grandmother’s house. She had sat you on her lap with a soup spoon in hand, passing you small bites of the chewy rice balls and warm sesame paste. She taught you everything you needed to know about baking, about honouring heritage through food and stomach. You wonder what she would think of life now. You take the sheet cake from out of the oven.
“... My mother used to make that for me,” he replies with a similar whisper to yours.
Spreading a thin layer of strawberry jam and hand-whipped cream, you roll the cake up before slicing it into even pieces.
You smile down at the sight.
“Too bad I can’t make any for us,” you say.
“Mm,” he hums back.
⟡ 𝐈𝐕. 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⟡
“What’s all of this?”
Firefly had warned him about breaking away from the mission, but there was no way he was going to return to camp without leaving the Peace Corps in some sort of disarray. It was just by luck on their part they snagged a hit. He didn’t know how far he ran before they stopped their chase.
But when he awoke, it was to you.
You are an oddity to Blade. Strict to the rules, threatening to turn him in, but not once did you get anywhere near the red button he knew sat under the counter. He could’ve left earlier—he knew the way out of the district, multiple ways even—but he lied instead.
The Hunters had contacted him the minute he went quiet during the scuffle, but he ignored it in favour of staying behind to watch. It was like you opened up new worlds just by baking, entering a headspace that seemed to float above the clouds. Your stitches to his side were sloppy, but you moved around the kitchen with such grace. Not the type of poise crafted by the IPC, but one that showed you truly enjoyed what you did and what you made. He wondered what it would be like to insert himself into that peace you had made and in the end, he couldn’t see himself there.
True to his word, the minute Blade was better, he messaged Silverwolf and left. He didn’t want to stick around for long and leave you in a tougher spot.
But untrue to his self-made promise of staying away, he came back.
“Ingredients,” he says.
“I… can see that, but”—you look back at him—“for what?”
He purses his lips, trying to stifle a frown. He gestures to the bag again.
“Rice flour, brown sugar, ginger… black sesam—wait wait you want me to—”
“You said it was too bad you couldn’t make it for the both of us.” He shrugs. “Now you can.”
You pause and for a moment, Blade thinks you’ll turn him away from the door, curse at him for bringing contraband into the quaint life you’ve tried so hard to maintain.
“Do I want to know what you do for a living?” you huff with a small smile threatening to break your stern face. You go back into the bakery, leaving enough space for him to walk through the door.
He follows.
“Best not to.”
commentary : and then you guys eat tangyuan and it's al happy. man it’s been a while since i’ve written but i hope you enjoyed this! just some extra little bits of info i thought i’d mention when writing this hahah
inspired by: the list by patricia forde, the hunger games series, and heartless by marissa meyer
reader was originally going to be a florist but considering 1) your theme is abt baking and 2) i bake a lot myself and know jack-shit abt being a florist, i thought switching reader’s occupation to be a baker was more fitting
i went through 5 completely different ideas before landing on this one when it came to writing this fic TT
each section (fermentation, rising, etc) is related to the process of baking bread!
i had to cut so much out of this fic to make the deadline because otherwise it could've very well made it to 4.5k kdfjhkjfg so im very sorry if the world building doesn't make too much sense I WENT ON AUTOPILOT AT SOME POINT KFDJH
⟢ when the world won't stop spinning, and everyone seems to know everything yet nothing yet judge you all the same, kazuha vows to remain a constant through it all. ╱ word count : 0.5k.
join my taglist : @tragedy-of-commons @kazuinvocation @florinoir
notes : hehe hope you like this!! kazuha is def one of the best characters to write comfort content for so!! also no need to like write anything for me in return like you mentioned kjfdhj im happy to do this!! ive. got something else coming your way as well after this.
Kazuha always knew where to find you; the old gnarled maple out in the back gardens where the trunk had split and left a hollow centre made perfect for two bodies to reside, the quiet side of the docks where no one—not even a single worker—dared to wander (“They’re haunted,” you told him once. “No one wants to be where ghosts have been.”). Even amongst the sprawling shorelines of Watatsumi Island he could point you out with far too much ease.
