hello!!! i rlly like ur writing!! can i request jing yuan and mydei with a fem!reader who they’re arranged to get married too who’s distrustful of everyone but slowly falls in love with them? like maybe jing yuan/mydei learn abt the reader’s interests like her fav jewelry and what kind of clothes she likes or her food preferences which she isnt used to being the one receiving affection and is skeptical at first but ends up trusting and falling for them? im a sucker for arranged marriage to lovers ahaha anyway tyy for feeding us so much hsr content im always fed by ur posts
To Be Chosen, Not Commanded
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Female!Reader Arranged Marriage to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Reader is Distrustful/Emotionally Guarded, Soft Romance/Emotional Intimacy, Gentle Affection, Mutual Respect, Subtle Flirting, Soft Angst with Comfort, Learning Each Other’s Love Language, Reader Finds Safety in Love, Fluff with Depth.
Warnings: Emotional Guardedness/Trust Issues, Mentions of War/Political Alliances, Implied Past Trauma/Betrayal, Mentions of Death (comrades, past losses), Power Dynamics (though handled with mutual respect and consent), Cultural Displacement/Reader Feeling Like an Outsider, Mild Themes of Isolation.
A/N: God, I love these types of tropes 🙏🙏
The Kremnoan banner never flew at your wedding. That had been your one condition.
You didn't trust Mydei—Mydeimos, as the ancient texts named him. The Last Prince. Guardian of Amphoreus. A legend wrapped in golden armor and red war paint. He was a man burdened by prophecy and war, not fit to share a quiet future with someone like you, let alone a throne.
Yet the alliance between your city and the remnants of Castrum Kremnos depended on this union. So, reluctantly, you said yes.
The first weeks were civil. He never overstepped. He never touched you unless you offered a hand, and even then, his fingers hovered like you were made of ash and might vanish in the wind.
But then you noticed the little things.
At the banquet in Okhema, your favorite drink—appeared quietly beside your plate. Mydei said nothing. But when you looked up, he was already sipping a strange mixture of pomegranate juice with goat’s milk and grated cheese, a flicker of amusement in his golden eyes.
Days later, a gift awaited you in your quarters: a pendant, etched with subtle flame motifs, not gaudy like the Kremnoan jewels you'd always hated, but elegant—crafted in the style of your mother's homeland. A note attached read: "Not all flames burn. Some simply warm."
You found him outside, sparring shirtless beneath the moon, tribal markings alive beneath the sweat of combat. His gaze flicked to you, but he didn’t speak.
You approached. “How did you know about the drink? Or the necklace?”
“I listen,” he said, tone matter-of-fact. “You never speak your trust. So I learned to read the silences.”
That night, when he knelt beside your bed to wrap a protective ward before your journey to Okhema, you touched his shoulder. Just for a moment. A simple press of your palm to armor-worn skin.
“You’re still a stranger,” you whispered.
He nodded, voice low. “Then let me remain one—until you decide to name me something more.”
And you did, slowly.
In firelit war camps, where he combed blood from your hair with patient fingers. In quiet hours when he taught you the names of fallen stars. In the way he never claimed your hand in public, only offering it—every time—with a look that asked, "May I?"
You trusted no one.
Until Mydei proved he was worth trusting—not because of a title, but because he asked for nothing you weren’t willing to give.
When the match was proposed, you thought it a trap.
And when the black tide finally surged, when all of Amphoreus burned behind you, you rode beside him—not as a reluctant bride, but as a queen who had chosen her lion.
Marrying the Divine Foresight? The man whose very title suggested he saw everything—including your vulnerabilities?
You arrived on the Xianzhou Luofu with guarded eyes and a frozen heart. Jing Yuan greeted you with a polite bow, all silver hair and golden eyes too serene to trust.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t press. He just smiled—the kind of smile that could be a weapon or a kindness, and you couldn't tell which.
He let you keep your own residence. He never summoned you to dinners or ceremonies without a personal message asking for your preference. You hated that.
