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[jng-yuan]

So I saw a few drivers talking about Colapinto’s start, and here it is.

It’s crazily impressive how he dives into the first corner

[jng-yuan]

First Loser | MV1

Summary: In the wake of a disastrous race, you're caught under the media's unforgiving glare. Your every move and word being dissected for days on end as you simply try to navigate your rookie year in Formula One. It is just your luck that your opponent in this fiasco is none other than the famously outspoken Max Verstappen, whose relentless jabs only add to your frustrations.  Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader Word Count: 8k Warnings: accident, anxiety, enemies to lovers Also on AO3

The air rushes into your lungs with ragged intensity, each inhale a searing burn that seems to set your chest aflame. The tight straps of the safety belt only exacerbate the struggle, constricting your breathing while your hands uselessly claw at the buckle. Muscles so unbelievably stiff that every movement make it feel like needles are digging into your skin.  

You force your eyes open, vision swimming in a blur of unrecognizable shapes and distorted shadows. Blood is surging through your veins like molten lava, pooling into a searing knot at the center of your chest. It pounds furiously against your ribs, each thunderous beat reverberating through the tempest of thoughts that swirl uncontrollably in your mind. 

You’re out. Done. Everything you worked for, everything you hoped for, slipping through your fingers like sand. 

Frustration boils over, erupting into raw, unchecked rage. You slam your foot down on the pedals with every ounce of strength you can muster, your fists pounding against the nearest surface with resounding thuds. The sounds are deafening in the confined space of the cockpit, a violent release that leaves your hands stinging and a wave of dizziness washing over you. 

A sigh slides through your lips. What are you even doing? You are too out of it. 

You slump back into the seat, your resolve crumbling as fatigue overwhelms you. The battle to keep your eyes open only intensifying the pounding in your head. What’s the point anyway? The scene before you is devastating —barriers looming over your side, a twisted wheel perched precariously on the hood of your car, and just ahead, a dark Formula One car buried in the gravel. 

That fucking Red Bull. 

Tears begin to pool in your eyes as the adrenaline that once chased the away slowly drains, leaving behind a trembling mess. It’s done. The pressure in your chest tightens with each passing second, the fabric over your cheeks dampening with disappointment. In yourself, in your choices, in everything that led you to this very moment. At least this stupid helmet shields you from the outside world, from the screams of the crowd and unattainable promises. The only thing protecting you as you break down. It was so close. 

The sound of a revving engine slices through your tears, yanking you back to the harsh reality of the moment. To your fate. Your hand instinctively grasps the wheel as the static in your ears begins to fade.  

“Are you okay?” the repeated message crackles over the radio, each time louder than the last, ringing in your ears. The race engineer’s voice is tinged with urgency, and you realize he must have been asking this since you first grazed the track limits. 

You struggle to articulate a response, your jaw muscles aching from being clenched so tightly during the crash. “Yes, I... Yeah, it’s okay” the faint voice that escapes your lips barely recognizable, even to you. Blame your laboured breath or the tears sliding non-stop down your cheeks for making you talk like you haven’t pronounced a word in months. 

The radio comes alive once again, interferences cutting into the race engineer’s words, though his relief is evident. More time than you expected must have gone by; silence is never a good sign in these situations.  

You can't quite decipher his exact message over the noise, but you push past the fog in your mind to respond “I’m alright, the car started—” 

However, your train of thought is abruptly interrupted by the sight of the other protagonist of the crash. Seeing him climbing out of the wreckage of his car, seemingly unscathed despite the severity of the collision, filling you with profound relief, momentarily silencing your racing thoughts. 

The sight of Max approaching your car pulls you further from the fog of your own distress. Your gaze locks onto him as he changes direction, his stride purposeful as he heads straight toward your car. A flutter of disbelief mingles with the tension in your chest —is he coming to check on you?

As he draws closer, the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile, a reaction you can’t suppress despite the circumstances. He must have noticed you still seated in the car, frozen, while the marshals were still nowhere to be seen. 

When he is close enough to the vehicle, you manage to stick a hand out of the halo, giving him a thumbs-up to signal that you’re okay. “I’m so sorry, guys. I tried, I promise I really tried to...” your voice trembled with raw emotion as you are back to speaking into the radio, each word laced with a mix of sadness and desperation. 

You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes closed as you breathe deeply, when suddenly, you feel your hand being slapped away. Startled, your eyes snap open, looking to where your hand was a moment ago as your crawl it close to your chest.  

You see Max looming over your seat, a hand gripping the bar of your halo while the other waves angrily through the air. You watch him, open mouthed, his angry yells muffled by both your helmet and his, making his words unrecognizable. But it is as if you knew exactly what he was saying. 

Max’s anger and the frustration of the moment collide within you, a storm of emotions that bursts out uncontrollably.

"What the fuck? It was your fault, you fucking asshole,” you yell at him with all the force you are lacking “And now you dare to come here to intimidate —!” 

The fury in your voice, the sheer anguish of what you had lost, reliving it sends a shiver down your spine. If you lift your eyes to the screen behind the journalist, you can also watch the exact moment the communications with the team were cut. That’s it, you spring from the seat, completely enraged by Max's audacity to come reprimand anything after the manoeuvre he had pulled on you, and the radio’s cable goes flying in the air by your side.  

A perfect shot. 

And finally, some privacy for one of the worst moments of your life. They had enough with the video being played on every single screen of the paddock. If only you had managed to hit that damn button again and shut off the microphone. 

You let out a sigh, gripping the steel barricade between the interviewer and you, trying to release some of the emotions still coursing through you. “It’s no one’s fault really, these things happen... I was just overwhelmed by the situation and said the intimidation thing, just completely drunk off adrenaline. Like Max probably” 

The statement might not align with your true feelings., but when hundreds of interviewers are knocking over each other to get your statement and the images are being endlessly replayed, it is what you have to say.  

This is how you justify your reaction, not only on the day of the accident in the media pen, with trembling hands and a still-thrashing heart, but also throughout the following week in Belgium. The same questions are repeated time and time again, your words are played in every medium of communication interested in Formula One and beyond, yet your response remains the same. 

A car crash like that would drive anyone to their wits’ end. 

It got easier to say after every new interview, your body finally pushing out of that shock state after the crash, the fear of jumping into the car gone after the first practice at the Spa-Francorchamps Circuit. Although you could not say the same about your state of mind, not with the constant taunting. 

Max had only given a few interviews the day of, looking the least bit apologetic but acknowledging his part in the incident and lamenting that both your races had come to a sudden end. When asked specifically about his outburst, he gave curt, regretful answers—no apology in sight, of course. Yet, later on, and probably advised by his media team, he aligned himself with your ‘drunk on adrenaline’ statement. It was a convenient alignment, indeed. 

Nonetheless, the effect of his media team’s nagging did not last long. 

“Max, the stewards have just issued the resolution for impeding Perez in Q2. The Haas will receive a three-place grid penalty. Any thoughts?” someone asks as Max is making his way out of the paddock, backpack slung over his shoulder. 

“To thirteenth?” Max wonders, sipping from his bottle with a curious look, slowing his pace so the interviewer and camera can catch up. 

“No, she’s dropped to fourteenth” the interviewer corrects, glancing at the press release on his phone and pointing the microphone back at the Dutch driver. 

Max tilts his head to the side, his lips pursed “That’s... okay, seems alright”. It’s almost inaudible, his head turning back to open the car’s door, as though it’s a simple reflection.  

You know full well it isn’t. This is not his first time being caught in a drama, and it’s clearly not his first fight. 

“That’ll make for a calm race, isn’t that right?” the journalist pokes, a smirk evident in his voice, and Max’s response is a laugh. 

He laughs. 

And, that’s it, what might seem like just another trivial reaction, in the wake of last week’s drama, turns the media storm. 

You can’t keep track of the times you are tagged in the video, the headlines it makes or the messages you privately receive about it. It’s everywhere, inescapable. All you can do is bite your lip and grimace every time the topic arises in the media pen. 

If you were being completely honest, the media frenzy had not come as much of a shock. Max Verstappen's reputation for his bluntness precedes him, and you know it firsthand since it has been directed at you quite a few times. Your history with the Dutch driver has always been a complex mix of distant acquaintances and unspoken rivalries. The latter includes his offhand remarks when you first joined the sport or the critics to your start in Bahrain, which had not been exactly pleasant but also not unexpected. 

Those digs had been easy enough to ignore; you did not care what he had to say, so the controversy died a few days later when you didn’t throw a jab back. It’s just your luck that, out of all the drivers, you had impeded his teammate's fast lap. 

Looks like it wasn’t enough having such a hard penalty thrown at you. A small error by your race engineer cost you the opportunity to climb up the grid and put you in Verstappen’s crosshairs. 

It’s all you can think about as you ride the truck during the driver’s parade, the crowd’s cheers and waves a distant blur. Their enthusiasm should have lifted your spirits, should have reminded you of the dream you were living. But instead, you find yourself retreating inward, pulling away from the others and slipping into the far corner of the truck, leaning heavily against the railing.  

A small bubble of isolation in the midst of a roaring celebration. 

A huge banner in the crowd catches your eye —a splash of color with your name and number framed with lots of glitter and hearts. You can't help but smile at the gesture, a genuine one that breaks through the storm inside you. The woman holding the sign notices your gaze and waves it enthusiastically. Her mouth moves, likely shouting words of encouragement, but the roar of the crowd drowns out her voice. 

You wave some more, grin stretching wider as you catch her excited reaction. In your moment of distraction, your shirt shifts, revealing a large bruise that snakes across your side —a nasty reminder of the crash back in Hungary. It has now become a deep mix of purple and yellow, sprawling across your ribs in a way that’s hard to ignore. 

And it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Hey, what happened there?” Daniel’s voice cuts through, his concern evident as he leans in the railing, eyes wide with concern. 

You glance down, momentarily startled by the sight of the dark, ugly bruise. “Just from the crash last week,” you mutter, instinctively pulling the hem of your top down to hide it, but not before Daniel's concerned gaze catches it fully “It’s taking ages to heal”. 

His eyebrows furrow in alarm. “That’s not just a bruise! I didn’t know it had been that bad” His hand hovers near your side, filled with an instinct to help “‘You sure you should be racing?” 

Before you can respond, the exchange draws the attention of a couple drivers nearby. Alex and Lando wander over, their curiosity piqued by Daniel's reaction. 

Lando’s eyes narrow as he takes in the bruise. "Shit, that looks bad" his blunt remark gaining him a nudge from Alex. 

You let out a small, tired laugh “Thank you? I guess” 

Alex steps closer, peering over Lando’s shoulder with a look of genuine worry. "Did you talk to the doctors?" 

Daniel, glancing at where the bruise hides with a sympathetic frown, quietly adds “And the mechanics too...” 

“Yeah, I’m cleared, looks worse than it is. And trust me, I’m not missing this race” you state, the discomfort in your ribs and the sudden attention making you shift uncomfortably. “Got some extra padding in the seat now, though.” 

The group doesn’t push any further, only giving you tight-lipped smiles and exchanging a few glances between them, though you can tell they’re not entirely convinced. You’re relieved when the truck starts moving toward the pitlane, signalling the end of the driver’s parade and allowing you to escape the spotlight, if only for a moment. 

As you step down from the truck and head towards the garage, Verstappen suddenly falls into step beside you. You glance at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion and irritation. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes flickering down to your side “You alright?” 

The question feels loaded, more than just concern for your physical well-being. It’s the first real acknowledgment of what happened between you two, and the tension crackles between you like static. 

You tense, your anger simmering beneath the surface. "I’m completely fine" you say, a little sharper than intended, still raw from the incident and everything that has transpired since.  

"Look, I’m sorry you got hurt.” the Red Bull driver sighs, hand coming up to scratch his cheek. “But, you know, there was nothing I could do. You left me no space and— " 

That makes you stop in your tracks, fists clenching at your sides as you spin to face him. A forced smile is plastered across your face, though your eyes are burning with frustration. You are fully aware of where you are, can feel the eyes trained on you, the people discreetly gathering by your sides but not daring to approach. You are right at the entrance of the pit lane, under the gaze of spectators in the grandstands and the guests hanging balconies over the garages. 

“Oh, so this is what it’s about?” you snap, voice laced with venomous sweetness. “You want me to say you did great, that ‘oh poor thing, I wasn’t letting you race’?” 

Verstappen’s expression hardens, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment, clearly not expecting the bite in your tone. "No, that’s not—" 

“Watch the fucking video, Max,” you interrupt his explanation, your smile still in place but your words sharp. “I was right there. You turned in like I wasn’t even racing you!” 

Max’s face reddens, his anger palpable as he tries to defend himself. “I’m not going to let you just blame me for everything,” he retorts, voice deep “You knew you couldn’t hold up and yet, you kept blocking me. You know better than that!” 

“I know better?!” you repeat incredulously “It’s you who drives like a maniac, pushing every fucking limit and expecting everyone to get out of your way!” 

“That’s not fair, and you know it." the Dutch’s eyes narrow, clearly stung by your accusation." I came to apologize, but it looks like you’re too busy playing the victim to actually have a normal conversation.” 

“Go fuck yourself, Max,” you say, the smile on your face a strained mask of anger for the cameras capturing every second of this standoff “I shouldn’t have saved your sorry ass. You came to intimidate me then, and now you’re just trying to do it again.” 

Everyone is waiting for a reaction, something they can replay and dissect for days on end. That is what they want, what Max wants, but you are decided not to give it to them. Not here, not ever. 

The word ‘intimidate’ hits Max like a punch. His eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something else—maybe hurt, maybe disbelief— but before he can respond, someone else interrupts the scene. 

Daniel saunters over with his signature grin, throwing an arm around Max’s shoulders and pulling him in like they’re just two friends hanging out before a race. The casualness of the move feels jarring against the heated tension between, but Daniel’s intentions are clear. 

“Alright, alright, let’s cool down, kids,” Daniel says, his tone playful but cutting the tension immediately. “We’ve got a race ahead, yeah?” 

There’s an undertone of urgency in Daniel’s eyes as they flick between you, practically begging you both to play along. Verstappen stiffens under Daniel’s arm, the anger still radiating off him in waves, but he doesn’t push him off. Instead, he also forces a tight-lipped smile, letting the older driver guide him towards the garage. 

Daniel looks back at you from a few meters away, his eyes full of unspoken questions. You meet his gaze and offer a slight nod, hoping he’ll understand you’ll be alright. You hope so. 

That day, Verstappen is crowned the winner of the Belgium Grand Prix, lifting his trophy amidst a blur of celebratory cheers and flashing cameras. The dominance of his Red Bull had been undeniable, easily overtaking Lewis Hamilton in just a few laps and maintaining a consistent five-second lead. It was a victory that felt almost inevitable. The superiority of the machine, and his skill, had made this race his from the start. 

“Well, sometimes you have to be smart and know when to pick up a fight” Verstappen states with a shrug during the post-race interviews, still sticky with champagne, adjusting his cap with nonchalance. His words were casual, but the undertone of superiority was clear. “Simple as that” 

Then came the voice, sharp and loud enough to turn heads in the press room: "Some people love wasting everyone’s time." 

The crowd of reporters fell into a hush. Everyone knew what that comment referred to—your battle with Max earlier in the race. Though it only took Max half a lap to pass you, the ferocity with which you defended your position had been the talk of the week. Some praised it as spirited, but most agreed it was just a roadblock for the Dutchman. 

Max could have ignored it. He could have chosen silence. But instead, he picked up the microphone again, leaned back in the chair, and added, “Yeah, clearly,” with the same detached tone, fueling the already smoldering flames of controversy. 

You weren't there to hear the smug remark firsthand, but it found you soon enough, as these things do. He doesn’t have to worry about that. 

“Oh, he said that? Really?” you muttered bitterly, your eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of frustration and disbelief. You couldn’t help the anger bubbling up. Not only had he made a snide comment, but he’d doubled down on it when a journalist baited him. He had to be joking. “Well, you know what? He should know how to fight without ending in the curb. He’s not a rookie anymore” 

And with that, the story exploded.  

The media ran with it, fuelling the narrative of a growing rivalry between you and Verstappen. Headlines, articles, social media—all of it revolved around your comment and Max’s subtle digs. The situation escalated when Red Bull’s team principal chimed in, defending Max and throwing more shade your way. His comment about "drivers needing to be aware of their surroundings" felt like another knife in the back. You couldn’t watch more than a few seconds before turning off the interview, letting the media team handle the backlash in your stead. 

At the peak of it all, as if on cue, a video is posted online, flooding every social media platform within hours. It was footage from a Grill the Grid challenge, recorded months ago, back when you were still settling into your Haas gear. You had guessed Max’s childhood photo in an instant, smiling softly as you held the picture up to the camera. 

“Max! That’s easy,” you had said, the smile lingering. “He’s always had such pretty eyes... I’ll give him that.” 

You never expected that line to make the final cut. They usually cut those videos down, especially with the newer drivers. But they ran with it —probably hoping for this exact reaction from their followers. 

Alongside it, Verstappen’s reaction to your photo also rises to the top of the searched videos. It is similar to yours, instantly guessing your name despite your hair being hidden underneath a woollen beanie, which would be the instant give away when compared to the rest of the men. Of course he recognized you, he’d been there when the photo was taken, back in the early karting days, probably messing around with his sister, Victoria, while waiting for his turn to race. 

It was one of the first few races you participated in, and although it was also one of the last ones Victoria raced in, you clicked pretty well. You might think it was a given for the only two girls in the sea of boys, but it was nice nonetheless. You often wished she had continued racing alongside you, sharing this difficult journey. Perhaps it would have been Victoria's printed photo in the stand. 

But Verstappen didn’t mention any of that. He just spends a moment longer than necessary looking at your picture, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

At the Dutch Grand Prix, the weight of the media storm becomes almost palpable. Every question during the weekend seemed to circle back to him. No matter how much you tried to redirect attention, the media kept poking, fishing for another soundbite. 

You manage to end the weekend unscathed. Verstappen had probably been advised, once again, to ignore the topic and avoid the snide comments. You are glad he is listening to them this time —not like the people in his team, but that’s another a whole different story. He has not even reacted to your remark last week, publicly that is, and kept his focus on the race all throughout the weekend. 

Well, it is easier to forget about the press when winning left and right. Even more so when he is bringing home such an important win, his home race’s trophy.  

Meanwhile, you trudged back to the Haas garage, yet another disappointing race under your belt. Your name getting comfortable hanging near the back of the grid, the sting of failure settling in. 