He knew you, the greatest and most terrible reality of it all; he knew you like he knew the hilt of the sword and the smell of sorrow on the wind. Perhaps he prided himself on that just a smidge more than he should. And perhaps that was the greatest form his devotion could ever take.
It was no different this time.
The note left by the door was short and small: Needed a breather. Be back by sunset. It was signed off with a heart and smile, the lines too smooth and fluid. To the world and on paper you were by all means just “fine.” The type of fine you’d tell a coworker to get them off your back just until the end of a shift. The type of fine Kazuha always knew how to read through regardless. The sun, sitting low in the sky, followed Kauha out to the streets as the wind carried his every step towards you. Where that was, he wasn’t sure in his mind, though his body took care of the rest.
At the foot of the Narukami Shrine and amongst the sprawling roots was a little hideaway that many did not know how to access. Past the twin rock statues and over the thickest roots along the rocky floor, you sat cradled in the gnarled wood. You overlooked the hilltop, the sun filtering in through the foliage. He walked up behind you, quiet, and kneeled down by your side without a word and without asking for any of yours.
He didn’t speak until you did first.
“You found me.” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “How’d you know?”
“The wind told me.” He tilted his chin up and as if on cue, the leaves bristled and the wood creaked in a soft protest.
Kazuha wasn’t sure how to explain it to you otherwise. The wind knew you not just by name but by the shape of your soul and thrum of your pulse. When you laughed, the breeze chittered beneath his fingertips and swirled in the cusp of his palms. When you were sad it fell low, brushed against the backs of his calves. And perhaps when you were happier than just happy, it smelled of fresh maple and irises and the butterflies around the area hummed to the same frequency. He followed the sights, the sounds and the trails left behind in the transparent down until it brought him to the physical form of you.
“Too much?” He pressed his shoulder lightly against yours.
You nodded. “Too much.”
“We will head back when you’re ready.”
You frowned, leaning towards him in turn. “That could be a while. You can leave first.”
“And leave you to the world alone?” He laughed, hair swirling in the following gust that blew through the cavern. “How could I do that?”
categories : gn!reader. hybrid au. mainly crack. fluff. reverse hurt/comfort. smau.
warnings : “dear, love, babe, darling, sweetheart” used as a petnames. mentions of a “dead” animal (ayato). childe thinking the worst of a situation. vague mentions of overworking (kaveh). wrio’s contact name is mildly suggestive.
notes : wolf!wrio. cat!al haitham & ayato. puppy!childe. fox!heizoz. bunny!kaveh. deer!thoma. may or may not make a part two or a version with hsr men.
synopsis : one day, they believe it so, your pulse will align with theirs and theirs with you. today is not that day. in other words, a rainy day spent with your not-quite-there-yet relationship of sorts. ╱ word count : 2.4k
characters : anaxagoras, boothill, dan heng x gn!reader
categories : fluff, comfort. mutual pining stage and you're both aware of it, yet neither of you are choosing to make the first move. modern au.
warnings : mentions of food. swearing. boothill calls you "bug" as a petname. no use of y/n. not properly edited as i treated this as a warm up back into consistent writing. potentially ooc characterization i apologize.
taglist : @dawnsigil @tragedy-of-commons | join my taglist! | thank you to @rainswept for proofreading!
ANAXAGORAS !
Rain splattered against the waterlogged pavement, the sky just about as gloomy—if not more—as the sodden concrete underfoot as your feet pounded against the sidewalk. Rainwater slid down the shape of your cheeks as you ran against the flow. Kicking up the small puddles that had formed in the worn down crevices, the lack of an umbrella had left the hems of your bottoms soaked as you mad-dashed for the library entrance. You fumbled for your wallet, hands turning up empty, no student card in sight. With a string of curses, you grabbed the handle anyway and yanked—hard, so falsely sure that the door would yield with simplicity only for the loud rattle that followed to send you spiraling out of that fragile vision.