You were used to men demanding. Kings. Lords. Even supposed suitors. Jing Yuan didn’t demand.
He simply waited.
Until one day, a Cloud Knight appeared at your door with a delicate, custom-embroidered robe. Not in Luofu colors, but stitched with your favorite shade(s) and edged with subtle patterns from your homeland’s flora.
You confronted him.
“Why would you give me this? I never asked for it.”
He was feeding Snowmoon, the rumored lion who immediately curled around your legs, purring.
“I observed you admiring a merchant’s fabric three weeks ago. You ran your fingers over the silk, but didn’t buy it. I asked Tailor Zhen to recreate it.”
You faltered. “Why?”
He didn’t look at you. “You seemed… tired of being unnoticed.”
He was right. And you hated that.
But then it continued.
He stopped your meals from including ginger—you hated ginger, and you hadn’t said a word. He gifted you a hairpin crafted like a quill when he discovered you journaled. He started sending poetry, not romantic, but clever, often teasing, sometimes wistful.
And one night, when you wandered the Luofu gardens and found him asleep against a tree, scrolls scattered and a blade by his side, you sat beside him.
“Why are you so patient with me?”
Jing Yuan opened one eye. “Because I am in no rush to win you—I am only waiting for you to realize you were never alone.”
That night, you stayed. Not out of obligation. Not for the alliance.
But because for the first time, you weren’t being pursued—you were being understood.
And slowly, steadily, you began to fall.
The "Dozing General" never forced you to love him. He simply built a world where you felt safe enough to try.
Summary: You plan a private birthday celebration for Samatoki, just the two of you. Over a warm meal and soft conversation, you gently express your worry about how much he smokes and how it affects him. Instead of brushing it off, he listens. He lowers the cigarette, chooses you instead, and promises to try. The night continues with a slow dance in the room, no grand declarations, just the steady heartbeat of someone learning to lean on love instead of old habits.
The celebration wasn’t loud. It wasn’t crowded or flashy or full of troublesome people who picked fights just because they could. No, it was warm, quiet, and private. Blue and silver ribbons drifted in the air like soft waves of the Yokohama tide, and the lights glowed gently against the table you prepared.
A perfectly roasted dish, steaming dumplings, and a smooth bottle of liquor.
No carrots. No bell peppers.
Just the things he likes.
Samatoki sat casually at the chair, leg crossed, dressed in a deep blue suit that framed his broad shoulders. His shirt collar was left slightly open, revealing the necklace resting against his collarbones. His silver hair fell loosely, just messy enough to look unbearably attractive.
And those crimson eyes, focused entirely on you.
“Tch… so this was what you were up to,” he muttered, amusement in his tone. “Sneaky.”
You smiled. “I wanted today to be special. Just us.”
His lips curved, subtle but real.
“Yeah… I can tell.”
You sat beside him while he began to eat, pouring him another drink. Everything was peaceful - so peaceful he looked almost relaxed. The tension in his shoulders had eased into something softer.
After a while, he reached for a cigarette, a movement so natural to him it was practically muscle memory. The lighter clicked open.
“...Wait,” you said gently.
He paused. An eyebrow raised.
“What?”
You met his gaze, not stern, not accusing, just honest.
“I know smoking helps you calm down,” you began, voice soft. “But… you’ve been relying on it a lot lately. And I’m worried about your health, ‘toki. I want you to stay for a long time.”
His hand stilled, the flame unlit.
You leaned closer, speaking quietly.
“I’m not telling you to quit outright. Just… maybe not every time you feel something heavy. You can lean on me too. I want to be someone you rely on.”
Silence settled, in a meaningful kind.
The lighter snapped shut.
He lowered the cigarette.
His expression didn’t harden. It softened, something rare and real.
“You really don’t hold back when it comes to me,” he muttered. His voice wasn’t irritated, it was low, and thoughtful.
“Because I care,” you said. “A lot.”
He exhaled, not smoke - just breath, honest and quiet.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” you asked.
“Like I’m worth worrying about,” he muttered, though his eyes softened. “Makes me wanna try harder for you.”