Emma, your PR minder, intercepted you on the way to the media pen. Her expression was strained as she handed you a tablet. “There’s a new video making the rounds” her voice cautious as she gave you the news. 

Your stomach clenches as the clip starts rolling. The shaky video captures some unseen footage from the day of the crash, probably filmed from the edge of the track. It shows you, huddled against a barrier, knees pulled tightly to your chest. Your helmet is off, and you're crying uncontrollably, shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. Marshals gather around, gently trying to lift you, but your body hangs limp, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, utterly broken. 

After several long seconds, the video cuts to your arrival at the garage, your face a mask of composure. The tears are gone, then. No trembling, no visible sign of the emotional breakout you just had. You simply walk in towards the screens of the pitwall, face blank. As if nothing had happened. 

Emma glances at you, trying to gauge your reaction.  

“So, what do we do?” your voice is slow, forced, as you blink away the tears. 

Emma’s voice drifts in and out of your mind as she tries to explain the plan for handling the press, but you can barely focus. All you want is to be done with this day—this race, this stress, this constant barrage of questions. Your mind is still reeling from the latest disastrous race, and now the video. 

“Just stick to the script, try to pivot the attention” she concludes, voice carefully neutral as she keeps a steady pace, moving you through the paddock with a hand in your back. 

“I just want to be done with this...” you whispered, your voice cracking. Your chest tightens as the video plays again in your mind, the rawness of it suffocating you. 

Emma gives you a sympathetic look, though there’s a hint of firmness in her tone. “I know. Let’s answer a couple question and we’ll be gone in no time, I promise” 

You nod absently, barely taking in her advice as you try to steady your breathing. 

The background hum of the paddock turns into a dull roar, your focus too scattered to notice it at first. It’s only when the noise grows louder—cheers and loud laughter—that you snap out of your thoughts, realizing the celebration has crept right up to you. 

You look up just in time to see a sea of dark blue pouring through the paddock. The Red Bull team, still riding the high of his victory, is coming down the main street. One of them tosses the trophy in the air with a triumphant whoop, cameras clicking wildly around them. You instinctively step aside, shrinking into yourself, hoping to stay out of sight. 

But then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, Verstappen’s locks onto yours. He takes a deep breath before he breaks away from the group, approaching you cautiously. 

“Hey,” he says, his voice tentative, unusually soft. “Can we talk for a second?” 

His approach catches you completely off guard. The last thing you need right now is this conversation —especially with him. The weight of the bad race, the stress, everything that’s gone wrong today. It’s too much. “Not now, Max,” you say, sharper than intended, trying to push past him. 

Max’s expression tightens, but he steps forward, his hand catching your arm gently but firmly, halting your escape. “Wait—just, hold on. I know things have been rough, but I wanted to check on—” 

You whip around, eyes immediately flicking from his hand on your arm to his face, complete and utter shock flashing through you before anger takes over. You see red, your pulse pounding in your ears, drowning out any attempt to understand what he’s trying to say. 

“What the hell, Max?” your voice is low but laced with fury, each word seething. “Do you really think now is the time? That this is what I need right now?” 

His grip loosens, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected your reaction, but you’re not even close to being done. 

“You’re keeping me out here again for what? So I can make a scene?” you gesture toward the photographers, already poised with their cameras trained on the two of you, eagerly awaiting the drama. Your words spill out, venomous but restrained. “To give them exactly what they’re hoping for—more shots of me losing it? Is that what you want, Max?”  

The look on his face is as if you’ve physically struck him. His mouth opens slightly, something akin to a “Sorry” slipping out of his lips. But the damage is already done.  

With a harsh breath, you yank your arm away and turn on your heel. You storm off, adrenaline surging through you, blurring the cameras, the people, the stares. Everything fades into a dull hum, swallowed by the chaos you’re desperately trying to escape. 

The media frenzy surrounding the crash had mostly died down by the time the United States Grand Prix rolled around. The headlines shifted, and the cameras no longer swarmed your every move. Maybe the world found a woman broken down and crying at the side of a track a less than interesting topic to critique. Ironically, the overexposure had granted you some much-needed breathing room. 

And in that quiet, you focused on what really mattered: the racing. 

It feels contradictory to reach the first milestone of your Formula One career on a circuit you have always despised. The Circuit of The Americas was a harsh, undulating track that challenged even the most seasoned drivers. Its aggressive turns and long straights had never been kind to you, a place where any minor mistake could leave you battling the car just to stay on track, let alone compete. The Texas heat didn’t help either, soaking into the tarmac and the air, making everything feel heavier, harder.  

Yet, despite your earlier misgivings, the track had offered you a chance to prove yourself. And this time, you seized it. 

Your car, against all odds, held up perfectly. The upgrades to the car, though minor, made it feel more responsive and alive beneath your hands. And the strategy calls had been spot-on. This time, everything clicked.  

When you crossed the finish line and scored your first points in Formula One, the emotion hit you like a wave. It was a small but monumental victory, a validation of your skill and perseverance in a place which often seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. 

The media circus, which had been a constant presence throughout the season, faded in the background. As if it had never been there. 

As you coasted back to the garage, your face locked in a smile that refused to fade, the team met you halfway, erupting into celebration. Cheers filled the air as they lifted you, waving the position board with "P10" scrawled beside your name as though you had taken a podium finish. Their joy wasn’t just about the result; it was about everything that led to that moment—your hard work, their dedication, and the culmination of a long, arduous season. 

The party continued in the garage, where the team gathered for photos and the popping of a small bottle of champagne that you were drenched in. The atmosphere was electric, filled with laughter, cheers, and a sense of collective pride. Hugs, handshakes, and nods of respect flowed not just from your own team but from drivers wandering in from their garages, their congratulations laced with a new-found respect. For you, it all was confirmation that you were here to stay. 

Amid the flurry of congratulations, you noticed Max approaching. His presence, initially unexpected, was met with mixed emotions. You had become accustomed to the tension between you, a simmering rivalry that played out both on and off the track. But today, was different. 

Max gave you a small, hesitant smile as he walked towards you. The usual competitive edge in his eyes softened. “Congratulations,” he said quietly, extending a hand. His tone sincere as a small chuckle slips off his lips “You really earned it.” 

In that moment, the weight of the day’s emotions, combined with the unexpected kindness from the rival, overwhelmed you. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the events of the day hit you all at once. Without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around Max in a spontaneous hug. A gesture of relief and gratitude, expressing emotions that words couldn’t quite capture. 

Max seems taken aback by the embrace, but he returns it with a reassuring pat on your back. There’s a brief, shared moment—one filled with the weight of everything you’ve both endured this season. The conflicts, the tension... It all melts away in the hug, replaced by a silent acknowledgment of the challenges faced. It’s as if you both silently agree: whatever the future holds, you will handle it differently. You’ll treat each other better. 

With a final nod, Max turns and walks away, blending into the sea of people celebrating around you, leaving you to bask in the moment with your team. You wipe at your tears, laughter bubbling up as your team drags you back into the celebration. 

The Brazilian Grand Prix was always a spectacle of unpredictability, and this year was no different. The warm atmosphere at Interlagos crackled with anticipation and nerves, heightened by your surprising performance in qualifying. The car felt responsive, dialled in for the twists and turns of the circuit. 

This was the highest position you had achieved all season, and the weight of expectation mingled with excitement as you lined up on the grid. The lights overhead blinked to life, the engines roaring in unison and the adrenaline starting pumping though your body. 

Launching off the line, you navigated the opening corners with precision, maintaining position amidst the frenetic battles of the midfield. You kept focus, managing your tires well, everything clicking into place just enough to keep you in a high enough position. Things were finally working in your favour. 

The decision to pit early came as a calculated risk, a move to capitalize on the clear track and exploit the potential of fresh rubber. The pit crew executed flawlessly, the stop seamless in its precision. Emerging back onto the track, the new tires gripped the asphalt with renewed vigor, propelling you forward into the heart of the race. 

As expected, the field began to thin out with the inevitable cycle of pit stops not much later. With each passing lap, your focus sharpened, pushing harder to maximize the advantage. You found yourself gaining ground on the cars ahead, the gaps closing with every lap. 

A Red Bull appeared ahead, its familiar livery standing out against the asphalt. A crackle of static brought your race engineer's voice to life over the radio: "Verstappen ahead". His firm tone coupled with a tint of urgency, almost a warning. 

The Dutchman was struggling, clearly executing a different strategy while others succumbed to a change of tires. His car was losing grip with every corner, the acrid scent of burnt rubber lingering in the air as your opportunities of overtaking loomed closer and closer. 

Adrenaline surged through you as you moved forward. Max wasn’t your main rival today—he’d undoubtedly regain his pace after a pit stop, surging with a speed you couldn’t even hope to match. But you needed the few seconds you could grab on the nearly empty track. 

All you needed was patience, a clean pass, and you’d be on your way. But that’s the thing about this sport —it’s never that simple. 

You line up your move. DRS wide open, your car gaining on his down the straight. It was a textbook overtaking maneuver: inside line into the braking zone, clean, fast, and decisive. But Max, being Max, wasn’t going to let anyone by without a fight. He moved just enough to defend, squeezing you towards the inside of the track. Not illegal, but aggressive, forcing you to rethink your approach.  

You held your ground, refusing to back off, the story repeating itself –if only with a bit more space to move. 

Then comes the corner. It’s tight, both of you pushing each other to the absolute limit. For a split second, you are wheel to wheel. And just when you think you’ve made it past, it happens. A small touch, barely enough to register, but at these speeds, it was all it took. Your rear end twitches, your car snaps sideways, and before you can react, you’re spinning off the track. 

“No, no, no!” you shouted into the radio as the car careened off track and into the gravel, the engine dying and warnings flashing on the steering wheel. Race over.  

Yet again, your gaze locks on the Red Bull in the distance, but this time as it rolls out of your field of view. 

“Are you okay?” came the concerned voice from the pit wall. 

“Yeah,” you muttered, already climbing unfastening the harness, trying your best to push down the surge of frustration. Another DNF. Another race ruined. 

The walk back to the garage is a haze of exhaustion and anger. It all hit you at once. It wasn’t just the race —it was everything. The months of pressure, the crash, the constant questions, and now, this. By the time you reached your driver’s room, you could only collapse into the sofa, still in your race suit, helmet discarded. You stared blankly at the wall, reliving every second of the race over and over. Trapped in it. 

A knock on the door breaks your thoughts. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there. 

“Hey…” 

The voice is soft, almost hesitant, but unmistakable.  

You glance up through blurry vision, blinking in surprise when you confirm your suspicions. Max is standing there, awkwardly leaning in the doorway. He isn’t in his race suit anymore, dressed down in a hoodie and jeans, looking more like some random guy than the potential next world champion. Clearly, he had come after things had settled, hoping not to attract attention. 

The race must have ended already, the post-race conference too. You are glad to have finished your interviews before heading back to the garage. 

You sigh, too tired to even muster anger. “Max, it’s okay,” you say, the exhaustion seeping into your voice. “I don’t want to talk about it. You can go.” 

Max stands there for a second, as if weighing his options. You half-expect him to launch into some explanation, to try and defend what happened on track, but he doesn’t. He’s learned as much. Instead, he steps forward, quietly placing something on the table beside you —a small bag of candy. 

For a moment, you are confused, your mind too fogged to register the gesture. But suddenly, it clicks. Your mind flashes back to years ago, when you were both still clawing your way up the ranks. Max, already on his meteoric rise, and you, still fighting your way up. 

Victoria’s smile shines brightly in your memory. Her full cheeks and radiant aura would light up your day as she brought little treats to ease the tension when things went awry. It was normal, you would go toe to toe against the boys, some twice your size, both on and off the track without a care in the world.  

The competition was fierce, but so were you. 

You and Victoria would often find solace away from the prying eyes and relentless pressure, chatting about everything and nothing as you stuffed your mouth with gummies. Back then, those sweet candies were more than just a sugary distraction, they were a reminder of the warmth and encouragement that surrounded you amid the intense battle for the victory 

In those early days, Max had been more of a shadow on the periphery of your racing life. Your interactions with him were fleeting—brief greetings exchanged in the pit lane or terse words during on-track incidents. He was a quiet kid, focused on his future and nothing else. 

But as you looked at the small bag of candy on the table, a new question surfaced in your mind. Had Max noticed those sweet moments with his sister? Seen your younger self as the laughter mingled with tears over those simple, yet comforting, treats? 

As the nostalgia washed over you, a sense of empathy began to emerge. Max’s gesture, though simple, carried a depth of understanding that you hadn’t anticipated. Now, here he is, all those years later, standing in your driver’s room after a crash and offering peace though candy. 

You take a deep breath, the tension of the harsh season and the DNF felt heavy, but his silent apology softened the edges of your frustration. If only a little. 

Without uttering a word, Max gave a faint smile and quietly turned to leave.  

And for now, that is all you need. 

Months later, everything feels different, yet somehow familiar. The paddock is alive, roaring with the sounds of celebration, laughter, and the rush of an unforgettable season. The final race has come to an end and the highs and lows of the season hang in the air like the last whispers of a storm 

You find yourself moving through the chaos—staff, photographers, and fans all clamoring for a piece of the moment. Your heart swelled with pride as you saw the joy on his face, the weight of months of pressure and competition lifting as he basks in the victory. The World Champion. 

“Congrats, Lewis!” you shout, your voice barely cutting through the cacophony of cheers and fireworks exploding in the distance. He grins, pulling you into a hug. The cameras are snapping away but, for once, you don’t care. 

You step back, giving him a playful shove towards his team, watching as he disappears into the throng of engineers and mechanics. The confetti starts to fall, the air shimmering with silver and gold as fireworks burst above. Lewis collapses into his team, arms raised in victory, and it’s a scene you know will be replayed everywhere for years to come. 

The ending ceremony and final interviews come and go in a blur—everyone’s thoughts about the season, the excitement, and exhaustion all blending into one. The adrenaline is fading, leaving a strange, peaceful silence in its wake. 

Slipping away from the noise, you head back to your driver’s room. The door closes behind you, and for the first time in hours, the world is still. You peel off your race suit, changing into something more comfortable, savoring the moment of peace. Outside, the paddock slowly quiets as the celebration winds down, leaving behind only the hum of the circuit at rest. 

You decide to step out onto the pit lane one last time, onto the long shadows casted by the lights and the soft breeze that stirs the warms air of Abu Dhabi. Only a couple marshals and mechanics are still working and talking outside. The night is settling in, and you take a deep breath, taking it all in. 

That’s when you see Max. 

He’s standing near the edge of the pit lane, still in his race suit, though the top half hangs loose around his waist, leaving only the fireproofs underneath. His face is cast in a soft light, the tension of the race gone, but a lingering weight still present. He doesn’t notice you at first, his gaze somewhere far away, lost in thought. 

You hesitate, unsure if you should approach. The rivalry, the tension between you two—it’s all been part of the narrative this season. But something in the way he stands there alone, in the quiet aftermath of the race, pulls you forward. 

“Hey,” you say softly, breaking the silence. 

Max glances up, surprised to see you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe relief? He gives a small nod. “Hey.” 

You shift awkwardly, leaning against the wall next to him. The weight of the season and everything that came with it lingers in the air. "I, uh… just wanted to say congrats," you finally manage, your voice tentative. 

Max raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “For what?” 

“You know," you begin, the word hanging off the tip of your tongue “How was it called?”  

“The first loser?”  

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up! I meant the runner-up,” you correct, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. 

“I guess.” He shrugs, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. But there’s no sharpness in his voice this time, just a weariness. He looks out at the grandstands, his voice quieter now, the weight of the season clearly pressing on him. “Feels like the first loser to me.” 

“How could that be the first loser? I’m the first loser,” you quip, half-joking although the events of the season hang heavy on your mind “Got a couple of points and went home.” 

Max opens his mouth to correct you, but you quickly shoot him a look —one that says, see?— daring him to argue. He catches your meaning and closes his mouth again, letting out a soft sigh instead, though his eyes shows that he disagrees. 

A beat of silence passes before you speak again, quieter this time. “I know one day you’re going to win so much, you’ll get bored of it.” 

Max looks down, his expression hard to read. There’s no smirk, no witty comeback. Just a silence that stretches between you. He kicks at a pebble on the ground, then after a while, glances back up. 

“Know anything about next year?” he asks, his voice low. Despite all the rumours swirling around the paddock, no one really knows what's going to happen with the Haas lineup. Contracts hang in limbo, as do the futures of several drivers.  

"Yeah, Mick’s out…” you sigh, looking down at your feet “and I’m probably next." 

Max shakes his head almost immediately, a frown forming on his face “I don’t think so, you did well this year.” 

“Yeah, well… at the back of the grid,” you reply, the words slipping out with a bitter edge. 

He looks at you seriously “You have to know what car you have. You did more than enough this year, got your first points, even. Nobody expected that.” 

You huff out a small laugh, but there's no real joy in it. "I'm a headache, Max. You’ve all seen that. I have to know what team I'm in, they can’t risk it" you repeat his words back at him, eyebrows knitted in discomfort. 

Max goes quiet, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. The weight of your uncertainty seems to settle between you, an invisible burden neither of you can shake off easily. After a beat, the Red Bull driver stands upright, and silently invite you to walk back to the garages with a tilt of his head. 

“So, are you going to Lewis' party?” 

You hesitate, unsure. “I don’t know yet,” you admit. While part of you wants to go and live what could be your last moments in this bubble, another part just wants to finally hide from the noise that’s been suffocating you all season.  

You clearly have not gotten used to this, and probably won’t ever. 

Reaching the door to his garage, Max studies you for a moment as he leans on the wall, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, if you feel like it, you should come to the first loser’s party.” 

He shrugs, the faint glint in his eyes reflecting the lights of the pit lane. “Well, not everyone can be the winner.” His voice is gentler now, expecting your exasperated sigh, and he smirks “At least I’ve got pretty eyes.” 

You blink, caught off guard, a grin creeping into your face despite yourself.

“Again with the first loser?" you shake your head, Max simply shrugs “You sure know how to sell a party, Max.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the callback to the viral video that had stirred up so much media buzz. “Oh, please,” you say, though a smile manages to break through as you give a light shove to his shoulder “You’re such an asshole.” 

Max doesn’t flinch, his smirk growing wider. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, and in that quiet moment, the circuit seemed to fall even more silent, as though the world around you both stilled.  

And, before you could think twice about it, you whisper the words “But yeah, you sure do”. 