“No, c’mon,” you groaned, slamming your fist against the metal frame with a huff when it refused to budge. “Fuck!”
It wasn’t fair of you to take your frustration out on an inanimate object that was abiding by the rules it was created to follow—it was your fault for leaving your card in your other bag, yet you couldn’t help but give a last feeble kick before running a hand down your face. You glanced back out at the downpour, defeated. With a sigh, you readjusted your bag along your shoulder, steeling yourself to sprint across campus again to the dorms.
“What are you doing?”
You stopped midstep and whipped your head around, met with the gaze of a sharp honeydew-coloured iris. Arms crossed, Anaxagoras held the door open with his body weight, leaning against the glass with a mild scowl, the judgement and crumbs of fickle curiosity in his voice clear as he spoke up again.
“Were you trying to break in?” he said, almost haughtily.
Anaxagoras was dry. Not just in tone, but in clothing and practically everything else. He stared past you into the offending weather. You looked through him in turn.
“Flattered you think I’m strong enough to do so,” you snorted, hyperaware of the fabrics glued to your skin, the texture grating your already thinned-out nerves.
“You’re soaked.”
His face had softened a fraction, that much was clear, the hardened corner of his eye mellowing out like sanded soapstone. You feigned shock, eyes widening in a comical manner as you looked down at your clothing. Patting yourself down, you gasped, the inhale sharp in your lungs as the cold air danced around the space the muscle provided.
“Oh, wow!” you hummed. “I had no idea. Thank you for enlightening me.”
He sighed, eyelid falling shut for a moment before he pursed his lips and turned around, uncrossing his arms and keeping the door propped open with one hand. You only blinked, a question you weren’t even sure of how to ask caught in your throat. When you didn’t move an inch, he raised an eyebrow, a quiet amused huff leaving his nose.
“Well? Are you coming?” He paused and massaged a temple when your feet still refused to step forward. “That… was the whole idea, right?”
“... Right.”
It was dark inside. There weren’t any other students around, nor did there appear to be any other staff. The shelves were left sprawled along the floor, shadows blocky against the empty space, chasing—or rather running from—whatever slivers of light that slipped past the muddied clouds and were offered through the big windows along the back.
“And you wonder why the vampire rumours started,” you muttered.
“The power went out,” he replied, ignoring your pathetic attempt at the jovial and mundane, his phone flashlight shining directly at your face.
“Ow?” You rubbed at your eyes as he mumbled a half-hearted apology, moving the glare away from your sight, but only barely.
“Why did you come here?”
You hated when he did that. The cocky air that structured his tone had vanished, brief and fleeting, left soft like the belly of submission—no, desperation. Anaxagoras had always been unreadable. And you illiterate. Fingers skimming his cheeks, you read him foreign, strange and unnerving, too afraid to properly learn what the in between meant. He teased his heart at your feet, strings attached and all; you leapt for it every time and he pulled away just as eagerly.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s raining,” you snorted, trying in vain to dry the back of your neck as you dodged his gaze. “Needed a cover.”
The library was closed early on Fridays. He knew you knew. The one word texts you both exchanged, the frosty touch of his careful hands as they slid into your palms. His position as head librarian assistant kept him coddled to the quiet space, wrapped up in ink and tied with paper shreds. There’s no other place he would be. You knew that.
“Why are you here this late?” you replied, tone jagged, the point poised at his soft jugular.
He scoffed, looked away, “Go dry yourself off; you'll damage the floor. Or worse”—he peeled the rest of the light away from you, turning to march off to the staff room—“the books.”
You frowned, words biting in response—a half-joke turned sour at his behaviour. “You at least got a towel or something?”
Anaxagoras muttered what sounded like the word incompetence under his breath before diverting from his path, moving behind the front desk and ducking down, light dipping with him beneath the desk’s horizon.