Your heart tightened.
“So try.”
He didn’t respond with words immediately, instead, he stood from his chair and stepped closer, his hand slipping to the side of your face, thumb brushing gently along your cheek. His touch was warm, grounding.
“…Alright,” he murmured. “For you, I’ll try to cut back.”
Your eyes widened, soft with relief.
“Really?”
He gave that rare crooked smile, the one that only came out when something reached him deeper than he wanted to admit.
“Yeah. I don’t say shit I don’t mean.”
And then, slowly without rush, without force, he leaned in.
His lips met yours.
The kiss wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was warm. Slow and intentional. Like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he wanted the feeling of your lips to replace the smoke he used to chase.
You leaned into him, your fingers curling lightly at his suit jacket, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you firmly secure but gentle.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“…Happy birthday, 'toki,” you whispered, breath warm against his lips.
He let out a quiet laugh, small, genuine, and a little shy.
“Yeah. Happy birthday to me… I guess I got a hell of a present.”
His hand stayed at your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he didn’t want to let go.
And for the first time in a long time,
he didn’t reach for the cigarette.
He reached for you.
Samatoki’s thumb was still brushing your cheek when he finally stepped back, just enough to look at you clearly. The confetti had settled on the floor, ribbons swayed lazily with the faint movement of the air conditioner. The room was quiet - beautifully, comfortably quiet.
But the moment didn’t feel empty.
It felt full.
You stood there together, breath mingling, hearts steadying.
Then a soft song began to play. Something slow, the type you wouldn’t expect him to listen to. No heavy beats, no bass, just a gentle tune that filled the room without taking up space.
You blinked.
“…You put music on?”
He gave a small shrug, trying to play it off.
“Just figured… the room was too damn quiet.”
You smiled, stepping toward him.
He didn’t ask. He simply reached one hand at your waist, the other finding your fingers. His grip was warm, sure.
You placed your other hand on his chest, right over the steady beat beneath the fabric.
You began to sway.
Not gracefully, not perfectly, but together.
Your steps were small, slow, the kind of dance where the world didn’t exist outside the rhythm of a heartbeat. His heartbeat.
Samatoki’s gaze stayed on you, softer than the lights around you.
“…Haven’t danced in a while,” he muttered.
“You’re doing fine,” you whispered.
“Tch. Don’t patronize me.”
But he didn’t let go.
If anything, he pulled you closer, his forehead brushing yours again. The scent of his cologne, clean and warm, replaced the usual haze of smoke that would have lingered.And it felt good.
It felt right.
NOTES:
⌯⌲ Happy birthday, Samatoki 🩵
⌯⌲ Song inspo: Oh to be loved by JVKE
⌯⌲ Ao3 vers.
⌯⌲ Samatoki birthday (2025) voiceline:
"Oh, that reminds me, today is my birthday... I don't really need anything. Just a birthday greeting would be enough."
bit of an odd request sorry but can you please write a scenario where reader feels very guilty receiving gifts/spending too much money on themselves? (but wont hesitate to get something nice for their so) with ratio, anaxa, and dan heng? thanks
The Cost of Kindness
Tags: Ratio x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Gift-Giving/Receiving, Emotional Intimacy, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Moments, Established Relationship, Fluff With Depth, Mutual Respect, Supportive Partner Dynamics, Slight Angst (Mostly Resolved).
Warnings: Emotional Vulnerability/Guilt Themes (Reader struggles with self-worth and receiving affection through material gifts), Mild Angst.
You stared down at the gilded box in your hands, its silk ribbon shimmering in the light like an accusation. The shopkeeper had even triple-wrapped it, as if to seal your guilt inside. You hadn’t asked for this. You were supposed to be helping Ratio find a replacement core for one of his experimental scanners—not being dragged to a boutique and handed a box containing a timepiece that probably cost more than your monthly rent.
“This is... too much,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes.
Ratio, always precise, adjusted his gloves before replying. “It is not ‘too much.’ It’s precise compensation for your value.”