Author's note: this has been in my drafts for ages, didn't even have a title, just stupid to lovers so I guess that explains a lot. This idea was also supposed to be part of If I lose my mind but I just had to many things in my head. Hope you liked it, its my first time writing for Max so that's that.

Thanks a lot for reading! And, as always, any kind of interaction is greatly apreciated.

[jng-yuan]

just started frothing at the mouth

Sugar on the Rim I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the gala rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up? 

No, he’s rich, not royalty. 

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed. 

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget. 

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is. 

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways. 

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty. 

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options. 

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path. 

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit. 

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for. 

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk. 

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room. 

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?” 

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce. 

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received. 

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased. 

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

 “Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.” 

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.” 

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected. 

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.” 

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” 

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much. 

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours. 

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms. 

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence. 

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for. 

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex. 

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—” 

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan. 

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽

[jng-yuan]

DAWN. — mr. darcy!diluc x gn!reader.

i. as the sun slowly peeked through the fields, passing the shadows of distant trees and fences, you listened to the birds sing, announcing once again the start of the morning. silence would do you good, you thought; your head seemed to be full of different things, but they all would lead you to daydream about the same thing: him.

ii. you could still recall the time when you first laid your eyes on his figure. yes, he seemed tense, his gaze stoic and cold, almost as if he was bothered to be on the ball your family held for the locals. but to you, he looked ethereal; his features were eaten away by a burning passion. his presence alone was enough to stop the dancing, as everyone turned to look at him, astonished by his looks and his status.

as diluc ragnvindr made it to the end of the long hall, people gathered at the center of the room to return to their prior activities, such as dancing or gossiping about the rich man that has just came through the door.

you were suddenly pulled out of your trance, as your older sister grabbed your arm, passing familiar people to finally stand by your father to introduce the family to mr. ragnvindr and his companions, mr. alberich and miss minci. when it was your turn to bow your head in respect as your father told them your name, you felt someone strongly stare at you; you moved your eyes, searching for the person who was eyeing you down just moments ago, your gaze met his. and as if the world stopped, you could see a hint of embarrasement and surprise at being caught.

that night you went to sleep suprissing a smile, with diluc ragnvindr being the last person on your mind as you drifted off to sleep.

iii. back to the present time, your eyes wonder on the green scenery infront of you, until you recognize an individual walking throught the rained–wet grass of the fields, making his way towards you.

needless to say, you trotted out in a hurry, not caring if your clothes got dirty from last night's dew or from the mud that was on the ground. all the thoughts in your head kept screaming at you to just get to him. his appearance and the air he carried imprinted a memory full of love on your heart.

with each step you felt how your heart cried with happiness, reflecting on your features a glazed look, full of hope and happiness to finally see him. once you finally reached him, you were just amazed.

to love this man was divine; all your senses became overstimulated when it came to him. you could recognize his strong, yet warm fragance of wood and grapes from a mile away; you could still feel the lingering touch of his fingers enlaced with yours; you could spot his fiery red hair through a full crowd. you just loved him, in every way you knew.

as diluc lifts his hands, watching you with a lovestruck gaze, you let yourself lean in his touch, listening to the rythm of his breaths, feeling your eyes flutter at the peaceful sound. and as you're about to confess, he takes the word:

— "i will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and i love— i love.. i love you. i never wish to be parted from you from this day on".

[jng-yuan]

eepy little general

(based on this cute message from him, he just like me fr)

[jng-yuan]

Misaligned Strings (Jing Yuan/Reader)

A/n: The reader is AMAB at the beginning (nothing angstier than gender norms–) and gn in the time skip. If there are incorrect translations, please comment!!!! I’d be very happy to change it :DD and im very happy with how my drawing turned out ngl-

Synopsis: He held his feelings back once for you were his prince and he was but a knight. But for Jing Yuan, he doesn't care if you're a human prince or a foxian, you are always worth the wait. Even when it literally took a lifetime. He's not so different from Snowmoon, you know?

CW: none. slight angst and fluff so don’t worry. Prolly the cutest and lowkey proudest work I’ve done in a while. I was actively whispering "me when" while writing lmao. This one's for you, 😋 anon.

遠在天邊，近在眼前，千里姻緣一線牽.

From the Most Distant Horizon at the Ends of Where the Heavens Stretch, to Right in Front of One's Eyes, the Single Thread Crosses Unfathomable Distances to Draw in those that are Tethered to it.

In silent whispers and inaudible footsteps, a taizi and his ménkè would stroll about in the crack of dawn. The Crown Prince of the old dynasty seldom ever initiated conversations, but his servant didn't venture to strike up an exchange. Since the prince wasn’t one to like entertaining large sums and enjoyed the comfort of nature, he has a habit of dragging his favorite retainer alongside him when trekking woodlands. The white-haired servant was perfectly content with this as he listened to the sound of the streams of the nearby water bank and the morning birds’ humming. 

But most of all, the retainer couldn’t think of spending his mornings better than to be by Prince ██████’s side. Deep down, he knew his calloused hands did not deserve to touch such an expensive fabric. The decorative embellishments embroidered in such as gold-laced threads, jades, and ██████’s birthstones mustn't be soiled by a commoner like him. He thinks his hands, which frequently danced with blood, are cleaner than the stains that mud had left on his prince's long robes. 

And yet, the retainer feared he loved his prince too much to stop.

“My Lord…” the white-haired man mutters gently, daring to tug the noble’s robes. The (h/c) haired man peered in his direction. 

Atop the prince's head was a mianguan that further accentuates their difference in social status. Despite it being a rare ceremonial headdress only to be worn on sacrificial events, the prince had one custom made by a famous jeweler for his daily use. His fashionable headdress chimed for a brief moment as he turned, but he did not stare him in the eye. 

Still, the prince smiled so sweetly.

“Yes, baozi?”

The retainer’s breath hitched.

He knew he shouldn’t harbor such emotions– he knew it shouldn’t make him happy that the prince would call him his treasure. However, there was not a trace of deceit in Prince ██████’s voice.

“Be careful,” the retainer heaved, staring at the ground. “There’s a fallen trunk nearby, you would’ve tripped.”

“O-Oh?”

The prince’s smile faltered before he regained it in a concerningly quick but regal fashion. 

“My apologies, it was not my intention to make you worry,” he laughed, but there was no joy to be conveyed. “I’m afraid I will have to depend on you once more.”

The prince's laugh, once filled with warmth and adoration whenever they met, now sounded distant. It was veiled sorrow, yet not to the point where the prince would be willing to sever whatever thread bound their fates together. During their quiet moments, ████ would catch glimpses of that sorrow lingering in the prince's demeanor. 

It was as if a shadow loomed over their secret rendezvous. The retainer wondered if his suspicions were true— if the prince's noble lineage would soon bind him to political arrangements. A duty that will tear them both apart.

But he didn’t wish to entertain those thoughts.

The retainer nodded while speaking. “Anything for you, My lord.”

The prince turned back to the lying trunk.

Everyone in Asia knew of Prince ██████’s impaired eyes.

The Emperor’s heir lacked vision in a battle he somberly forbids any to reminisce about. It was the very same battle his beloved retainer first fought in since he was a new hire at the time. This led to several concubines shoving their children to the feet of the emperor, but satisfyingly, none could beat the prince in any aspect. Their attempts to weaken both the prince and the empress’s political hold were grounds for concern. Ultimately, that resulted in nothing. 

That does not make the prince any less bitter about it, but he never held ████ accountable. His presence was the royal’s only comfort, even if he never saw his face at least once. The prince never trusted his parents with any of his inner turmoil.

Although, the retainer wished he saw his prince’s eyes at least once. His Highness had always wrapped a red cloth around his eyes like half a mask. This is why, in the humble servant’s prayers, he wished for his master to be more secure with his body

“Prince ██████…” The white-haired retainer starts again, this time, his voice was laced with mischief. “Have I ever told you that you are the most gorgeous man in the land?”

“W-Where is this coming from?” The prince laughed heartily. Prince ██████ knew that his retainer wanted to cheer him up, but he’d rather hear him say it.

“Nothing,” the retainer smiled. “I just wanted you to hear it. You’re incredibly handsome.”

“Stop!” The prince chuckled, hiding his face with his silk clothes. “You are embarrassing, ████.”

The white-haired man chuckled.

“Only for you, my baobei.”

It was silent for a moment. Suddenly, the prince exhaled. The retainer quietly noted that it was not the same sound he’d hear whenever they would peacefully stroll in the woods as they usually do. This one sounded stifled as if he wanted to trap it in his throat.

He may not be able to see, but he still looked away.

“████, I have something I need to discuss with you.”

“What is it?”

Silence again.

Despite being warned that there might be a trunk in his way, the prince took small steps forward. As though he hoped to trip– as though he hoped someone would catch him. 

Yet, the words spoken next were delivered unlike a damsel in distress but a man in solitude.

“I am to be wed around the coming months.” He stuttered. “I-I’m afraid I can no longer remain both blind and deaf to my mother and the Emperor’s nagging.”

Time stood still. 

The solace of nature faded into insignificance, leaving only the sound of cracks inside ████’s head. In that silence, unspoken words passed between them. Only the sound of their restricted breathing remained. It was a poignant acknowledgment– an unspoken promise of love that fate had cruelly denied them. Swallowing his pain, the retainer fought to maintain a facade of unwavering loyalty. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. 

The dynasty would burn before their union would ever be accepted.

The retainer stood tall, a pillar of fortitude even as his heart fractured with each beat. As always, Prince ██████ was the image of his unattainable desires. He will always play his role as the prince's retainer, his heart bleeding in silence, forever locked away.

In the depths of his being, ████’s cherished stolen glances and clandestine touches— precious moments of tenderness concealed beneath the weight of their stations— will remain hidden but never forgotten. He will carry their shared memories as he vowed to “only” protect Prince ███████ on the surface.

The prince continued. Tears welled up in his eyes, but as his father has stated, a man cannot cry. Much less the next emperor.

“████—”

“It is alright,” the retainer spoke, voice already jaded. “We both knew that this is how it ends.”

“Would it be selfish of me to ask you a favor?”

The retainer took a deep breath.

“Do not make this harder, Your Highness.”

It pained his heart to hear the prince gulp in anguish. No use of “my”, just an unpossessed “your”. Even the retainer could not forgive himself for calling him by his title so distantly and without so much as using any honorifics that he is his prince. 

He was his prince.

But the prince was not deterred.

“Can you promise me that you’ll find me again?”

He cupped his retainer’s hand with his eyes closed peacefully. The retainer paused before also placing his other hand above his prince’s. Prince ██████ quietly sobbed. “Please…”

“Promise me– promise that you’ll find me in the next life.”

The retainer nodded weakly.

“I promise.”

“Soon, I shall take the Imperial Princess Consort as my Empress, but–”

The prince tilted his retainer’s head down and gently kissed him. The white-haired man felt his knees giving in as the prince then kissed his upper left cheek, just below his eye. That had always been his favorite spot to pepper. Even in the end, his highness will always cherish planting feather-like kisses as though it would soothe his troubles. The prince’s smile never left his face yet unbeknownst to him, a couple of his tears had already fallen.

“Why don’t we talk about a life we could’ve had, even for just a small fraction of this ephemeral life?”

The conversation that followed was regrettably sweet. Throughout their exchange, they remained seated on the fallen tree as the prince gingerly ran his fingers through his retainer’s white hair. They both ingrained every detail of this memory in their head for they knew this would be their last intimate moment.

Their conversations lasted as if the outside world never existed. They talked about the places they could’ve been, a kingdom they should’ve had until they reached the topic of their true desires:

A domestic life.

A life where they could say ‘Baobei, I’m home’.

“What about a little lion?”

“Your ideas for a housepet are very peculiar,” the retainer humored him, but his voice echoed how cautious the thought made him. “Had I been in your position, I would’ve been tempted to care for timid endangered animals instead.”

“Well, you sounded disinterested when I brought up carps. So, what about little lions?”

“Are you referring to shih tzus?” The royal has an affinity for trying new things so the white-haired man already knew he’d never refer to a simple dog. 

“Perhaps,” the prince laughed. “But not quite.”

“You don’t mean to imply you want a genuine cub now…?”

“What if I do?”

“You have a dangerous habit of giving your retainers more reasons to worry,” his lover muttered.

He pretended not to hear it, “what would you name it?”

“Hmm…how about…”

“Snowmoon.”

Caelus looked up at the General who was focusing on the bustling streets of the Exalting Sanctum. 

After the events that unfolded in the Xianzhou Luofu, he and Jing Yuan had grown closer. To him, the general was a good role model and a nice change of pace after being dragged along by Clara’s adventures in the robot settlement and Serval and Natasha’s heartbreaking familial tales. Caelus was appreciative that the general messaged him to ask if he wished to accompany him to buy meat for Mimi. The trailblazer simply wished for something he can sign as a “day off” in Pom-Pom's log book without incurring any physical damages. For now, he doesn’t want to think about how Blade is running loose.

Now that he’s hanging out with Jing Yuan though, it seems as though he miscalculated everything. He didn't expect emotional expenses instead.

“That’s your old lion’s name?”

The trailblazer pretended not to know. It was a rather heavy story and he didn’t want to seem like a person who relied on gossip. Besides, Qingzu wasn’t a reliable storyteller.

As they talked, they walked past both merchants and pedestrians. There must be an event or an ongoing flea market since the ratio between sellers and consumers was staggeringly unequal. There’s a nosier place they haven’t traversed yet; there must be a sale going on. Although Caelus had more than enough money to his name (thanks to his latest deal with Sampo Koski), he did not tempt himself with a glance at any merchandise. His eyes were on the attractive “dozing general” instead.

“Yes, he was a loyal one…” Jing Yuan smiled softly. “I had a special connection to Snowmoon.”

“I heard it waited for 300 years.”

“Ah, so you are aware of what this story is about already.”

Caelus laughed awkwardly.

“Yes. Yes, Snowmoon did wait for me,” Jing Yuan said. “And I will forever understand that undying loyalty. That’s when I knew I’d truly reconnected with the lion.”

“In its final moments, all I thought to myself was how much the little cub and I were so much alike,” he recalled with a sad smile on his face. 

“For him to wait for so long to see a loved one return– and to lay in his arms. I wonder what that would be like for me.”

Caelus blinked.

“You’re waiting for someone?” Caelus tilted his head. “I see you doing more sleeping than waiting. But who’s the lucky person?”

“I’m afraid you would not understand,” Jing Yuan said. “It’s rather difficult to explain. My mother and father did not comprehend it– then again, they didn’t understand my decision to be a soldier either.”

“Is this person the reason why you’re a general now?”

He stopped and raised an eyebrow.

“Spot on. How did you figure?”

Caelus shrugged, uncommitted. “Just a guess.”

The general chuckled.

“I’ve been waiting for him since I was reborn.”

Jing Yuan looked at their surroundings again as they resumed their walk. His hands were both behind his back as they took in the atmosphere. For him, the experience was not unlike his strolls with Yanqing– and for Caelus, he had compared him with Mr. Yang. 

“There is a Foxian custom wherein very young children would figuratively carve their future career path by choosing between the objects their parents had laid down. Unsurprisingly, I grabbed a toy sword in hopes I can find him.”

The general rambled as though Caelus would understand the context. The trailblazer can only nod along, reminded of how old people do whatever Jing Yuan was doing at present.  

“Alas, maybe he didn’t reincarnate as I had hoped,” Jing Yuan breathed in shakily. “I’ve traveled far and still, nothing. I’m afraid at this point they won’t be able to recognize me. While my voice was similar to how it was in my previous life, it had deepened with age. And I won't have any luck with my appearance either.”

Caelus frowned for him.

Jing Yuan was optimistic when Jingliu had taken him in as an apprentice– he thought it was an opportunity to find him again. There were numerous thoughts that maybe he will thread a similar path to his first life. In the realm of Xianzhou Luofu, where long and short-life species coexisted, he thought he glimpsed his baobei several times. With each encounter, his heart would skip a beat, hope blossoming like a new leaf, only to be shattered in the next breath. Jing Yuan had grown weary, not unlike Snowmoon. He's now somber and wiser. 

If only he had not died so early. If only he didn't save the Imperial Consort when the ██ ████ palace burned. Would he have lived enough to stand at the prince’s side if he didn't put his duty as a soldier first? 

Then again, none of that matters now. Today, he is Jing Yuan, the “Dozing” (and sometimes “Glutton”) General and not ████, the Crown Prince’s retainer. He should not burden himself with the regrets of a failed servant. But the thought of dying without ever seeing ██████'s face again... Jing Yuan hopes it will not happen again in this life. The General would continue searching for he had faith that one day, his prince would find his way. It may not be a popular tale in this realm and era, but he still believes that the red string binds their souls across the ages.

At the mention of reincarnation, Caelus’ ears perked up.

“Reincarnate…?”

“To live again in another form.”

“I know what it means. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Based on what Mr. Yang had told me, I’m inclined to believe that your situation is nearly synonymous with that phrase.” Jing Yuan teased.

“Come to think of it,” Jing Yuan looked at his phone. “It is ██/██ today, is it not?”

“Huh? Yeah. Do you have other plans, General?”

Caelus tried to keep up the pace with Jing Yuan. They were nearing the especially crowded and noisy area they saw before and he was worried he wouldn’t hear his response.

“No, none of the sort. On the contrary, I often take a day off on this particular date,” Jing Yuan answered nonchalantly. “Truth is, it’s ██████’s birthday–”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUU!!!”

The crowd roared and the two halted. As it turns out, there was no sale in the area, but a celebration. The both of them stopped specifically at certain familiar voices in the crowd. Caelus was certain that he heard both Qingque and Tingyun, 

but Jing Yuan’s intuition spoke for something else.

“Hey, isn’t that Miss Tingyun– woah, why are you running?!”

He left Caelus and immediately dashed to the noise. A couple of restaurant staff glanced over in confusion as the man pushed the door farther open. Some servers had made way upon recognizing the general and others who weren't quick on the uptake tried to stop him from meddling with the event. But when the staff had caught on that he was a man they cannot dismiss, a questionable scene had begun unfolding before anyone could control it.

The song died as soon as everyone saw the general standing near the middle of the tables and seated chairs. There were familiar faces just as Caelus had mentioned— Qingque and Sushang's presence can be felt. He stared, shocked at who sat beside Tingyun. 

The Foxian amicassador then guardedly placed a hand on top of the person's shoulders, looking at Jing Yuan as though he was an animal ready to strike. He didn't know what her look meant, but everyone else in the room concurred that it didn't appear as though he was there to make small talk.