He stood, let the world settle into place how it was before he bent his knees, before approaching closer, flashlight and now a towel in hand. He let out what you almost believed to be a chuckle at your vocalized confusion.
“You’d be surprised how many gym rats come here post-workout,” he said, just to fill the settling silence.
You wish you missed the tenderness in his hands when he draped it around your shoulders, the soft hitch of his breath when you brushed your hand against his reaching up to tug it tighter. You wished you had missed the messaging clear in Anaxagoras’ thinly pressed lips and short-lived stare. You wished you didn’t know how to read him.
“Thank you,” you said. It was all you could do.
‘Mhm,” he hummed with a jerky nod, “sure.”
BOOTHILL !
The bus had been delayed again. Thumb stuck in a rhythm of mindless scrolling, you tugged out an earbud, massaging the sore outer area of your ear. The rain still refused to let up. You leaned forward and droplets landed in your outstretched palm, cold against your skin. Sinking back into the bench, you glued your eyes to the sky through the see-through undercover, the weather making its own version of music with every splat that landed. You sighed, pulling at the frayed knots at the end of your hoodie strings.
“Hey there, stranger.”
You bit your cheek, but didn’t bother to turn to look. The slight drawl to Boothill’s voice gave him away in an instant anyway.
“Hey yourself.”
He beamed at the response, not unlike how the streetlamps lined up in rows at midnight, face glowing. Perhaps he expected less from you. Sharp teeth, sharp hands and touch, he was tender once just as you were.
“Thought you would’ve booked it home already,” you mused.
He shrugged. “The prof was in a mood. Kept us longer.”
Boothill shuffled in place, hoisting his bag strap higher up on his shoulder. You shifted in turn; it wasn’t much, but it was enough permission for him—with a careful tip of his head—to plop down on the bench, leaving the middle space open for another to fit. Your earbud still dangled down the front of your clothing, music faintly playing out of it. It felt too awkward to slip it back in.
“Haven’t seen you ‘round lately.” He shook his head after a moment. “Takin’ a different route home these days?”
Different time, maybe, but you wouldn’t say you were avoiding him, no. That would be cruel. The library was just a nice place to study after class.
It was your turn to shrug. “Something like that.”
He nodded, eyes kept to the road in front of you. Silence dug its thin fingers into the meat of your neck, nails biting along the lining of your throat as you swallowed down any words that came with the pin pricks. You drummed your fingers against your opposite arm.
“Thought you hated me.”
You almost lost what he’d said amongst the thick static of the rain.
You shifted in your seat. “How could I?”
“You never spoke to me after.”
“You… never did either.”
He laughed, a little keener, more jaded, the world failing to bloom with colour like how it usually did whenever he opened up his joy.
“You were avoidin’ me, bug”—he shook his head with a tsk—“couldn’t even if I wanted.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” He settled back into the bench, the drawl gone as he sighed, nothing if not a little bitter. “You hundred percent were.”
Tense was the lull that followed. Hands balled into weak fists, head bowed in what you refused to call shame—just… exhaustion, the exhale you let out was shakier than you wanted. Boothill watched you. You knew he was, gunmetal eyes trained to your less-than-regal look. He stood up, face scrunched up in displeasure.
“Fine then.”
“I don’t hate you,” you blurted out.
He paused. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what’re we?”
“I…” you faltered, bravado lost as you trailed off into a whisper. “I don’t know.”
He sat back down, running a hand through his hair and twirling a strand around his finger.
“We should figure that out then, bug.”
“Then let’s start over.”
It was as if he’s forgotten how to speak, air stalling in his lungs as he fought to reply back with a weak, “Yeah?”
You nodded and smiled, careful. “Hey, stranger.”
He finally breathed back out, a smile mellowed out to a faint curl of the lips, teeth left hidden, the world less dull. “Hey yourself.”
DAN HENG !