Your brows knit. “I’m not some equation to balance.
“No,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re the constant I didn’t know I needed. And I value constants.”
You looked away. You’d never flinched at buying him expensive journals or rare data drives—he needed those. But spending this much on yourself? It felt wrong, indulgent.
“I just don’t think I deserve it.”
Ratio tilted his head, a slow smile curling at his lips. “And yet, when I find pre-collapse astronomy archives and name a galaxy after you, you don’t bat an eye.”
“That’s different,” you mumbled.
“How?”
“Because you’re worth it.”
He chuckled—dry, but not unkind. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
A pause. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a second gift. Smaller. Rougher. A stone pendant, carved clumsily into the shape of a book.
“I made this,” he said, placing it in your hand. “Cheap. Sentimental. Crude craftsmanship.”
You looked up, stunned. “Ratio…”
He raised a brow. “Do you still feel guilty accepting this?”
“No,” you admitted.
“Then let that be your proof. Value isn’t about price. It’s about intent.” His voice softened. “You mean more to me than theory, thesis, or thesis rebuttal. Let me show that. Occasionally.”
You let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Alright... but next time, we’re budgeting.”
Ratio smirked. “Deal—though I make no promises.”
The sky over the city shimmered like broken glass, fragments of twilight casting hues of gold over Anaxagoras’s shoulders as he unfurled a scroll. “This,” he declared with theatrical flair, “is the last of the Damaskan thread-spellworks. A relic woven from symphonies.”
You stared at it. Woven relic or not, your heart panged. “Anaxa... that must have cost you half your lecture fund.”
“Only a third,” he corrected. “Besides, I reallocated some grant money. They never check the divine philosophy budget.”
“That’s not the point.” You folded your arms, teeth gritted. “You shouldn’t spend that much on me. I can’t— I don’t need—”
His look silenced you. Not angry. But... deeply curious.
“You have gifted me relics, tomes, and forbidden relic-shards,” he said slowly. “You once snuck past library curators to recover a broken fragment of my own treatise—in my defense I had burned it in a rather self-loathing episode.”
You looked away. “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re you. You give meaning to madness. You’re worth every risk.”
Anaxagoras chuckled, then dropped to one knee, the scroll still glowing in his hands. “And you are my lodestar. The one fixed truth in my shifting mind.”
He pressed the scroll gently into your hands. “This isn’t about worth. It’s about recognition. About saying, ‘You are seen. You matter.’”
You bit your lip, guilt still clawing inside—but softened by the sincerity in his storm-washed eyes.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Let me honor you. As you have honored the foolish, the damned, and the divine.”
“…Alright,” you whispered. “But I’m sewing your next robe myself.”
He smirked. “Only if it comes with a pocket for contraband manuscripts.”
The Astral Express hummed quietly in the background, a lullaby of stars and steam. You held the scarf in your hands—a pale blue weave, soft as starlight, lined with subtle cloud patterns. Dan Heng had handed it to you without fanfare. No tag. No price. Just… him, awkwardly scratching his neck, murmuring something about “weather adaptation.”
“Dan…” you began, voice catching. “You shouldn’t have.”
He frowned. “You needed something warmer. I noticed you shivering on Jarilo-VI.”
“I could’ve picked something up later. This is... too nice.”
“You bought me that calligraphy set last week,” he countered softly.
“That’s different! You actually use that.”
He looked at you quietly for a moment. “And you use warmth. You deserve comfort.”
The words struck a chord. You didn’t feel like you deserved it. Spending money on yourself made your chest feel tight—guilt like a coil. But Dan Heng didn’t say more. He simply took the scarf, stepped behind you, and gently wrapped it around your shoulders.
“You don’t need to earn kindness,” he said. “Not with me.”
You felt the quiet weight of his presence—solid, grounding. A storm-stilled moment. You reached back to rest your hand against his.
“I still feel guilty,” you admitted.
He didn’t respond immediately, just let the silence stretch.
“Then let’s share it,” he said finally. “I’ll give you warmth. You keep giving me light.”