"Can we help you, General?" 

"... My Lord?" 

Jing Yuan whispered weakly.

"Prince ██████... Is that truly you...?" He laughed, sounding nearly defeated. “I have not reached geriatric psychosis so soon, have I?”

The man had both his knees down on the ground, looking up at the birthday celebrant.

You.

Prince ██████– rather— (Y/n) (L/n), a Foxian now aged 250, sat amidst the room wearing robes embroidered with relatively inexpensive jades and gems gifted by friends and family. You were at a loss for what to do and looked to colleagues for advice before gazing back at the strange white-haired person kneeling on the ground.

Before he had made himself known, you appeared slightly uncomfortable. He wagered it had something to do with the crowd. The others must’ve thrown this as a surprise makeover and party, but as much as you wished to understand and be more in touch with your friendships, you likely found this situation rather difficult. And Jing Yuan was not helping.

You’d have to forgive him later. He just can’t help himself.

Your vulpine ears stood up straighter, alert as he reluctantly reached for your hand. If you could postpone this birthday “party” and finish all these tiring exchanges later, you probably would. You were taken aback at how fast his movements were– you swore that in one second he stood by the door and in the next he knelt near your chair. 

You still look so wonderful…

“Y-Your Majesty…”

He grabbed your hands.

“██████…” Jing Yuan gasped for a strip of breath. “You have no idea how long I have waited. I-I have waited for you for s-so SO long– I had nearly thrown all hope I had of finding you several times but I knew we’ll find one another again…”  

He looked up, hope in his eyes.

“It’s me, My Lord. I have fulfilled my promise.”

The general’s heart raced as he finally laid eyes on his reincarnated lover, sitting before him in all your ethereal beauty. His eyes lingered on your face, speechless at the softness that remained despite the passage of time. Your features held a timeless allure, radiant– and will forever enrapture his poor old heart.

His gaze respectfully traced the lines of your figure, adorned with jades that only accentuated your presence. The vibrant gems seemed to mirror the regalness of your past self– as if the jades themselves will always choose to highlight your inherent grace.

But it was in your eyes that General Jing Yuan found himself lost. The eyes that he never got to see a lifetime before. That calming sense of expression in your (e/c) eyes held a depth that stirred his soul. They sparkled with a familiar light, revealing the person he had loved throughout the centuries. In your stare, he had grasped the solace he had been waiting for– the emotion Snowmoon had felt in his 300-year-long return– the "reconnection" that eased the most troubled of spirits. 

Amidst the confusion that surrounded you both, Jing Yuan remained on bended knees, cherishing the sight, grateful for the opportunity to witness your enchanting presence once more.

He finally saw your eyes.

And you finally saw him.

With a heart brimming with emotions, Jing Yuan whispered:

"You are as stunning as ever, My Lord. Even in this new timeline, your beauty is unmatched– the most gorgeous person in the universe." His voice carried the weight of longing.

You jolted. There was something in your expression that made his hopes bubble up more. Was it a glint of remembrance? Did you retain your memories since birth as he did? He was uncertain but his grip on you tightened.

“I missed you so much,” he said almost inaudibly. “It’s overwhelming.”

No one spoke as the general looked at you without any intention to be the first to break eye contact. Everyone invited was too stunned to move or resume the song. Most notably, Qingque was preparing to sneak out in fear of more work while Sushang took out her notebook, scribbling notes on how to "paralyze" onlookers in what she dubbed as "The General Jing Yuan style". Only Tingyun was animated in the sense that she was willing to hand the intruder a phony smile and mouth the words "What are you doing here?" behind your back.

But there's always a true oddball waiting to bounce amongst a sea of people. And in this case, it was the "not born yesterday" trailblazer, Caelus. 

Unpredictable as he is, he joined in on the “farce.” He puffed his chest and strode large steps to reach where Tingyun, you, and Jingyuan were. Caelus fixed his sleeves and coughed loudly, which brought nearly everyone's attention to him except for the lovestruck General. 

And then, he brazenly declared:

“AND I AM DAN HENG,” he mimicked his crewmate’s voice. “ALSO KNOWN AS COLD DRAGON YOUNG.”

Pause.

People started snorting, no longer stiff. Qingque quietly muttered with a hand slowly letting go of the doorknob that it must’ve been just a “bit” to liven up the party. Eventually, that became everyone's final interpretation.

That… effectively switched the mood.

“W-What?” That flicker in your eyes was gone in an instant. 

You shook your head.

“Seriously? What’s going on?! Stop! You’re all being silly!!!”

For a moment, you contemplated throwing a spoon in Caelus’ direction but decided against it. Caelus is a friend of yours and you will not put a strain on that relationship on your birthday. But this guy? Who?

You tore your hands away from Jing Yuan, which effectively broke his heart.

“And WHO are you anyways?!” 

Tingyun laughed, hard. Both you and Jing Yuan didn't notice her, so she brought attention to herself. The amicassador, whom you nearly forgot was with you from all the ruckus, tapped your shoulder with a shrewd grin.

“Love, I have a guess as to why he introduced himself like that, but for now, that’s General Jing Yuan.”

“Okay, Mister Jing Yuan–” you started, barely threatening despite your hesitant intentions to make him uneased. “Let’s talk outside– wait.” 

Your head snapped back at Tingyun. 

“Babygirl, did you just say General Jing Yuan?” You gawked. 

“Like, THE Dozing General, Jing Yuan?” You turned your back on him, discreetly whispering and pointing. “The one you sold overpriced photocards of?”

Tingyun hid her mouth behind her fan. 

Sure, you’re not a big fan of draining your social battery so much that you’ll remember everyone’s faces, but how come you only remembered who he was based on how Tingyun exploited his looks?

“Pff– Yes, that’s him. That's the one, love. Welcome to (Y/n)’s birthday party, General!”

Caelus stood beside Jing Yuan, shaking his head. “No. That is not General Jing Yuan! That is–... Err– I didn’t get his new name. What did you say your name was, General?”

“No, no way,” Sushang cut in, slightly pushing the trailblazer. “You’re not Dan Heng! And that’s definitely General Jing Yuan, one of the seven Arbiter-Generals!!!”

Sushang then bowed to the general, spouting apologies and greetings in one incoherent jumble. Since it was Sushang who said it, you were 100% convinced this man is an important figure… and you also 100% got yourself a headache. 

"Haaaaah…?!"

You brought your attention back to Jing Yuan, who diligently awaited any of your instructions like a pup. You squinted as you tried to make out what a general could possibly want with you on your birthday of all days. Then, you recalled what he called you.

That's... Not your current name.

"Weird..." You muttered.

You took a deep breath, terrified of your next course of action but deemed it necessary for the festivities to resume. The chair squeaked as you stood from your seat, staring nervously at the general. You seriously don’t want to talk to a stranger one-on-one.

"L-Let's talk outside."

Jing Yuan perked up.

"Of course, My Lord."

"Why are you calling me–" Whispers started making rounds as soon as Jing Yuan spoke those words. You shouted, panicking. "I'M NOT HIS LORD OR ANYTHING IMPORTANT, I PROMISE!!!"

That didn't seem to clear any suspicions but at least you made an attempt. You grabbed Jing Yuan's hand and led him outside, failing to see him smile like a dog as he thought about how you were both holding hands.

Outside, it was silent. 

The party went on without its birthday celebrant and "heckler." Notably, Tingyun's playing host, and her voice can be heard from your location. Jing Yuan crossed his arms while you leaned on the wall. Both of you were waiting for the other to initiate the conversation. Although you can start the conversation, it’s not something you prefer to do. Eventually, the general couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"██████–"

"Sir–"

You both awkwardly paused. Honestly, you weren't planning on saying anything, you spoke by mere instinct. 

Jing Yuan shook his head.

"You go first, My Lord."

"... W-Why are you calling me that?"

For a moment, his lips curled into a frown but he was not quick enough to hide it from you. He smiled politely and bowed with a hand on his chest.

"Because you are my prince–" Jing Yuan added with a mutter. "At least, you were mine for just a small fraction of that ephemeral life."

You swore you heard those words from somewhere.

Did you say them before?

"... Which one?"

He stood up straighter. His posture was enough to indicate that he is indeed a general. "Which what? Would you kindly elucidate me more?"

"Which one of my retainers were you?"

Jing Yuan's face brightened.

"You can recall–!"

"Not much, to be honest," you laughed, strained. "And I'm sorry if that question was rude. Tingyun– well, we both knew her as my Empress– told me that our physical attributes are very similar to the ones we have in our previous lives, but I was blind before. And your voice is unfamiliar."

Tingyun's… the Imperial Court Princess?

The same woman he sacrificed his life to save?

“... I see… So that’s why you called her ‘babygirl’...” Jing Yuan spoke bitterly.

Who is he kidding? Of course, you've moved on.

And he's here. Foolishly awaiting no one. A lion had more luck than him in both lives.

You continued.

"So… forgive me for my lack of– whatever words I used to have back then. I'm just not royal as I used to be. I-I like being casual.” you chuckled nervously. “But w-who are you? A-Are you ███?”

“... I have never heard that name before.”

“W-Welp, I guess you’re not my childhood babysitter huh?” You joked, mildly disappointed. “Poor ███, I hope you’re not dead yet in this world.”

Jing Yuan’s face crumpled in confusion.

“Why would you assume that I’m ███?”

“Same hair, and you reincarnated waaayyy before me and Tingyun s-so I was just trying to figure out who died before we did.”

“████.” Jing Yuan closed his eyes, pained. “████ died before you did.”

“Yes, ████…” Your eyes softened and your next words sounded broken. “Of course, that’s… unfortunately… true…but if you knew him, I guess that just means you’re someone I knew in my late twenties.”

You smiled. “████… I still hope he’s out there. I miss him a lot.”

That smile.

That was the smile he had not seen in his last days. From the last secret meeting they shared, the prince’s smile and laughter seemed rather distant, devoid of life. This time, it was the polar opposite. He felt the same affection the prince once gave to his beloved retainer. 

With eyes looking back at the party, your tone has shifted from tender to authoritative, truly deserving of the title once bestowed upon you.

“Jing Yuan, I do not know who you were in my first life, but I will say this–

“Back then, I couldn’t reveal this, but I will tell everyone I will reunite with now. There’s no one else I loved romantically more than ████.” You glared at him. “He has always been there for me– and he will forever be someone dear to me.”

You were no longer nervous. You did not care that he was a stranger– you didn’t care about the prejudice that might follow. You were going to speak your truth. No matter what.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re an Arbiter-General. If you cannot respect that love, then do not call me your prince. That’s all.”

…

…

You were expecting another rant about honor like what another reincarnated nobleman whose name you never bothered to remember had done or a “who cares” and an “I knew since the beginning” like your royal jade specialist, ███ or Qingque, had said. 

But his response baffled you more.

“Thank you.”

Seeing Jing Yuan smile proudly with tears forming in his eyes was the last thing you expected.

“A-And I still love you too.”

…

…

…

“Baozi…?” Your eyes widened.

“Baobei…” Jing Yuan reached for your hand again. “As I announced proudly earlier, I fulfilled my promise.

I found you again. In another life.”

You wish you could say you had a brilliant time after that revelation. You wish you could say you went back to Tingyun and giddily told her everything. You wish you could say you returned home with a smile on your face. 

But no. You were too mentally and socially spent as a result of the unanticipated events. It brought back vivid memories of how, in a previous life, you would retreat to your room after banquets to avoid further conversations. Realistically, the only course of action that could have been taken after that was for you to ask him for his contact information and request some time to gather your thoughts because despite how wonderful it was to see the person you loved most after 250 years and more, the mechanical hands continue to haunt you. 

Jing Yuan has existed and will continue to exist for a very long time. The same cannot be said for you. 

But despite delaying all interactions, his invitations never ceased. On the first day, he tried to invite you to the Divine Seat of Foresight using Qingque– but she forgot about that task and only told you about it in the middle of a game. On the second day, he wrote you a letter stating that you were always welcome to visit him and that you have full access to all rooms (his trust for you concerned Yukong.) And yesterday, Tingyun implied that Mimi wanted to see you, joking about how it’s about time you adopt a lion. 

 And today, he is at your door, holding a bouquet. 

You can't delay this anymore.

“I-I’m sorry, baozi, but I don’t think we should talk.”

“How so?” Jing Yuan raised an eyebrow, not irritated but genuinely confused. “We’re finally together– you and I— unless…”

He looked down. In an instant, you knew he was thinking about Tingyun– rather– your past Empress. Who you never had feelings for and never consummated the marriage with. And she’d say the same about you.

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” you shook your head. “We’re not together. Nope. No way.”

“Are you certain?”

“Obviously, duh!” You said. Curiously enough, you sounded very annoyed at that. “If it’s because of that babygirl thing– dude, I swear, that was a joke cause everyone thinks we’re in love so we’re just playing along as a joke like we used to when we were quote-unquote ‘married’ and– man, why am I explaining this? Welp, I’ll try to shut up now.”

You put your head in your hands, which would’ve normally made Jing Yuan laugh, but he was more concerned than anything.

“Then why are you being deterred?”

“It’s just,” you sighed, giving up. “I’m a Foxian.”

“And so?”

“My life… is relatively brief compared to yours.” 

You held his hands, slowly tracing his palms.

“I’ve heard of snippets of your life on the streets. I heard you got statues of your deceased lion when it died.” 

You looked up, smiling sadly. It reminded him so much of the expression you’d wear when the ministers have shared intel regarding casualties. He never enjoyed gazing at that look.

“Other than the fact I kinda don’t want a statue of me inside the Divine Seat of Foresight,” you joked. “I don’t want to make you feel the same pain or worse.”

“I’m 250 years old. If I’m lucky and if I take care of myself better, add 150 more and that will be the end of it.” You explained. “Just that... You're a human that can live for millennia, and I can only live till 400." 

You took a sharp breath. At the time, he could only hear you and your movements, the sounds of your neighborhood were non-existent. 

"Wouldn't being with me just make you sad in the end? My life is just like Snowmoon. I don't want to know that being with me will just make your heart break." You laughed cheaply. 

"Wouldn't that make me selfish?" 

Jing Yuan did not speak. Instead, he grabbed you by the waist and encircled his strong arms around you. In an instant, you felt the urge to cry. You had never been attached to a person quite like him and to know that he feels the same feels painful somehow. Aware of your weakness, you know that emotions can be sometimes hard to understand for you, but that doesn't make you unemotional. 

"No. No, you're not. And you never will be for wanting to love again," he spoke, sounding breathy yet low. "It would be more selfish if you to deny this happiness for the both of us." 

"Did you fully comprehend how long I've waited for us to reunite? Do you understand how every action I've taken that led us to this point was so that I could see you again? Speak to you again? Touch you again?" Jing Yuan shook his head slowly. 

"No. Letting me go on living without you is not only selfish, it is cruel. There is no competition, being with you, even if our time together is but another brief moment like our last rendezvous in the forest, is much more preferable than never seeing you again." 

In those excruciating three days of reluctance, those were the words you were hoping to hear from him. And he delivered more. 

Your worries were for nothing. You were trying to be “mature”, steeling your resolve for when he’ll “inevitably face the music” and “live to be happy” without pursuing you in this life.

You can’t hold it back any longer. Tears of happiness trickled down your cheeks, and you buried your face in his chest, holding him as tightly as he held you. In that quiet moment of reconnection, your love was reciprocated, and the fear that had held you back was gone, replaced by a profound sense of contentment and belonging.

“Y-You know…” 

You had a wet-faced yet wide grin as you slithered a hand on the back of his head, untying his red ribbon. You were kind of proud of yourself for nicknaming him Baozi. With that white hair, he does look like a steamed bun. 

Slowly, you cupped his cheek and tilted his face slightly downwards.

“I’ve heard from my fellow Foxians that moles are where your lover from a past life enjoyed kissing you,” you traced his left cheek with your thumb. “What do you think?”

Jing Yuan blushed.

It was unspoken, but it made him happy nonetheless.

You’re letting him love you.

There is no greater joy to be had in his life than to be yours again.

“W-Well, I’d say we proved that myth to be true–” he cleared his throat. “Given how obsessed you were with kissing the spot below my eyelid.”

“So true,” you hummed. “You’re very pretty, Jing Yuan. I wish I could’ve seen how beautiful you are before.”

He was meant to joke about how he would always guide your face to his lips so that you wouldn’t “miss”, but Jing Yuan couldn’t help but melt at your words.

“You’re too wonderful, baobei.”

“I know.”

Jing Yuan chuckled heartily.

“I see your sense of humor is intact.”

You scoffed and quickly stuck your tongue out in a playful quip.

"My humor didn't remain– it evolved– and you got a character arc too didn't you? You went from not liking lions to owning TWO. T-W-O. Way before I got a hand on one as well. Don’t think I forgot about that bet, Mr. ████. You seriously owe me 200 wu zhus."

"I've certainly grown mundane–" Upon realizing what you fully said, he paused and laughed. "–Haha! Sharp as ever. Unfortunately, my lord, finding the old currency would be a tall task. How about 40,000 strales?"

“Hmm… Not a very convincing equivalent exchange.” You shrugged. “You know what? I may not be the brightest math person since I’ve been skipping it for music lessons, but with a bet taking this long, surely we have to consider the interest rate, right? How about adding a wedding ring? ”

His heart skipped a beat.

Jing Yuan pulled you closer. 

"... Always with a follow-up argument, but I shall go along with this. After all, I’ve always fantasized about saying…"

The general smiled as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, locking your hands together with his. Jing Yuan, ████— whatever his name is— felt safe and warm in your presence as he kissed your neck.

Finally, a domestic life. A life where they can both say:

“Baobei, I’m home.”

有情人终成眷属 

The Lovers are Finally Together; All Shall Be Well.

[jng-yuan]

sparring sessions

contents: jing yuan x gn!reader, suggestive content but not explicit, potential power imbalance (reader is a cloud knight, jing yuan is well, jing yuan), not beta read thoroughly

"1... 2... 3..." you counted under your breath, feet moving deftly in the lose sands and gravel between you. in your hands, a practice glaive balanced delicately. "1... 2... 3..."

above you, the luofu's artificial sun was setting over the horizon, the stars and moon slowly taking their place in your skies. a cool breeze blew through your thin practice armor, blessing you with a moment of respite from the unbearable summer heat. beneath you, the ground was painted with your dance, intricate swirls indicating your path and stable footwork.

most evenings were spent having a good meal with your fellow comrades, your friends, your families. but today, you found yourself in a private practice courtyard, practicing your swings, desperately trying to get the images from last night out of your head.