Out of all equations in the universe, you were the one Dan Heng couldn’t solve. The dorm was quiet; not uncomfortably so as to call it awkward, but the type of silence that always happened when you were both together. Books were left open. Some on the couch, others on the floor, there were four still stacked neatly off to the side. Left until the last minute, you typed as if it were the last day on Earth. Perhaps it was. The soft clack of keys filled up the void that ate away at the room as you sat hunched over your laptop, the essay you’d sworn you’d have enough time to do glaring through the screen. You panic-called him in hopes a joint study session would magically help you hit the ten page requirement by midnight. It’d been a while, he realized during your frantic rambles over the phone—the pleas landing in one ear and out the other, since you two had been alone.
A frown marred his face as he read the time. His own work had been stagnant, stiff, the cursor barely having made a dent. He loathed to admit his cause of distraction.
“We should take a break.”
“Huh? Yeah?” You remarked, quite intelligently, not even sparing him the kindness of a look.
He sighed, making sure to save his own work before shutting down his laptop for the hour, and leaned forward, snapping his fingers in front of your face to garner your attention. The corner of his mouth twitched when your dry eyes peeled themselves away from the document and finally met his. Foolish, he was, when the air in his chest hitched as you did so.
“Break time?” he asked, quieter this time, unsure whether he could speak any louder without his voice breaking around the lump of jade in his throat.
You paused and huffed, glancing back at the glowing screen before, with a resigned groan, you saved your own progress and rubbed out your eyes. He had half a mind to stop himself before he could reach out and tug your hand away, lips pursed at the aggressiveness of the action. You stretched your arms out, shoulders popping in weak protest as your back lit up like new years.
“Fine,” you muttered, though Dan Heng didn’t miss the gratefulness hidden beneath the salted bites of your words.
“Is tea okay?”
You nodded. His knees ached as he stood, the joints sighing and letting their relief be known by the way they popped. The motions were simple: pull out the mugs, wait for the water in the kettle to boil, drop the tea bags in the mugs, let the tea steep. He stared at the filters, wished he had better to offer; loose leaf would be best next time.
Dan Heng didn’t beat around the bush, not usually. Blunt to most, reserved to others if they wished to be polite about it, but after being caught in your orbit, he found himself spinning rapidly out of control. He remembered the way your hand slipped out of his own, how you waved goodbye after running through campus with him, left to dangle by his side as the world held its breath for a moment. The world was still waiting.
A pale amber swirled around in the mugs as he shifted the tea bags, the handles slotting into the crevice of his palms as he stood in the middle of the small kitchenette.
What are we?
It was on the tip of his tongue, the lone silver bullet that was left loaded in his mind since you last spoke. It would be so easy to say. It would be harder to hear. But there was no doubt that he wanted more, that he wouldn’t be fully content until he had more—had you in his palms.
He set one mug in front of you, kept the other clasped in his hands. The warmth was steady, solid, the liquid scalding his tongue.
“So,” he started, “how’s the essay so far?”
If his words were clunky, too short and stiff, you didn’t seem to pay any mind as you launched into grievances and complaints about arguments falling flat, how utterly doomed you were for the deadline. Dan Heng sat there, quiet but not quite invisible enough for you to forget about. He laughed when needed, filled in cracks with dry comments, and for a moment, it didn’t matter what you were to him and he to you. And maybe, that was all he needed to be.
notes : i really wanted my next post to be a longer fic but 💔💔 it's always good to warm up instead!
synopsis : through every universe, every cycle of rebirth, he will always find you. in which kazuha loves all versions of you; in every timeline, every universe, every breath or non-breath he takes. ╱ word count : 1.7k
characters : kazuha x gn!reader
categories : fluff. mild angst. yearning. royalty au. country x city trope. hospital au. modern au. apocalypse & post-apocalypse aus. idol au. inanimate object / nature au?? lot's of aus. 8 + 1 fic.
warnings : rusty writing (it's been a hot minute my bad-). brief major character deaths. mention of blood / injury / violence / drowning. illness in characters + family members. fire. zombies. mentions / vague descriptions of death in general.
dedicated to : @yuomizuu, from your stellaronhvnter secret santa :3c when i saw kazuha on your list, i jumped for joy; he’s one of my top genshin characters & im so happy to have an excuse to write for him! // playlist i was listening to while writing // art by @.mayu_mey on twt
In one universe, Kazuha bumps into you on the street.