"you're out late," a familiar voice rang in your ears, and you froze. "most soldiers are getting supper. is there something on your mind?"

jing yuan stepped into the courtyard, the general's footsteps quiet on the sand.

the man from last night that had been plaguing your thoughts all day. of course he just happened to pop in for once.

"n-no, sir," you stammered out your response, refusing to look at him and focusing on your fighting stance. "i-i just wanted to get some extra practice in."

i'm just trying to stop myself from begging you to fuck me again like you did last night, but here you are. that's secretly what you wanted to say, but you weren't about to admit that to him. something deep inside you told you that you'd never hear the end of it if you did.

a moment of silence passed before you became aware of a looming presence, standing directly behind you. like a lion surveying his pride, he leaned over your shoulder, mouth directly next to your ear.

"this isn't about last night, is it?" he asked, concern flooding his voice.

you shook your head, refusing to look at him. "last night was amazing just..." you coughed, your lips twisting into a pained, awkward smile. "i've been... uh, a bit distracted from last night. can't really get it off my head, if i'm being honest, so i wasn't on top of my training as i should have been. i wanted to make it up tonight before tomorrow's training."

he chuckled lowly, pressing his lips just behind your ear. more teasing, of course.

"i'm glad to hear that." there was an amused lilt in his voice. "now, you need to work on your posture and stance."

his left hand found your stomach, thumb teasing the bottom portion of your ribs. your breath hitched, eyes widened as you straightened up, his bare chest hitting your back. his chest rumbled with a pleased, low chuckle, amused with your suddenly perfect posture, how your stomach twitched under his touch. i love how you react to my touch, his words from last night echoed through your head. i didn't think you were so sensitive. there was nothing coming out of your lungs, breath stuck in your lungs.

“breathe,” he murmured, breath hot on your neck. "you need to breathe to keep good form. i wouldn't want you to pass out so soon."

your mind was hazy, swirling and distracted. your thoughts were no longer in that moment, instead teleported back to last night with his teasing touches. his tantalizingly slow process of peeling your clothes off, leaving soft kisses on your most sensitive of spots. patience, he murmured, kissing up your spine, admiring the way you shivered under his touch. let me enjoy you.

his right hand went to the glaive in your hands, and you watched as it slid down the shaft to your hand. hand wrapped around yours, you admired the gentle strength of his calloused and scarred hands. your thoughts shifted once more to last night, the way his fingers wrapped around yours as he took you apart with his tongue. refusing to leave the spot he carved out from between your legs, peppering teasing kisses and bites where he could. watching as you came apart for him, savoring the way his name sounded coming from your parted lips.

mentally, you scolded yourself for letting him get to you like this. if you moaned while training, you knew you would never hear the end of it.

“lean back on your left foot.”

his hand shifted to your thigh, guiding you to lean back onto your left foot. you felt his body shift with you, his chest never once leaving your back. deep, calm and heavy breaths fell in time with yours, his chest rising and falling in time with yours. his thumb dug into a bruise he had left last night from, making your thigh shake as you leaned back. you bit your lip, swallowing down whatever debauched sound was threatening to escape your lips.

jing yuan’s breath was hot on the shell of your ear.

“you seem… distracted.”

before you could respond with your own teasing comment, his foot found your knee and you yelped, body twisting as he disarmed you in a single, swift move. a strong arm wrapped around your stomach, head dangling just above the ground. in the distance, your practice glaive clattered on the ground, out of your line of sight. blinking rapidly, you looked up at the general, his face merely inches away from yours.

there was a mischievous, knowing glint in his yellow eyes and he slowly blinked, taking in your flustered, shocked face. an embarrassed heat crept up on your face to the top of your ears, shyly looking away from the general. a breathy chuckle escaped through his nose, his breath teasing your lips just before he dropped you, letting you to hit the ground with an oof.

you watched as he walked towards the weapon rack, picking up your glaive and putting it away. shirtless, his back muscles formed from centuries of training and war glistened in the setting sun, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking your gaze over him. thick, deep lines covered his back, like the canyons the two of you had explored on a planet you’d long forgotten the name of. muscles rippled as he picked up two practice spears, dulled to avoid injuries. and as he turned, you couldn’t help but admire him even more. long faded top surgery scars held his pecs, his chest hair accenting thick muscles that gleamed under the sunlight.

he laughed as he watched you ogle him, amusement scrawled on his face.

“do you usually get distracted by enemies this easily?” he asked out loud, stepping back towards you.

“hmm, no,” you responded, groaning as you sat up. “none of them look like you.”

he tossed you a spear, which you deftly snagged out of the air.

“then perhaps we’ll need more one-on-one sessions,” he mused, readying himself for a sparring session. “i’ll schedule you for the evening. make sure you’re stretched and prepared. with how distracted you get, i imagine we'll be needing quite a few.”

[jng-yuan]

sparring sessions

contents: jing yuan x gn!reader, suggestive content but not explicit, potential power imbalance (reader is a cloud knight, jing yuan is well, jing yuan), not beta read thoroughly

"1... 2... 3..." you counted under your breath, feet moving deftly in the lose sands and gravel between you. in your hands, a practice glaive balanced delicately. "1... 2... 3..."

above you, the luofu's artificial sun was setting over the horizon, the stars and moon slowly taking their place in your skies. a cool breeze blew through your thin practice armor, blessing you with a moment of respite from the unbearable summer heat. beneath you, the ground was painted with your dance, intricate swirls indicating your path and stable footwork.

most evenings were spent having a good meal with your fellow comrades, your friends, your families. but today, you found yourself in a private practice courtyard, practicing your swings, desperately trying to get the images from last night out of your head.

"you're out late," a familiar voice rang in your ears, and you froze. "most soldiers are getting supper. is there something on your mind?"

jing yuan stepped into the courtyard, the general's footsteps quiet on the sand.

the man from last night that had been plaguing your thoughts all day. of course he just happened to pop in for once.

"n-no, sir," you stammered out your response, refusing to look at him and focusing on your fighting stance. "i-i just wanted to get some extra practice in."

i'm just trying to stop myself from begging you to fuck me again like you did last night, but here you are. that's secretly what you wanted to say, but you weren't about to admit that to him. something deep inside you told you that you'd never hear the end of it if you did.

a moment of silence passed before you became aware of a looming presence, standing directly behind you. like a lion surveying his pride, he leaned over your shoulder, mouth directly next to your ear.

"this isn't about last night, is it?" he asked, concern flooding his voice.

you shook your head, refusing to look at him. "last night was amazing just..." you coughed, your lips twisting into a pained, awkward smile. "i've been... uh, a bit distracted from last night. can't really get it off my head, if i'm being honest, so i wasn't on top of my training as i should have been. i wanted to make it up tonight before tomorrow's training."

he chuckled lowly, pressing his lips just behind your ear. more teasing, of course.

"i'm glad to hear that." there was an amused lilt in his voice. "now, you need to work on your posture and stance."

his left hand found your stomach, thumb teasing the bottom portion of your ribs. your breath hitched, eyes widened as you straightened up, his bare chest hitting your back. his chest rumbled with a pleased, low chuckle, amused with your suddenly perfect posture, how your stomach twitched under his touch. i love how you react to my touch, his words from last night echoed through your head. i didn't think you were so sensitive. there was nothing coming out of your lungs, breath stuck in your lungs.

“breathe,” he murmured, breath hot on your neck. "you need to breathe to keep good form. i wouldn't want you to pass out so soon."

your mind was hazy, swirling and distracted. your thoughts were no longer in that moment, instead teleported back to last night with his teasing touches. his tantalizingly slow process of peeling your clothes off, leaving soft kisses on your most sensitive of spots. patience, he murmured, kissing up your spine, admiring the way you shivered under his touch. let me enjoy you.

his right hand went to the glaive in your hands, and you watched as it slid down the shaft to your hand. hand wrapped around yours, you admired the gentle strength of his calloused and scarred hands. your thoughts shifted once more to last night, the way his fingers wrapped around yours as he took you apart with his tongue. refusing to leave the spot he carved out from between your legs, peppering teasing kisses and bites where he could. watching as you came apart for him, savoring the way his name sounded coming from your parted lips.

mentally, you scolded yourself for letting him get to you like this. if you moaned while training, you knew you would never hear the end of it.

“lean back on your left foot.”

his hand shifted to your thigh, guiding you to lean back onto your left foot. you felt his body shift with you, his chest never once leaving your back. deep, calm and heavy breaths fell in time with yours, his chest rising and falling in time with yours. his thumb dug into a bruise he had left last night from, making your thigh shake as you leaned back. you bit your lip, swallowing down whatever debauched sound was threatening to escape your lips.

jing yuan’s breath was hot on the shell of your ear.

“you seem… distracted.”

before you could respond with your own teasing comment, his foot found your knee and you yelped, body twisting as he disarmed you in a single, swift move. a strong arm wrapped around your stomach, head dangling just above the ground. in the distance, your practice glaive clattered on the ground, out of your line of sight. blinking rapidly, you looked up at the general, his face merely inches away from yours.

there was a mischievous, knowing glint in his yellow eyes and he slowly blinked, taking in your flustered, shocked face. an embarrassed heat crept up on your face to the top of your ears, shyly looking away from the general. a breathy chuckle escaped through his nose, his breath teasing your lips just before he dropped you, letting you to hit the ground with an oof.

you watched as he walked towards the weapon rack, picking up your glaive and putting it away. shirtless, his back muscles formed from centuries of training and war glistened in the setting sun, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking your gaze over him. thick, deep lines covered his back, like the canyons the two of you had explored on a planet you’d long forgotten the name of. muscles rippled as he picked up two practice spears, dulled to avoid injuries. and as he turned, you couldn’t help but admire him even more. long faded top surgery scars held his pecs, his chest hair accenting thick muscles that gleamed under the sunlight.

he laughed as he watched you ogle him, amusement scrawled on his face.

“do you usually get distracted by enemies this easily?” he asked out loud, stepping back towards you.

“hmm, no,” you responded, groaning as you sat up. “none of them look like you.”

he tossed you a spear, which you deftly snagged out of the air.

“then perhaps we’ll need more one-on-one sessions,” he mused, readying himself for a sparring session. “i’ll schedule you for the evening. make sure you’re stretched and prepared. with how distracted you get, i imagine we'll be needing quite a few.”

[jng-yuan]

The Stellaron Hunters were a group renowned and hated across the galaxies, both feared and respected by the factions. But under those skillful manipulations and operations, was an organization as put together as a monkey circus. You should know this best, as a member of this menagerie.

stellaron hunter!reader (no specific pairings)

contains: cursing, possibly ooc, written before version 1.2, just a bunhc of silly shenanigans, unedited, can be read as romantic and platonic !!

word count: 3.7k

a/n: i had to rewrite this like... 4 times bc tumblr kept deleting it :// anyways night dancer got me through this piece so :D u can tell i have a blade preference but listen he's hot

Before we get on with the sillies, let's lay down some groundwork.

Every Stellaron Hunter has a specific role in mind. Blade is the feral dog that you throw at people, Kafka pisses people off (and shoots ig), and Silver Wolf gets past all defenses.

You're the expert on espionage and disguise. With the power of masks, voice changers, and makeup, you can become basically anyone if you put your mind to it. Even people with completely different builds than you, you could pull off - as long as the holographs don't start glitching out.

You're often paired with Silver Wolf in order to infiltrate various bases. Silver Wolf can transcend any physical barriers, while you sweet talk your way into the inner circles of any leaders. Sometimes, you implant ideas into people's heads in order to guide them towards a certain path, sometimes you just do it for the fun of it.

Your favorite victim so far has been the Express. Ever since the Trailblazer joined, you've entertained yourself by posing as them or other members of the Express (the only ones you can't figure out are Welt Yang and the conductor, Pom-Pom).

And it was surprising, how easily you could trick March 7th and Dan Heng. You had no idea where the original Trailblazer was (probably up some poor soul's dumpster), but frankly, you didn't care.

You somehow managed to trick the two for the better half of a day. It wasn't until you didn't jump at the sight of the first trashcan on the Xianzhou Luofu that the duo realized that something was off.

"Who- Who are you?!"

March stepped back, Dan Heng already drawing his spear. But you weren't going to give in so easily. No, you wanted to see just how far you could take this.

"Guys?" You feigned hurt and confusion as you faced the two. "What're you..."

"Don't play dumb," Dan Heng cut you off, thrusting his spear under your chin. "You're not them. The real Trailblazer would've started ransacking that trashcan by now."

What kind of freak-

"C'mon guys, I have taste," you sighed, crossing your arms. "The trashcans here don't compare to the ones at Belobog. They're not as shiny."

"Trailblazer said that appearance doesn't matter when it comes to trash!" March shot back, her bow appearing in her hands. "Enough games, who are you really?"

You paused for a moment, contemplating your options. You could try to bullshit your way out of this, but you sincerely doubted you would be able to. What kind of freak personality did Silver Wolf program into the vessel, anyways?

You sighed, making the two tense up. Your face, still that of the Trailblazer's, twisted into a condescending sneer, before you doubled over in laughter.

"Ah... Damnit, and here I thought I was doing well!" You stretched your arms, March backing away from you. "Well, that just goes to show, I still have much to improve."

With a snap of your fingers, your disguise melted away, revealing your true appearnce.

"You're-!" March gasped. "You're one of the Stellaron Hunters!"

"Am I really that famous?" you pondered, leaning back on the railing. "And here I thought Kafka or Silver Wolf were more popular."

"What're you trying to pull," Dan Heng growled, "pretending to be the Trailblazer? What did you do to them?"

"Oh, nothing," you replied simply, popping your bone. "I just sent them a coupon for that restaurant down the street. So don't worry yourselves, I'm just here to have a little bit of fun."

Before the two could comprehend the stupidity of their companion, you jumped onto the railing, balancing on your toes.

"Well, it's been fun, Nameless." You waved cheerfully, taking a step back into the open air. "Let's meet again sometime soon, yeah?"

"Wait!" They rushed to the railing, adamant on catching you - but you had already vanished.

The world might see you as a complete weirdo, but honestly, you aren't even the worst of the Stellaron Hunters. In your humble opinion, you're the lesser evil compared to your comrades.

If you're going to survive in this job, you have to get used to Kafka bullying you. Don't worry, she does it to everyone, it's not just you. But signing up to become a Stellaron Hunter also means you sign up to a life of relentless teasing.

You roll your eyes at the feeling of a familiar gun barrel against your head. Kafka holds it against your temple firmly, but you know her finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger. It’s not like you’re Blade, who somehow survived getting thrown off a four-story building.

“Now who do we have here?” Kafka muses lazily. “A potential spy from the IPC? Or perhaps, one of the Xianzhou Cloud Knights?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Kafka,” you turn around, unimpressed. With one move, you pulled off your mask, glaring at her pointedly as you grab a bottle of water. “I know that thing isn’t loaded.”

“Oh, it’s you, [Name],” Your senior gasps mockingly, removing the gun. “When did you come in? I could’ve sworn an intruder-”

You throw the bottle at her. She dodges because of course she does.

And Kafka isn't even the least of your worries. At least she has a sense of financial responsibility.

There's no doubt that Silver Wolf is integral to the workings of the Stellaron Hunters, especially with her hacking abilities. She's certainly skilled with her work, and she has saved your ass many times before.

But sometimes, you have to play babysitter to her, because homegirl may or may not have a gambling addiction, especially when it comes to whatever those gacha games of hers. Whenever she visits the city's nearby arcade or casino, either you or Kafka have to be around so that she doesn't end up gambling all of your funds away. You would get Blade to do it, except he couldn't care less about your financial problems.

“Let me go! I’ve almost got it, I know I do!”

Silver Wolf kicked at your shoulders wildly as you hoisted her up. You paid her no mind as you left the arcade, Blade walking in tow. You kept a firm grip on his sleeve, making sure he didn’t run off and start any trouble. You saw the look he gave the claw machine. If you hadn’t dragged Silver Wolf away, he would’ve likely broken the thing out of impatience.

“I was so close!” The girl on your shoulder whined, like a kid who didn’t get their favorite toy.

“You already spent 500k on it,” you replied bluntly. “It’s a scam, don’t you know?”

“So what?” Silver Wolf retorted. “I would’ve won!”

“Yeah,” you shifted her up, your shoulder getting sore. You weren’t really built for hard labor. “After you spent another hundred thousand credits, sure.”

“I wasn’t!” She’d stopped fighting you, now hanging limply so that her entire weight pressed down on you. “I could’ve hacked it-”

“Really? You’d put that much effort into a claw machine?” Before Silver Wolf could argue, your phone dinged, as did Blade’s and Silver Wolf’s - successfully interrupting your bickering. You glanced at Blade as he checked his phone for the three of you.

“It’s Kafka,” he reported, typing out a quick response. “She says it’s time to go back.”

“Tell her we’ll be there in 10 minutes, if Silver stops her tantrum,” you said, looking pointedly at Silver Wolf. The hacker kicked you in response. 

“I am not throwing a tantrum,” she huffed. You rolled your eyes.

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Speaking of which, Blade is like your guard dog. A very intimidating guard dog. With a sword. And attitude issues.

Come to think of it, he's more like a cat if anything.

When he's not being launched at the faces of various enemies, Blade often finds himself acting as your shadow. He just follows you around, doesn't say anything, and the second he smells a whiff of a threat, the sword comes out and you have to talk him down before someone calls the cops.

It seems that you’re the only one unaffected by the suffocating tension clogging up the clothing store. There’s an obvious circle of space surrounding you and Blade as you browse through various suits, intent on finding one that would fit the man standing behind you. Elio’s next script required that Blade and Kafka go to a dinner party, and knowing Blade, the man didn’t have any clothes other than the ones you and the other Hunters got for him.

It wasn’t that Blade didn’t have an eye for fashion, rather, he simply didn’t care much for it. Shopping wasn’t exactly his cup of tea either. His hands itched for action, but he did have to admit that this was better than sulking around in his room all day.

You pulled out another suit that had caught your eye, a simple black one with a bronze lapel. It would fit the vest you’d already picked out for him. Holding it out in front of Blade, you squint as you try to picture what it’d look like on him.

Decent enough. You hummed in satisfaction, turning the suit around to show it to him. “What do you think?”

Blade shrugs, only giving the suit a brief glance. “It’s fine.”

You sigh, giving him a look. “Do you like it?”