Bundles of scrolls and parchment spill from your arms, delicate writing muddied with dirt as the commotion on the street barely comes to a halt. Onlookers scowl and grumble, moving past without a second thought as you scramble to collect your things from the footpath, movements hastened by the spear-tips aiming your way.
Cape a deep crimson with delicate fur trim, the Kaedehara family crest is embroidered on the back in gold thread. Kazuha always thought it was unnecessary to flaunt his status, preferring respect of the family name over awe of his wealth. But being a gift from a dear friend, he wears it more often than not. In cases like these, he wishes he hadn’t. Your eyes catch the glint of his garments, and you freeze, petrified.
Lowering to a crouch, Kazuha waves away his guards with dimmissive hand, gloved hands working to collect fallen sheets.
“Are you alright?” he asks, voice kind and with a smile. He holds out a scroll for you to take back. Your fingers brush his.
“Yes…” you mutter back, somewhat sheepish. You quickly rise to your feet and offer him a bow. “My apologies, Your Highness.”
“No need for it.”
He offers to walk you to your destination. You decline. He insists. The two of you both make it to the library in quick succession, the others on the road making way the minute the red of his cape is seen.
“This is quite unnecessary, Your Highness.” Kazuha looks over at you. You smile when he meets your eyes. “It was I who bumped into you. There was no need to escort me back.”
“Ah, but I wanted to.”
It’s when you’re inside, the door closed behind you, that Kazuha stops to stare at where you’d once stood. His cheeks are rosy with warmth.
“Are you alright, Your Highness?” one of the guards prods, hesitant. “You seem a bit… flushed.”
“I’m more than alright.”
The kingdom falls before he can see you again.
Flames engulf houses and shops; fire starved and ravenous, it becomes a glutton as it licks up the side of the library. His horse whinnies and backs away when the heat gets to be too much, but Kazuha can’t seem to pull himself away from the sight. He needs to leave. He needs to leave. Run. Run. Run. Run—
Some part of him hopes you made it out unscathed, heart heavy as the shouts of enemy troops chase after him. You would’ve liked the palace archives, he thinks, salt trailing down ash-stained cheeks as the ruins disappear in the distance.
—
In one universe, you’ve just moved from the city to the countryside.
As your new neighbour, Kazuha took it upon himself to welcome you. The rest of the area had heard about your reasonings: a relative of yours who owned the house you’d be staying in has fallen ill. You’re here to keep things in order while they receive treatment.
Basket full of fresh fruit from his own farm, he stands outside your door with a nervous frown. His heart beats erratically in his chest, pulse ricocheting off the bones of his ribs. It’s never like him to be so jittery when greeting others. Readjusting his grip, Kazuha sucks in a breath and knocks.
You shout back, “Just a sec!”
There’s a brief moment where Kazuha debates leaving, dropping the basket and running. He digs his heels into the ground. The door opens with a click. You smile and—
Oh.
He’s been here before, hasn't he?
Cheeks turning a soft pink, he grins back, holding out the basket.
“A little welcome gift,” he says, “from your new neighbour.”
You take the basket from him; your fingers don’t touch his. Is it weird that he wishes they did? Kazuha comes back the next day, handing you a bunch of mail and a package. You invite him to stay this time.
Kazuha swears he’s seen you before, that you moving wasn’t a coincidence judging by the butterflies that eat at his stomach lining. Whatever it is, you don’t remember him like how he thinks of you.
You return to the city months later, leaving the confession on the tip of his tongue.
—
In one universe, you are the wind that greets him every morning.