“It isn’t the worst thing you’ve put me in,” he says nonchalantly. You huff, lightly hitting his chest. For a second, a glimmer of a smile flickers onto his face at your action.

“Watch your attitude,” you reprimand playfully. “Otherwise I’m giving you the shittiest suit I can find in here.”

“You wouldn’t,” Blade says easily as the two of you walk toward the cash registers. “Your heart couldn’t bear to do that to a face like mine.”

“Cheeky brat.”

You remember the day Blade was first brought to the base, picked up by Kafka and Elio like a stray cat. He had a strange resemblance to that of a drowned rat, being absolutely sopping wet.

Your seniors just kinda dropped him off into your room with the only instructions being "Make him look presentable", which didn't give you a lot to work with. You weren't sure how you were going to fix him, but after a lot of bathing, hair drying, and brushing, you soon discovered that the drowned rat had a pretty face.

So basically, you're the only reason why he looks remotely presentable.

And quite frankly, Blade does not make it easier on you. He doesn't care about how he looks, only how his enemies look - and that's dead and unmoving. Sir somehow manages to fuck up his fit every time he goes on mission, coming back with his very expensive clothes, mind you, covered in blood, and his hair messed up.

The audacity of him, to just walk into your room unannounced, clothes completely torn and hair a mess, and plop himself down on your perfectly clean chair and wait for you to fix him up. Granted, you'll do it (you wouldn't allow any of your comrades to leave without a decent haircut), but that doesn't mean you won't rattle his ear off with a scolding.

Oh, and another thing? There's no such thing as privacy when you're with the Stellaron Hunters.

“Just what did you do to it this time?”

You grumbled as you cut away at Blade’s hair, the man in question sitting in your salon chair and scrolling through his phone. He had just come back from a mission, and this time he somehow managed to cut off the bottom half of his long locks, resulting in a horrendously uneven cut.

“You’re literally so photogenic and then you go and do this?” you huffed, blowing his hair into his face with a blowdryer.

“You can fix it, can’t you?” Blade didn’t even look up from his screen as he texted Silver Wolf, likely using this as an excuse to escape her pleas to game with her.

You scowl, venting your anger as you brushed his hair, cutting a few extra strands. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I always have the time to do so! Now sit still.”

You first learned this when you came back from a particularly grueling mission, early on in your career with the Hunters. You were covered in blood that wasn't (or was it?) yours, drenched from the rain and safe to say, not in the greatest of moods. All you wanted was to take a shower, and preferably, take an undisturbed nap on your warm bed.

Unfortunately, Kafka had other plans.

You opened the door to find her lounging on YOUR bed, IN THE DARK, ruffling through your makeup collection like it was normal. She didn't even seem bothered when you flicked on the light, didn't even acknowledge you until you threw a knife at her.

And what did she say when you made it abundantly clear that she shouldn't be in here? Nothing. She just scrunched up her nose and told you to take a shower.

And that is how you learned that having your own room is utterly useless because every single Hunter could pick a lock. You could try to use an electric one. Silver Wolf sure did. And to her credit, it worked, until a certain dog named Blade came around and just kicked the door down.

Out of all the Stellaron Hunters to creep around in your room, Sam was by far the worse. You could handle Kafka going through your makeup, or Blade judging your taste in books. You can deal with Elio having his fucking shoes on your bed because he's your boss and honestly what are you going to do against an actual seer? Exactly. Nothing. At least his shoes are usually clean.

But Sam? He doesn't visit so that he can go through your things, or just hang around. No. He comes around with the pure intention of scaring the shit out of you.

He just waits?? Outside your door?? In the dark?? Until you open it and he jumps you. It usually ends with someone getting punched, but honestly, it's nothing either of you couldn't handle.

Silver Wolf likes to pretend that she isn't as bad as the other because in her words, she "gives you a warning". Said warning is "You better be decent" before she barges in and starts rambling about the new game she bought.

One time you were not decent and someone had to pay the price. That someone was not you.

There is one good thing that comes out of all this invasion of privacy. Because whatever the others do to you, you get to do right back to them. 

Your group chat is an absolute mess, with no one understanding Silver Wolf's slang or dialect. Blade's outdated brain short-circuited the first time he touched a phone, while Kafka just silently accepted her fate. You often have to translate because Silver Wolf sure wasn't to.

“What does this button do?”

“Don’t touch that.” Kafka playfully whined as Silver Wolf snatched away the console in her hands. The hacker was less than pleased, having returned to her room only to discover that she’d been chosen as the Hunters’ victim for today.

You lean against Kafka’s shoulder, pouting alongside her at your latest toy being confiscated. “C’mon Silver, let us have some fun at least.”

“After you two invaded my room? Not a chance,” she replied, tossing the console to somewhere you and Kafka couldn’t reach. Kafka merely hummed at the loss, leaning back onto Silver Wolf’s messy bed.

“You know, you should really clean up around here,” she commented. “They killed themselves tripping over a stack of DVDs.”

“Agreed, although I wouldn’t mention that last part,” you said, picking up another one of Silver Wolf’s consoles. This one had a fighting game on it. Silver Wolf rolled her eyes as you quickly busied yourself with fighting the boss she had left off on.

“If you don’t want to get hurt, then don’t come in,” she said, plopping down on the bed next to you. Kafka smiled.

“Sure, but where’s the fun in that?” she asked, watching you tap away at the screen. “It was just a suggestion, no need to get all worked up.”

“I’m not, but okay.” Silver Wolf hissed as your character took damage. “If you get my character killed-”

“I won’t,” you retorted, swiftly defeating the boss. You tossed Silver Wolf the console. “See?”

“You’re half dead,” Silver Wolf deadpanned.

“Doesn't matter. I still won.”

Gambling Addict: Ykw blade

Gambling Addict: This is why u pull no bitches

Gambling Addict: Bc if [name] didnt yassify u 

Gambling Addict: U would have zero rizz

Gambling Addict: Negative rizz actually

You: I see no lie here

Gambling Addict: So stfu about my social life at least i can pull bitches

DONT PICK UP: [Name], translate

Gambling Addict: [Name] i have ur closet at gunpoint 

You: She means Blade can't attract maidens bc he has as much charisma as a blobfish

You: Also stfu silver I know you can't shoot for shit

Gambling Addict: [NAME]

Gambling Addict: Actually no, ur right

DONT PICK UP: Oh, I see

You: I'm always right 💅✨

DONT PICK UP: That does sound like Bladie

Gambling Addict: Listen

Gambling Addict: All i know is that blades been real quiet since i said that

Blade: Silver Wolf.

Gambling Addict: And so he speaks!

Blade: Count your days.

You like to fuck with the others by pretending to be them. Blade nearly murdered you because one time you got bored, and decided that slandering his nonexistent image would be ample entertainment.

In minutes, you turned yourself into Blade's lookalike, and spent the afternoon prancing around in a maid dress because what else were you going to use it for? Unfortunately, that also put you as a target for Blade's wrath. Fortunately, you have a lot of experience escaping people you pissed off.

Silver Wolf still has the pictures. Kafka laughed her ass off until you did the exact same thing to her. And that's when she started shooting.

"I can't believe you did this," you sniffed dramatically, fake tears falling from your face. In your hands was what used to be your pride and joy, the beautiful maid dress that you'd spent millions on (lie).

What used to be a gorgeous garment with frills and lace, was now in tatters from Kafka's bullets and Blade's sword. The two aforementioned culprits weren't the slightest bit guilty as they watched you lament over your clothes.

"You should've thought of that before you started walking around like that," Kafka blew at her smoking gun. Blade nodded firmly in agreement, holding his sword close to his chest.

"It was cute!" you huffed, shaking your head. You weren't actually mad at them. You could always buy another dress to mess with them. Besides, you already got what you wanted.

Your gaze met with Silver Wolf's, who grinned back, holding her phone in between her fingers.

None of the Stellaron Hunters know basic first aid, and that includes you. Most of you just slap on a few bandages, some weird smelling ointment, and call it a day. Silver Wolf doesn't even do that, she just downs three bowls of rice and walks off the broken arm like a Sunday hangover.

But one day, just as your luck would have it, you came back to base with an injury that you couldn't just bandage away. No one knew what to do, and you were bleeding out fast. So what did this hardened group of criminals do?

They googled it. They fucking googled it.

Silver Wolf deadass just searched up how to fix you while you were bleeding out next to her. Kafka, to her credit, did hold your hand to try and comfort you (albeit mockingly), and Blade just stood back and watched. If Elio foresaw a way to help you, well, he didn't say anything.

But it all turned out all right in the end. Eventually, Silver Wolf gave up and simply shoved a bowl of her fried rice in front of you. You still don't know how or why, but it somehow worked. It shouldn't have, but it did.

The scene in front of you reminded you of a bunch of school children watching a chemistry experiment for the first time. The Stellaron Hunters crowded around you, eyes trained onto your closing wound with unnerving fascination. Even Blade, who rarely had any emotion at all, was watching you with the faintest glimmer of awe.

"What the hell did you put in that thing?" you turned in disbelief to Silver Wolf, the only unphased person in the room. The hacker was already somewhere else, her thumbs tapping rapidly as she played another one of her rhythm games.

"Trash."

"WHAT." You almost throttled her before she quickly teleported a safe distance away, clutching her phone to her chest.

"Kidding, kidding, no need to get all worked up!" She sighed, clearing a level without looking.

"Just some solid water and protein rice, that's all."

"You mean ice?" You swatted at Kafka, who was poking at where your wound used to be.

"No."

Safe to say, the Stellaron Hunters are an... interesting bunch, to put it lightly. They're all assholes, including you, and seem to thrive over inconveniencing each other. The only time you all can somewhat work together is when you're acting out one of Elio's scripts.

But you'd be lying if you said you hated working at this job. You live for the thrill of things, and being a Hunter was the most fun you've had in a long, long time, even if your coworkers occasionally annoyed you to death.

None of you would ever say it aloud, but you wouldn't trade each other for anything in the world.

[jng-yuan]

The Stellaron Hunters were a group renowned and hated across the galaxies, both feared and respected by the factions. But under those skillful manipulations and operations, was an organization as put together as a monkey circus. You should know this best, as a member of this menagerie.

stellaron hunter!reader (no specific pairings)

contains: cursing, possibly ooc, written before version 1.2, just a bunhc of silly shenanigans, unedited, can be read as romantic and platonic !!

word count: 3.7k

a/n: i had to rewrite this like... 4 times bc tumblr kept deleting it :// anyways night dancer got me through this piece so :D u can tell i have a blade preference but listen he's hot

Before we get on with the sillies, let's lay down some groundwork.

Every Stellaron Hunter has a specific role in mind. Blade is the feral dog that you throw at people, Kafka pisses people off (and shoots ig), and Silver Wolf gets past all defenses.

You're the expert on espionage and disguise. With the power of masks, voice changers, and makeup, you can become basically anyone if you put your mind to it. Even people with completely different builds than you, you could pull off - as long as the holographs don't start glitching out.

You're often paired with Silver Wolf in order to infiltrate various bases. Silver Wolf can transcend any physical barriers, while you sweet talk your way into the inner circles of any leaders. Sometimes, you implant ideas into people's heads in order to guide them towards a certain path, sometimes you just do it for the fun of it.

Your favorite victim so far has been the Express. Ever since the Trailblazer joined, you've entertained yourself by posing as them or other members of the Express (the only ones you can't figure out are Welt Yang and the conductor, Pom-Pom).

And it was surprising, how easily you could trick March 7th and Dan Heng. You had no idea where the original Trailblazer was (probably up some poor soul's dumpster), but frankly, you didn't care.

You somehow managed to trick the two for the better half of a day. It wasn't until you didn't jump at the sight of the first trashcan on the Xianzhou Luofu that the duo realized that something was off.

"Who- Who are you?!"

March stepped back, Dan Heng already drawing his spear. But you weren't going to give in so easily. No, you wanted to see just how far you could take this.

"Guys?" You feigned hurt and confusion as you faced the two. "What're you..."

"Don't play dumb," Dan Heng cut you off, thrusting his spear under your chin. "You're not them. The real Trailblazer would've started ransacking that trashcan by now."

What kind of freak-

"C'mon guys, I have taste," you sighed, crossing your arms. "The trashcans here don't compare to the ones at Belobog. They're not as shiny."

"Trailblazer said that appearance doesn't matter when it comes to trash!" March shot back, her bow appearing in her hands. "Enough games, who are you really?"

You paused for a moment, contemplating your options. You could try to bullshit your way out of this, but you sincerely doubted you would be able to. What kind of freak personality did Silver Wolf program into the vessel, anyways?

You sighed, making the two tense up. Your face, still that of the Trailblazer's, twisted into a condescending sneer, before you doubled over in laughter.

"Ah... Damnit, and here I thought I was doing well!" You stretched your arms, March backing away from you. "Well, that just goes to show, I still have much to improve."

With a snap of your fingers, your disguise melted away, revealing your true appearnce.

"You're-!" March gasped. "You're one of the Stellaron Hunters!"

"Am I really that famous?" you pondered, leaning back on the railing. "And here I thought Kafka or Silver Wolf were more popular."

"What're you trying to pull," Dan Heng growled, "pretending to be the Trailblazer? What did you do to them?"

"Oh, nothing," you replied simply, popping your bone. "I just sent them a coupon for that restaurant down the street. So don't worry yourselves, I'm just here to have a little bit of fun."

Before the two could comprehend the stupidity of their companion, you jumped onto the railing, balancing on your toes.

"Well, it's been fun, Nameless." You waved cheerfully, taking a step back into the open air. "Let's meet again sometime soon, yeah?"

"Wait!" They rushed to the railing, adamant on catching you - but you had already vanished.

The world might see you as a complete weirdo, but honestly, you aren't even the worst of the Stellaron Hunters. In your humble opinion, you're the lesser evil compared to your comrades.

If you're going to survive in this job, you have to get used to Kafka bullying you. Don't worry, she does it to everyone, it's not just you. But signing up to become a Stellaron Hunter also means you sign up to a life of relentless teasing.

You roll your eyes at the feeling of a familiar gun barrel against your head. Kafka holds it against your temple firmly, but you know her finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger. It’s not like you’re Blade, who somehow survived getting thrown off a four-story building.

“Now who do we have here?” Kafka muses lazily. “A potential spy from the IPC? Or perhaps, one of the Xianzhou Cloud Knights?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Kafka,” you turn around, unimpressed. With one move, you pulled off your mask, glaring at her pointedly as you grab a bottle of water. “I know that thing isn’t loaded.”

“Oh, it’s you, [Name],” Your senior gasps mockingly, removing the gun. “When did you come in? I could’ve sworn an intruder-”

You throw the bottle at her. She dodges because of course she does.

And Kafka isn't even the least of your worries. At least she has a sense of financial responsibility.

There's no doubt that Silver Wolf is integral to the workings of the Stellaron Hunters, especially with her hacking abilities. She's certainly skilled with her work, and she has saved your ass many times before.

But sometimes, you have to play babysitter to her, because homegirl may or may not have a gambling addiction, especially when it comes to whatever those gacha games of hers. Whenever she visits the city's nearby arcade or casino, either you or Kafka have to be around so that she doesn't end up gambling all of your funds away. You would get Blade to do it, except he couldn't care less about your financial problems.

“Let me go! I’ve almost got it, I know I do!”

Silver Wolf kicked at your shoulders wildly as you hoisted her up. You paid her no mind as you left the arcade, Blade walking in tow. You kept a firm grip on his sleeve, making sure he didn’t run off and start any trouble. You saw the look he gave the claw machine. If you hadn’t dragged Silver Wolf away, he would’ve likely broken the thing out of impatience.

“I was so close!” The girl on your shoulder whined, like a kid who didn’t get their favorite toy.

“You already spent 500k on it,” you replied bluntly. “It’s a scam, don’t you know?”

“So what?” Silver Wolf retorted. “I would’ve won!”

“Yeah,” you shifted her up, your shoulder getting sore. You weren’t really built for hard labor. “After you spent another hundred thousand credits, sure.”

“I wasn’t!” She’d stopped fighting you, now hanging limply so that her entire weight pressed down on you. “I could’ve hacked it-”

“Really? You’d put that much effort into a claw machine?” Before Silver Wolf could argue, your phone dinged, as did Blade’s and Silver Wolf’s - successfully interrupting your bickering. You glanced at Blade as he checked his phone for the three of you.

“It’s Kafka,” he reported, typing out a quick response. “She says it’s time to go back.”

“Tell her we’ll be there in 10 minutes, if Silver stops her tantrum,” you said, looking pointedly at Silver Wolf. The hacker kicked you in response. 

“I am not throwing a tantrum,” she huffed. You rolled your eyes.

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Speaking of which, Blade is like your guard dog. A very intimidating guard dog. With a sword. And attitude issues.

Come to think of it, he's more like a cat if anything.

When he's not being launched at the faces of various enemies, Blade often finds himself acting as your shadow. He just follows you around, doesn't say anything, and the second he smells a whiff of a threat, the sword comes out and you have to talk him down before someone calls the cops.

It seems that you’re the only one unaffected by the suffocating tension clogging up the clothing store. There’s an obvious circle of space surrounding you and Blade as you browse through various suits, intent on finding one that would fit the man standing behind you. Elio’s next script required that Blade and Kafka go to a dinner party, and knowing Blade, the man didn’t have any clothes other than the ones you and the other Hunters got for him.

It wasn’t that Blade didn’t have an eye for fashion, rather, he simply didn’t care much for it. Shopping wasn’t exactly his cup of tea either. His hands itched for action, but he did have to admit that this was better than sulking around in his room all day.

You pulled out another suit that had caught your eye, a simple black one with a bronze lapel. It would fit the vest you’d already picked out for him. Holding it out in front of Blade, you squint as you try to picture what it’d look like on him.

Decent enough. You hummed in satisfaction, turning the suit around to show it to him. “What do you think?”

Blade shrugs, only giving the suit a brief glance. “It’s fine.”

You sigh, giving him a look. “Do you like it?”

“It isn’t the worst thing you’ve put me in,” he says nonchalantly. You huff, lightly hitting his chest. For a second, a glimmer of a smile flickers onto his face at your action.

“Watch your attitude,” you reprimand playfully. “Otherwise I’m giving you the shittiest suit I can find in here.”

“You wouldn’t,” Blade says easily as the two of you walk toward the cash registers. “Your heart couldn’t bear to do that to a face like mine.”

“Cheeky brat.”

You remember the day Blade was first brought to the base, picked up by Kafka and Elio like a stray cat. He had a strange resemblance to that of a drowned rat, being absolutely sopping wet.