The hospital room is stuffy, void of colour except for the stack of “Get well soon!” cards and deflating balloons shoved by his bedside. He misses the farm, he decides, the vast openness of the trees and fields. The smell of medicine had stung his nose at first; now it’s barely there. Kazuha stares out at the sunrise, smiling to himself when a familiar breeze slips through the crack of his window. Bathed in gold with the sun speckled in his hair, he strains an arm and grasps onto a well-loved notepad and pen.
“One day,” he murmurs, voice airy as he jots down the date, “I’ll be out there too.”
—
In one universe, you’re a birdhouse and he’s the bird.
The seeds are kept well stocked; the shelter you provide is always dry. You both get swept away in a windstorm.
—
In one universe, he is a star.
Rubble and debris from what were once towering builds block any type of path you may have been able to venture. Despite the lack of them, the stench of walking death still permeates the air.
“Shouldn’t have taken that shortcut,” you mumble, grunting when your foot catches on another root.
The trees grow thicker and you swear you’ve passed this part of the woods already. You grumble a string of profanities, plopping down to the forest floor and leaning against the bark. You look up.
“You’re here at least.” The words are soft, much too gentle for the atmosphere. Kazuha doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. “You’d scold me for scavenging this late. I know it.”
The star grows brighter, as if laughing.
—
In one universe, Kazuha’s flesh can be tasted on your tongue.
Tied up in the corner, your arms pinned behind your back, he sits about two metres away in front of you on a broken crate. The gun lays loaded in his lap. Eyes closed with his head down, fingers resting on the cool metal, Kazuha’s lips stretch into a thin line.
“It’s not right,” he mutters, mainly to himself as you thrash in the corner, desperate to reach him. “It’s not my right to rob you of life.”
You snarl in response. Eyes bloodshot and crazed, he wonders if you can still understand him. Would you plead for him to shoot you? Would you beg to be spared? Could he bear to do either? He’s going to be sick.
“It’s not right,” he repeats, shaky hands curling in his lap. “It’s you and me. We haven’t come all this way just to end.”
The world has taken enough from him. Kazuha refuses to let it take you too; not without him.
He stands in front of you. The gun lays off to the side.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice screams at him not to fold. They wouldn’t want this, it wails, clawing at the walls of his skull. Another tells him, Do it. And so Kazuha undoes your binds, kisses you, smiles tearfully when your nails claw into his skin. Blood runs down his back, stains his tattered clothing. He hugs you. Your jaws clamp down on the junction of his neck and shoulder. His nose brushes against your jaw.
“It’s ok,” he whispers to ears that cannot hear reason, hold tightening, “we’ll be ok.”
—
In one universe, you two never meet. Not face-to-face at least.
Kazuha smiles at the camera, holding up a peace-sign, before the view switches to another member on stage. The clip goes viral very shortly after its creation. You come across it one day.
“An idol, huh…” you mutter.
You scroll away.
—
In one universe, he’s stuck behind a screen, a watcher to your world as you go through the motions of life.
Fate isn’t his, but he can’t seem to mind. When his splash art first coloured your screen, when he first witnessed that giddy look in your eyes, Kazuha knew he was smitten.
Even if you ult at the wrong times, run out of stamina in the middle of climbing, skip dialogue, Kazuha is there beside you. For every beginning, end, every plotline in between, he’s a staple of your team.
One day, you stop logging in. It was gradual at first; daily tasks, some resin here and there, you’d skip a day then come back the next. A day turned into two. Then three. A week. A month. Kazuha still waits. It’s funny how his world comes to a standstill when you do. He hopes you’re doing well.
—
In one universe, he is a leaf and you are a river cutting through the forest.
He drowns in your embrace, waterlogged and swept away as you carry him down stream. If he had a conscience, Kazuha would do it again.
—
In this universe, it’s finally Kazuha and you. (There is no need to say he loves you when his name is already beside yours.)
Kazuha watches as you pack up your things. He stands from his spot next to you, bag slung over his shoulder as he waits. Other students are already leaving the lecture hall, milling about as he admires you from this short distance.
In this universe, it’s been Kazuha and you since birth. Friends since forever, it surprised no one when both of you confessed. It would be nice if every universe were like this.
“You’re staring.”
He blinks, hand finding yours automatically. You squeeze back.
“It’s hard not to when you look like that,” he teases back.
“C’mon, the winter festival is starting soon.” You roll your eyes.
Foot catching on the chair, Kazuha steadies you before your books can fall out of your hands, giggling when you’re quick to apologize.
“I had a weird dream last night,” he blurts out once you’re back to standing.
“About me falling?”
“More than that.” He traces your skin with his thumb, lost in thought before speaking again. “I’ll walk you back to your dorm. Drop off your stuff and all.”
“Nah, I can just meet up with you.”
Would it be nice if every universe were like this? That’s silly, he thinks with a smile. No world could make me love you less.
“I insist.”
notes : inspired by multiverse concepts, including “everything, everywhere, all at once,” arcane, the "do you think we're together in every universe?" trend, and this one poem i read that i can’t remember. this ended up being shorter than i thought it would be, but there are a lot of parallels between scenes and such so i hope those were caught! apologies if the prose doesn't flow too well TwT
categories : gn!reader. crack. smau
characters : caelus, dan heng, ratio, mydei, sampo.
warnings : mentions of stalking. wolf/kitten/alpha jokes. mild swearing. mentions of a car crash. mention of war.
notes : mydei written before release! characters are not all saying what my irls have said and vice versa. in other words, i mixed up some stuff based on who i think would say what. guess whether it were me who said smth or not
tags: @tragedy-of-commons @rusted-pride @pneumosia @wystiix | join my taglist !
[ !! ] — masterlist.
info: wriothesley x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, patching up injuries, scenario warnings: mentions of blood, injuries
notes: unfinished again bc um too much and i’ll be accidentally spoiling the 5+1 fic i have planned for him. basically a little ‘who did this to you?” type of post while i work on some longer stuff. could be seen as criminal!reader x wriothesley but i have a different post planned for that :))
the fortress creaked and groaned as the metal settled, mingled with a sigh as wriothesley stretched out his back, joints popping as he cracked his neck. he glanced at the clock that sat on the corner of his desk. the brass still had a gleam to it despite the weathered look.
“sigewinne is probably ready to turn in for the night,” he muttered to himself, scratching the back of his neck, and stood up out of his chair.
wriothesley collected the couple papers he still needed to look over into a small pile and walked out of his office. muffled shouts could be heard from further in the fortress, clipped conversations and frantic yells startling the duke as he turned the corner.
“what in the..” he trailed off as he walked closer.
“where’s the medi-“
“-winne has gone ho-“
“don’t move, y/n!”
the last phrase was a full sentence, one that made his blood freeze. he paused in his steps, eyes widening a fraction before he hastily ran down to the source of the shouting; the main floor was bustling when he arrived, items being passed around as a small group of people gathered around a specific area.
“sir, you shouldn’t-”
“shouldn’t what?” he gritted out, voice gruff as he shook off the secretary’s arm, watching with mild satisfaction as she backed away and nodded in understanding.
“wriothesley?” he snapped his head to the sound of your voice to where his neck almost came clean off. his brow furrowed as he drew closer, noting the tears in your clothing and the gash on your side.
“what happened?” it sounded like less of a question and more of a demand; he was fully expecting answer of who would even think to attack you.
you grinned sheepishly, wincing as you moved your arm and waved at him.
“that’s a funny story actually. you see-“
“i’m not here for silly little stories, y/n, voice low, he crouched down and lightly placed a hand on your cheek. “i’ll say this one more time before i go out and hunt the bastard down myself.”
he stared you dead in the eyes, anger displayed in them but concern and worry was clearly present as well.