Your seniors just kinda dropped him off into your room with the only instructions being "Make him look presentable", which didn't give you a lot to work with. You weren't sure how you were going to fix him, but after a lot of bathing, hair drying, and brushing, you soon discovered that the drowned rat had a pretty face.

So basically, you're the only reason why he looks remotely presentable.

And quite frankly, Blade does not make it easier on you. He doesn't care about how he looks, only how his enemies look - and that's dead and unmoving. Sir somehow manages to fuck up his fit every time he goes on mission, coming back with his very expensive clothes, mind you, covered in blood, and his hair messed up.

The audacity of him, to just walk into your room unannounced, clothes completely torn and hair a mess, and plop himself down on your perfectly clean chair and wait for you to fix him up. Granted, you'll do it (you wouldn't allow any of your comrades to leave without a decent haircut), but that doesn't mean you won't rattle his ear off with a scolding.

Oh, and another thing? There's no such thing as privacy when you're with the Stellaron Hunters.

“Just what did you do to it this time?”

You grumbled as you cut away at Blade’s hair, the man in question sitting in your salon chair and scrolling through his phone. He had just come back from a mission, and this time he somehow managed to cut off the bottom half of his long locks, resulting in a horrendously uneven cut.

“You’re literally so photogenic and then you go and do this?” you huffed, blowing his hair into his face with a blowdryer.

“You can fix it, can’t you?” Blade didn’t even look up from his screen as he texted Silver Wolf, likely using this as an excuse to escape her pleas to game with her.

You scowl, venting your anger as you brushed his hair, cutting a few extra strands. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I always have the time to do so! Now sit still.”

You first learned this when you came back from a particularly grueling mission, early on in your career with the Hunters. You were covered in blood that wasn't (or was it?) yours, drenched from the rain and safe to say, not in the greatest of moods. All you wanted was to take a shower, and preferably, take an undisturbed nap on your warm bed.

Unfortunately, Kafka had other plans.

You opened the door to find her lounging on YOUR bed, IN THE DARK, ruffling through your makeup collection like it was normal. She didn't even seem bothered when you flicked on the light, didn't even acknowledge you until you threw a knife at her.

And what did she say when you made it abundantly clear that she shouldn't be in here? Nothing. She just scrunched up her nose and told you to take a shower.

And that is how you learned that having your own room is utterly useless because every single Hunter could pick a lock. You could try to use an electric one. Silver Wolf sure did. And to her credit, it worked, until a certain dog named Blade came around and just kicked the door down.

Out of all the Stellaron Hunters to creep around in your room, Sam was by far the worse. You could handle Kafka going through your makeup, or Blade judging your taste in books. You can deal with Elio having his fucking shoes on your bed because he's your boss and honestly what are you going to do against an actual seer? Exactly. Nothing. At least his shoes are usually clean.

But Sam? He doesn't visit so that he can go through your things, or just hang around. No. He comes around with the pure intention of scaring the shit out of you.

He just waits?? Outside your door?? In the dark?? Until you open it and he jumps you. It usually ends with someone getting punched, but honestly, it's nothing either of you couldn't handle.

Silver Wolf likes to pretend that she isn't as bad as the other because in her words, she "gives you a warning". Said warning is "You better be decent" before she barges in and starts rambling about the new game she bought.

One time you were not decent and someone had to pay the price. That someone was not you.

There is one good thing that comes out of all this invasion of privacy. Because whatever the others do to you, you get to do right back to them. 

Your group chat is an absolute mess, with no one understanding Silver Wolf's slang or dialect. Blade's outdated brain short-circuited the first time he touched a phone, while Kafka just silently accepted her fate. You often have to translate because Silver Wolf sure wasn't to.

“What does this button do?”

“Don’t touch that.” Kafka playfully whined as Silver Wolf snatched away the console in her hands. The hacker was less than pleased, having returned to her room only to discover that she’d been chosen as the Hunters’ victim for today.

You lean against Kafka’s shoulder, pouting alongside her at your latest toy being confiscated. “C’mon Silver, let us have some fun at least.”

“After you two invaded my room? Not a chance,” she replied, tossing the console to somewhere you and Kafka couldn’t reach. Kafka merely hummed at the loss, leaning back onto Silver Wolf’s messy bed.

“You know, you should really clean up around here,” she commented. “They killed themselves tripping over a stack of DVDs.”

“Agreed, although I wouldn’t mention that last part,” you said, picking up another one of Silver Wolf’s consoles. This one had a fighting game on it. Silver Wolf rolled her eyes as you quickly busied yourself with fighting the boss she had left off on.

“If you don’t want to get hurt, then don’t come in,” she said, plopping down on the bed next to you. Kafka smiled.

“Sure, but where’s the fun in that?” she asked, watching you tap away at the screen. “It was just a suggestion, no need to get all worked up.”

“I’m not, but okay.” Silver Wolf hissed as your character took damage. “If you get my character killed-”

“I won’t,” you retorted, swiftly defeating the boss. You tossed Silver Wolf the console. “See?”

“You’re half dead,” Silver Wolf deadpanned.

“Doesn't matter. I still won.”

Gambling Addict: Ykw blade

Gambling Addict: This is why u pull no bitches

Gambling Addict: Bc if [name] didnt yassify u 

Gambling Addict: U would have zero rizz

Gambling Addict: Negative rizz actually

You: I see no lie here

Gambling Addict: So stfu about my social life at least i can pull bitches

DONT PICK UP: [Name], translate

Gambling Addict: [Name] i have ur closet at gunpoint 

You: She means Blade can't attract maidens bc he has as much charisma as a blobfish

You: Also stfu silver I know you can't shoot for shit

Gambling Addict: [NAME]

Gambling Addict: Actually no, ur right

DONT PICK UP: Oh, I see

You: I'm always right 💅✨

DONT PICK UP: That does sound like Bladie

Gambling Addict: Listen

Gambling Addict: All i know is that blades been real quiet since i said that

Blade: Silver Wolf.

Gambling Addict: And so he speaks!

Blade: Count your days.

You like to fuck with the others by pretending to be them. Blade nearly murdered you because one time you got bored, and decided that slandering his nonexistent image would be ample entertainment.

In minutes, you turned yourself into Blade's lookalike, and spent the afternoon prancing around in a maid dress because what else were you going to use it for? Unfortunately, that also put you as a target for Blade's wrath. Fortunately, you have a lot of experience escaping people you pissed off.

Silver Wolf still has the pictures. Kafka laughed her ass off until you did the exact same thing to her. And that's when she started shooting.

"I can't believe you did this," you sniffed dramatically, fake tears falling from your face. In your hands was what used to be your pride and joy, the beautiful maid dress that you'd spent millions on (lie).

What used to be a gorgeous garment with frills and lace, was now in tatters from Kafka's bullets and Blade's sword. The two aforementioned culprits weren't the slightest bit guilty as they watched you lament over your clothes.

"You should've thought of that before you started walking around like that," Kafka blew at her smoking gun. Blade nodded firmly in agreement, holding his sword close to his chest.

"It was cute!" you huffed, shaking your head. You weren't actually mad at them. You could always buy another dress to mess with them. Besides, you already got what you wanted.

Your gaze met with Silver Wolf's, who grinned back, holding her phone in between her fingers.

None of the Stellaron Hunters know basic first aid, and that includes you. Most of you just slap on a few bandages, some weird smelling ointment, and call it a day. Silver Wolf doesn't even do that, she just downs three bowls of rice and walks off the broken arm like a Sunday hangover.

But one day, just as your luck would have it, you came back to base with an injury that you couldn't just bandage away. No one knew what to do, and you were bleeding out fast. So what did this hardened group of criminals do?

They googled it. They fucking googled it.

Silver Wolf deadass just searched up how to fix you while you were bleeding out next to her. Kafka, to her credit, did hold your hand to try and comfort you (albeit mockingly), and Blade just stood back and watched. If Elio foresaw a way to help you, well, he didn't say anything.

But it all turned out all right in the end. Eventually, Silver Wolf gave up and simply shoved a bowl of her fried rice in front of you. You still don't know how or why, but it somehow worked. It shouldn't have, but it did.

The scene in front of you reminded you of a bunch of school children watching a chemistry experiment for the first time. The Stellaron Hunters crowded around you, eyes trained onto your closing wound with unnerving fascination. Even Blade, who rarely had any emotion at all, was watching you with the faintest glimmer of awe.

"What the hell did you put in that thing?" you turned in disbelief to Silver Wolf, the only unphased person in the room. The hacker was already somewhere else, her thumbs tapping rapidly as she played another one of her rhythm games.

"Trash."

"WHAT." You almost throttled her before she quickly teleported a safe distance away, clutching her phone to her chest.

"Kidding, kidding, no need to get all worked up!" She sighed, clearing a level without looking.

"Just some solid water and protein rice, that's all."

"You mean ice?" You swatted at Kafka, who was poking at where your wound used to be.

"No."

Safe to say, the Stellaron Hunters are an... interesting bunch, to put it lightly. They're all assholes, including you, and seem to thrive over inconveniencing each other. The only time you all can somewhat work together is when you're acting out one of Elio's scripts.

But you'd be lying if you said you hated working at this job. You live for the thrill of things, and being a Hunter was the most fun you've had in a long, long time, even if your coworkers occasionally annoyed you to death.

None of you would ever say it aloud, but you wouldn't trade each other for anything in the world.

[jng-yuan]

YOU DREW STARS AROUND MY SCARS

summary. blade has survived through lifetimes, the multitude of scars that taint his skin a testament to the undying curse laid upon his soul. but when your lips touch his, he thinks he can understand the difference between surviving and living.

featuring. blade x gn!reader

t//w. cursing, allusions to violence and cannibalism, implied toxic relationship (blade wants you to bite him lol)

notes. very very late birthday gift for @yanqingisim !1!!! <3

blade hates the sick bay.

the fact that it’s called a sick bay makes him want to scoff. with the sort of crowd the stellaron hunters are, they hardly get sick. blade isn’t even susceptible to any sort of mortal illnesses or afflictions since that incident, couldn’t even come down with a cold if he tried.

but even then, there is something discomforting about the sterility of it all, the scent of unfamiliarity and something chemical. there’s the anxiety he hasn’t felt since the days of being mortal, stirring an unsettling feeling in his gut that makes blade want to take his sword and swing it, tear down this godforsaken sick bay and whoever else is unfortunate to go down with it.

it’s so unlike him, to be driven to such urges by a mere— a mere sick bay, of all things. but blade cannot deny how much he hates it; this constant reminder that even when cursed by immortality, he is still mortal. his skin is too easy to cut through, he bleeds the colour red, and his heart — this wretched thing that keeps his cursed body alive — still beats.

“with how often you try to slip away from your cot, i’d think you hate me,” you hum mindlessly, drawing him out of his pathetic state of mind.

blade's vermillion eyes glance up at you while you wipe a smaller cut on his palm with disinfectant. he does not grace you with a response, the same way you do not grace him with your gaze as you continue your duties.

it astounds him sometimes, how gentle you are with your hands despite the ferocity you wield them with on the battlefield. rarely does elio ever involve you in his scripts, for a reason only destiny's slave is privy to, and so blade often sees you haunting the hallways of the stellaron hunters' headquarters. you've seemed to have grown fond of lingering by the sick bay, tending to silver wolf's cramping hands while chatting with kafka and sam, with elio occasionally coming in with you to exchange words in hushed whispers. blade only ever comes in when you practically drag him by his ear to have his wounds treated, your scoldings directed at him forgotten the next time he bleeds red.

(is it an act of submission or a defiance? truly, it’s neither. blade doesn't want to put a name to whatever this is, doesn't want to think about it. it’s simple enough, him and you.)

he watches as you bend your head kiss his bandages, once on the left wrist and another on the right. there’s the searing heat of your soft lips on his skin even where the bandages are wrapped tightly over his wounds. the lightest pressure makes the areas where his skin has been cut sting, but some masochistic demon in blade sings when he feels the pain. his expression does not betray his emotions though, as he watches you bring his wrists towards you all while maintaining eye contact.

“not going to say anything?” you ask. blade’s eyes furrow when he sees the beginnings of a smirk playing upon your lips, his mouth opening to snap a retort at you— but all words die in his throat when he watches you tug lightly at the bandages with your fucking teeth, scraping hard enough to be felt, but lightly enough that it’d all remain intact.

it hurts— and blade realises what he feels isn’t the pain of his wounds under his bandages. it’s the heat of his skin, flushing at your touch, his heart racing rapidly under the wrappings on his chest.

“you little shit,” he snarls, his voice strained.

you just laugh, a smile of all teeth and canine, and blade wonders what he must do to face the same aggression your foes meet when you face against them in the battlefield; to have your mouth sink into the flesh of his pulse and devour him raw.

(he's died a million times before, but this time he wonders how it would feel to have you take his life for once. whether the heat of your mouth as it tears his flesh would be better than the cold metal of a spear, whether kissing you is enough to kill him already.

if you consumed his flesh, would he still be able to come back? or would he be finally be laid to rest, festering in your gut like a disease that never goes away? he wonders, and he yearns.)

blade shifts uneasily. you’re not normally this affectionate, this forward and precise. subtle nuances have always been your style, and blade knows this better than anyone else– but he is flushed. embarrassed, mouth parted and pink. he's weak, and he wants to kill you for it, or be killed by you– it doesn't matter anymore, because it's hard to tell where he ends and you begin.

your lips trail down the column of blade's throat, ghosting over his collarbones before you return to the bandages on his wrist, once, twice. your eyes meet his through your lashes, and something in blade whispers to him:

oh.

oh.

blade lets out a shaky breath, and the wretched creature that was once human allows his head to bow— lowers himself so his forehead touches yours. he’s here, he’s here, he’s here. and when your lips meet his and his veins are lit aflame, blade thinks he can live, even if it were just for this moment.

[jng-yuan]

the best kitty - jingyuan

summary; mimi is just too lovable.

genre/extra tags; i love big cats sm :(, jingyuan is a cat trapped inside a general /j, fluff, comedy, clingy jingyuan my beloved, reader is a certified cat lover, big stretch and big yawn !!! iykyk

[gender neutral! reader] [reader is not trailblazer]

word count; 537

a/n; jingyuan enjoyers everywhere, we all actually love mimi /j i love mimi, i want to see mimi in game, Madge >:( hoyo you cowards show us the big cat and let me pet em

"oh, mimi! hi baby!" you cooed as mimi slowly strides over to you, pushing its head against your leg. it chuffs, greeting you as if you were one of its kin. "you look so happy today!" you soon sit on the ground, petting the oversized cat.

from afar stands a lone general. a general who is more than willing to cuddle with his lover but alas the beauty of his impulse buy is stealing all of your attention.

"ack- mimi, you're so big! you're gonna squish me!" the lazy cat rests on your lap, yawning. "big yawn!" you scratch its chin. mimi stretches its head back. "you're so pretty! love you so much!" you press your face into mimi's fur.

"i'm pretty too." jingyuan whines. he dejectedly crawls over to you and mimi. "what about me?" he pouts, moving to rest his head on mimi's body. he looks at you as he tries to gain your attention.

"mm, i don't know..." you pretend to think. mimi twists its body and gets up, leaving the general on the floor. you snicker, "i think mimi is trying to tell me something. what is it, mimi?" mimi spins two times before settling right by your side and laying down its head on your lap. "i think mimi said no."

"okay but you didn't say no." he sits up, moving closer to you to lean his entire weight on you.

"jingyuan!" you yelp as you're forced to lay on the ground. "stop it! you're heavy!"

"but you don't complain when mimi is laying on you!" he wraps his arms around your waist.

"mimi doesn't try to kill me with its weight!" you push your hands against his chest but this man is more than determined to get all your affection and leave nothing for his competition. "are you really jealous of a cat?"

"yes."

you sigh at his immediate answer. "can we at least lay on the couch or the bed?"

"no mimi?"

"love, mimi is more than big enough to figure out how to open a door. mimi will be breaking in to save me." you feel yourself get carried, wrapping your legs around jingyuan's waist to keep yourself steady. "mimi would never kidnap me like this."

"mimi is too attached to you." he huffed, looking down at the white lion. "i saw them first, they're mine." he sticks his tongue out. the pale lion chuffs, looking up at its petty owner. "don't look at me with them big ol' eyes." mimi chuffs again, butting its head against jingyuan's legs.

"i love mimi a normal amount."

"that's a lie."

"yeah, you're right about that. but i also love you. you really do not need to be getting jealous over a cat. mimi is just an affectionate baby."

"too late. mimi, y/n is mine." he's already running to the bed. mimi follows easily, the young cub slinks its way into the bedroom. "back! back i say!"

"jingyuan." you crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. "i'll give your attention. don't scold mimi."

the white haired male grumbles before getting comfortable in your arms. "i'm supposed to be the one with all the attention, you know..."

"well, it's not my fault my lover bought a lion home. the least i could do is nurture the baby."

"mimi is anything but a baby."

[jng-yuan]

sfw/suggestive, tooth-rotting fluff, gn!reader x lovesick!jing yuan, dialogue heavy, two idiots in love.

jing yuan is in the gardens again.

as magnificent the sight of your beloved basking in the luofu sun is, you can’t help the tinge of jealousy that tugs at your heartstrings, for he is spending too much time with the birds again.

of course, it feels redundant to be jealous over birds, but, your lover is a busy man and you sometimes wonder if the birds adore him more.

the fight for his time and attention feels like a losing battle.

as if sensing your stare and presence, the white-haired general turns around so that his back is no longer towards you. on his hand, shoulders, and head are several perched birds who have sensed him, and like magnets, flocked to his company. 

“beloved,” he greets with a beautiful smile, setting the bird on his hand on his shoulder before he stalks gracefully towards you. before you can say anything, jing yuan cups your face in his hands and raises it, causing you to look straight into his inquisitive golden eyes. “you’re pouting. what’s the matter?”

you feel your heart expand at the concern of your fiancé, but you brush him off gently and jing yuan tilts his head to the side in confusion. “nothing’s the matter,” you say.

“dear, is everything okay?” he asks once more.

you cross your arms, partly as a response to his question and majorly because you need to stand your ground against him. but how on xianzhou are you supposed to stand your ground when the man in front of you is the arbiter-general, jing yuan?

he is also so beautiful, you might cry. 

as your partner looks at you with his golden gaze of concern and attentiveness, your facade melts away, leaving behind someone so helplessly in love.

“you are spending far too much time with the birds again,” you mutter through a sigh, unable to stop embarrassment from creeping into your head from the admission.

jing yuan laughs. the sound is hearty and like velvet to your ears.

you wonder when your heart will stop skipping a beat around him. after all this time together, he still makes you feel young.

“i can not believe you are laughing!” you huff, the growing smile on your face betraying you. 

“i apologise. i just- i thought you were upset over a serious matter.”

you feign a gasp, hand flying to your chest. “how utterly dismissive of you, general. i shall be on my way now then seeing-”

he pulls you into him in one, swift movement, the birds previously perched on him flocking to the trees as a result of the sudden force.

“i beg of you, please do not go,” the general asks smoothly and lowly, “i missed you.”

“you saw me at dawn and kept me until after the starting hour of my schedule.”

“that was far too long ago, and you did not accompany me for a game of starchess and tea at noon. what was the matter?” 

you freely wrap your arms around his neck, fulfilling his waiting need for your grounding embrace that squeezes motivation and life back into him. “a few meetings ran over time with the officials. i apologise, i received all of your impatient messages only afterwards.”

he frowns. “i cannot fault you then. duty waits for no one.”

“correct, and especially not you, general,” you scold and jing yuan merely looks at you with innocently curious eyes, a smirk beginning to dance along his lips. “i drop by your work quarters expecting to see you busy and yet, i find you busy frolicking with the birds, have you no agency?”

your words, although harsh, do not match the airiness and teasing of your tone. jing yuan always finds himself enthralled at the banter you sustain with him, unable to resist joining the dance every time.

“why? would you prefer me to ‘frolick’ with you?” he asks, completely demure as he drawls out the words in his trademark lazy tone. 

you push him away, retreating as if he was a lick of fire that had burned you. he chases after you regardless, laughing loudly as you walk away and back inside his office. 

“please save any inappropriate discussions when we are off work, general,” you lecture playfully, jing yuan’s footsteps heavy behind you.

“i apologise for my remark, please, my love, do not leave,” he requests, mirth laced in his voice.

his hand catches your wrist and you turn around to face him, only for the two of you to end up in a fit of laughter, and it feels too right- too easy that he is the man you are in love with. when the two of you have calmed, the white-haired raises your hand to his lips, placing a delicate kiss on the back whilst maintaining eye contact and this feels suspiciously like forever.

“i missed you,” he says.

“so you have told me,” you say.

“i ask you work in my office for the rest of the day.”

“you will not allow me to get any work done.”

he intertwines your hand with his, “i will behave. i promise.”

“alarming that you need to promise me that.”

“my word means a lot. i am merely adding emphasis, darling.”

“i refuse. i shall see you at dusk.”

“but that is too long away.”

“you have lived for centuries. what is two hours?” you ask. 

“torture when it is without you, my love.”

your heart beats wildly. “you will survive,” you mutter, feigning indifference to your lover’s dramatics. 

“yes, but, you will lose me to the birds again.”

“am i that replaceable?” you question. as if on queue, a feathered creature emerges from jing yuan’s hair, chirping happily at the mention of its name. you sigh, not having it in you to be upset when the sparrow jumps to your shoulder instead.

jing yuan waves his hand in front of the bird gently, commanding for it to leave, and it does, flying out of the open windows and into the garden of his quarters. 

“i confess to my mistake,” mutters the cloud knight who traces a thumb along your jaw affectionately, “nothing in the universe could compare to you.”

you smile, leaning in to his touch. “i’m glad.”

with that, you seal your lips against his in a fleeting kiss, one that steals his breath and fills him with endless bouts of love and adoration. jing yuan doesn’t have enough time to respond before you’re pulling away, taking a piece of his heart with you. 

“that was not fair,” he murmurs, leaning in for a longer taste of heaven; something you don’t grant him, stepping aside to avoid his touch. 

“later. when you have completed your duties.”

the furrow of his nose tells you that he’s discontent with your demand. "if you are going to hinder me from seeing you for the next few hours, then can i not have a kiss in compensation?"

"no. all compensation will be given after hours."

"all compensation? after hours?" the white-haired parrots.

you turn on your heel to leave. he chases after you.

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[jng-yuan]

NEVER LOVE AN ANCHOR

summary. there’s something tragic about the three of you, the way the love you hold for one another never has any place to rest in the midst of this eternity you’ve been damned to.

featuring. dan heng, blade (poly)

t//w. lovers to enemies angst, spoilers for their backstories, probably wrong information

notes. i can be normal about them

you dream of blood.

the golden ichor that seeps through the jagged cracks of an old, divine blade. the deep red that drips from your wounds as a cruel reminder of your mortality, an ever existing shadow that haunts you through all the ships you travel through.

you dream of love.

a golden hairpin that catches your eye while walking through the bustling streets of a marketplace. the red paint that smudges on a lover’s lips when you exchange kisses. strokes of black ink upon parchment, reading words more poetic than one can ever have the courage to say aloud.

it is dizzying, in the way all dreams are. you are sitting under the moon and sharing a drink with someone you consider your friend, family, lover, and the next you are driving your spear through his chest. there are no blades of grass on this ship, no grassy fields for you to hide in, and the tendrils that you feel swaying, rustling, in waves past your ankles, are the chains of the sins you bear as someone they call their beloved.

the crew of the astral express are a welcome distraction, kind and warm as they offer you their companionship in their own personal ways. you help march 7th pin up photos in her room, laughing as you reminisce over your past travels through silly selfies and scenic photos. you sit with himeko during breakfast over a cup of coffee (yours brewed by yourself rather than the gorgeous redhead, thank the aeons) and indulge in the peaceful silence, a sense of normality that the woman is more than happy to give you after all that you’ve been through. mr yang tells you stories of other universes, weaving the already existing threads of all the lives you’ve seen around you into something completely different yet the same— and sometimes you can’t help but wonder if he lived a different life before all this.

but no matter what, you always find your way back to dan heng.

though you have your own assigned room, the simple arrangement of a flat pillows and a blanket on the floor of the archives is as much of a home to you as it is to dan heng. you’ve spent many a night in his room, poring over texts and books with him, more often than not passing out on his lap or in his sleeping area.

( “they come as a pair,” march 7th once told stelle when she asked about the two of you. “himeko said that arrived on this ship together. whatever they went through in the past, they made it through because they had each other. but that’s just what i think.” )

it’s true, in a sense. what would you have done without dan heng, travelling through all those ships that always met the same end? you wonder if you would’ve lasted long enough for himeko to find you and bring you to the astral express.

probably not.

dan heng feels responsible for you. he doesn’t say it, but it’s obvious. you once confessed your insecurities to him on a dark night, back when the two of you were still getting used to having a proper roof above your heads without fear of the ship getting attacked or waking up to security banging through the door.

( “what if they think i’m useless because i’m always clinging onto you?” you had asked him in a small, weak voice.

“…they don’t seem like those type of people.”

“but what if?”

dan heng had looked at you, his expression tired and soft all at once as he sighed.

“then they’ll have a problem with me too.”

“why?”

“because,” he brushed his fingers over your gaunt cheekbones, worn from all that you’d been through. “i’m just like you. if something took you from my side, then i might as very well be useless to them.” )

there’s a known truth between the two of you, one that you never speak of but you both know that it’s a fact. if you hadn’t been involved with dan heng — with him — you’d still be at home in the xianzhou alliance. you’d be blissfully oblivious to the convict on the loose, the exile who has returned home. you’d be living your life— a normal life.

but you don’t.

instead, you dream of him, though it should be impossible. bracers are not meant to be shared between a trio, and whatever gift you had been planning to share between the three of you was lost upon the exile. and yet, even without the ancient magic of the vidyadhara, he somehow manages to make his way into your dreams, haunting you like a ghost.

some nights, you dream of those arms that had always held you with such certainty, an impenetrable shield even when bloodied and battered. other nights, you dream of those hands driving a blade through dan heng’s heart, squeezing your throat until you take your last breath through a broken windpipe. and every night, when you wake up from those dreams in dan heng’s arms, you feel that pain welling in your chest, settling for days as it finds comfort in its new home, made up of your aching lungs and your shattered heart. the days and nights blur together like this— haunted by a man still living and breathing, though not quite human, in the nighttime, and traversing through the worlds like a ghost searching for meaning in the daytime.

you don’t remember how it ended up like this. or do you? it all feels like a dream, all the details and images blurring together to be forgotten by morning. but it isn’t morning, and you can’t wake up from this reality. your head throbs. a concussion? who cares. you can’t afford to let your guard down on this ship you once called home— you’re here for a reason, and though that reason is your top priority, you can’t afford to be caught either. the cloud knight that found you and dan heng — sushang — doesn’t seem to recognise either of you, and neither does the strange tradesman luocha, but you still can’t take any chances. panic blossoms in your gut, unsettling as you grip your weapon in your weak hands.

ah. that’s right. you’re fighting. reason grounds you with the fuzzy memory of your enemy standing before you— an ambush, because whatever forces are at work here clearly play just as dirty as the antimatter legion and that damned aeon they serve. a fight you can’t lose, no matter how badly your head is throbbing right now, because you still have to find the others, have to save them from— from—

“ren,” your grip on your weapon loosens as the dust clears, revealing the man standing before you. the enemy, your brain screams, though it can’t even make you move away. the word that slips through your lips is familiar, and yet not. your head hurts thinking of calling him by his true name, the name you called him before he turned into— this.

blade, is what kafka called him.

ren, is what it means in your mother tongue, the language spoken in moonlit nights as the three of you sat under the stars, the silence broken only by a whisper of their names.

the name comes out as a quiet, pathetic croak, staring wide eyed at his figure. he’s frozen just as you are, his broken blade aimed straight at you with an arm that wavers just the slightest.

it’s like a domino effect; your walls crashing down the moment you see his mask slip for the smallest moment.

“ren!” your voice breaks as you call out to him again, almost desperately. your feet are moving from under you before you even realise it.

blade lunges forward, his sword drawn.

a desperate cry of your name wretches itself out of dan heng’s throat in a way that makes your heart ache, but it’s too late now. his warning comes only seconds after you’ve begun to run straight to danger, death, a threat to your life seemingly unseen to you as you surge forward like a blind lover, but you can see him. the sharp angles of his face, the familiar bracer on his calloused hand, the searing heat of his vermilion eyes. he’s so close— close enough to kiss, close enough to kill, close enough to be reality rather than an illusion forged by a dream.

his blade is not what meets you. instead, it’s his hand. dan heng’s panicked screams is barely audible over your hammering heartbeat, your pulse quickening as blade’s calloused fingers wrap around your throat. he’s stronger than you — you would know even if he hasn’t been haunting your dreams all those years — and so he can easily snap you in half the second you’re in his clutches. 

but then you’re pressed against him, back to his front. blade pulls you as close to him as humanly possible until you’re both flush, sharing the same, saccharine oxygen after years of breathing stale air through stone lungs. despite the sharp end of a sword held over your throat, you allow yourself to close your eyes, reveling in this single moment as if you’ve lived an eternity where the three of you had never once hurt each other. though he had an eternity without a single regard to how you’d hurt each other. in these stolen moments, you let yourself be stupid, oblivious, selfish, just to breathe properly for the first time in what feels like a millennium.

“let them go,” dan heng hisses, breaking you out of your reverie.

“no,” blade’s eyes narrow. there is no mocking in his expression, no sardonic smirk or cruel taunts. his walls are still up, none of that broken emotion that you’d only seen for a split moment when your eyes first met, but he lets himself drop the bravado.

between the three of you, there is no such thing.

you whisper a soft cry of his name, making dan heng’s grip tighten on cloudpiercer as he moves to snatch you out of blade’s grip, but your former lover only growls.

“come any closer, and i’ll cut them.”

his voice is scratchy, worn like the calloused hands that are wrapped around your nape, squeezing almost painfully. a distant memory flashes in your mind, of these same calloused palms washing your back after a long day, cleaning the blood and grime. these same hands could be stained with your blood, if he so wishes.

“you won’t,” dan heng hisses, and you hear something in him break like glass shattering on the floor. “you can’t.”

he sounds so sure of it, that this man will not slice that blade over your throat and take your life just as he had taken dan heng’s in so many eternities. and you’re reminded of the fact that no matter how many times the hourglass has turned over for dan heng, no matter how muddled his memories become, he once loved this man just as you did— once relished in his presence and touch as it lulled him back to sanity, masking the weight of all the sins the three of you had committed over the lifetimes your strings of fate had been entangled. 

blade moves as if to cut your throat, to finally take the first life, the first step in the nth round of this cycle of violence, but his sword only manages to press down just the slightest against the skin of your neck before he stops himself. his hand — the one adorned by that damned bracer — shakes as he glares at dan heng with a look that can kill.

“fuck,” blade mutters under his breath. the word is not meant for you, but you hear anyway. blade pulls back from you roughly, and a barely audible whimper tears out of your throat when he suddenly pushes you forward and into dan heng’s arms.

dan heng’s eyes widen, clearly just as surprised as you when blade relinquishes his old on you. he catches you with unsteady arms, trying to keep cloudpiercer levelled at blade as if the man will suddenly lunge forward and take him from you again.

blade stares at the two of you for a moment, watching as dan heng clutches you to his chest like you’ll disappear if he let go, as you hold a palm to your neck where the thinnest line of red bleeds through. his eyes narrow, and the only other indication of emotion in his face is the slightest downturn of his lips.

“i’ll be back,” blade says, and then there’s that cruel smile on his face again, a taunting glint in his eye as he looks at dan heng. “i’ve stolen your little eternity countless times before. what’s one more to the tally?”

dan heng growls, his grip tightening on cloudpiercer, “you damned—!”

but then blade’s already making his exit, leaping off the platform in a manner that gives you deja vu.

( a memory flashes in your mind, the image of him jumping off your balcony as jing yuan knocked on your bedroom door to make sure you were still asleep while dan heng dove under your bed for cover, a mundane moment of peace and carefreeness almost forgotten from where you had pushed it deep into crevices of your mind. )

i’ve stolen your little eternity countless times before. what’s one more to the tally?

after a breathless moment that seems to drag out for an eternity, dan heng’s arms finally uncurl from your frame, his eyes tracing your figure to make sure you’re unharmed. his eyes drag over the thin cut across your neck in an adagio, his breath hitching as he sees you bleeding the same colour of blade’s eyes.

“he didn’t kill me,” you breathe out. you don’t know why it’s only settling now. the relief is clear in your tone, but it’s obvious from the violent tremor of your hands that it’s only to mask your own uncertainty.

dan heng is quiet. you’re too scared to look at him, at the expression on his face. you just stare at your shaking hands, and watch as he rests his palm over your own to soothe the tremors.

“he always had a soft spot for you,” dan heng whispers, something breaking in the tenor of his voice.

[jng-yuan]

imagine jing yuan's s/o who's very oblivious to the point that jing yuan's jealous but the s/o thought he's mad😤

oh i love me a dense reader. here ya go!

hush

➵ warning(s) applicable: none

➵ wc: 1.1k

➵ so, jing yuan has been quiet today. thankfully, you have your best menace friend tingyun by your side to help you figure out the mystery behind it.

There was a name for it, you think. You’ve heard Tingyun talk about it before, when she was sharing lunch with you post-meeting. It was a passing remark— something she heard through the grapevine about how one of your co-workers was suffering under it after missing their scheduled date with their partner as they slept in. She said it with a feigned air of concern, sighing and motioning with her free hand dramatically.

Ah, yes. You remember now; it was called ‘the silent treatment.’

That must be it, surely. He hasn’t spoken a word to you the whole time you visited his office. Instead, he buried his face in archives and endless books.

You thought it was strange. Normally, he’d have a few remarks or jokes under his sleeve and would talk to you until the very second you have to leave the room. But instead, complete silence greets you. This is the silent treatment, isn’t it?

…But what did you do to make Jing Yuan mad?

You definitely did not miss a date like your co-worker did. Your calendar was clear for the week, and you always look forward to your dates with him, unable to cast it out of your mind. You felt silly about it sometimes— here you were, excitedly counting down the days until you could go on another date with your boyfriend as if you weren’t under the same faction and working closely with him daily.

But if it wasn’t that, what does that leave? You rattled your head for an answer and backtracked on everything you did today, thinking hard. Today, you woke up, prepared your morning drink, and went straight to work. You decided that you could just eat breakfast on breaks instead of eating alone at home.

Right on the dot, you stood up and took your break, made a beeline for one of the stalls to purchase a few Berrypheasant Skewers to share with Jing Yuan later, and a Songlotus Cake for yourself.

Then, a colleague of yours offered to join up, saying they didn’t have time to eat breakfast either, an offer you took. You found it strange that Jing Yuan didn’t swing by at the time he usually did; he’d usually find some lame excuse to even simply walk by your desk as you ate or even send one of those finches that loved him in his stead.

He did give you a visit a little later on when your plate was cleared and you were only spending the last few minutes of your break giggling about some story you heard. As you notice his presence, you put a hand on the table, ready to get up and excuse yourself from the conversation.

In response, his eyebrows shoot up and he gives you a certain unreadable look before giving you a small wave as though dismissing you like you’re merely one of his lieutenants.

But come lunchtime, which is now, Jing Yuan was still nowhere to be seen and completely silent. You swung by his office, but the guards by the door only told you he was busy and to come back later.

And so, you find yourself spending your lunch with Tingyun, sharing the skewers you bought earlier. You sigh after you recollect your entire day to her in hopes that she can help.

“He’s upset, and I don’t know why.”

Tingyun waves a perfectly manicured finger and clicks her tongue, “There is absolutely no way you don’t know why.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be asking you for help if I knew now, did I?” You raise an eyebrow.

As though it was the most obvious thing in the world, Tingyun replies, “[Name], the general is jealous.”

Jealous? The possibility didn’t even cross your mind. “Over what?”

Tingyun gawks at you for a moment before stating matter-of-factly, “Over you laughing so hard with that guy, duh? Picture this, [name]: the general is eating his lunch with the master diviner with a wide smile on his face, laughing at every word she says. What would you feel?”

“I’d find it weird—”

“See!”

“—Because master diviner holds much contempt towards Jing Yuan. They wouldn’t eat together.” You finish.

Tingyun waves her hand frantically, “Okay, okay. Then, what about the fanatics that buy exclusive Jing Yuan photos from me?”

You blink, letting the words hang in the air. You then slowly say, “What photos?”

“It’s a hypothetical,” Tingyun quickly answers. “But if I was selling them, what would you think?”

“I couldn’t really care less when all they do is look while I can touch…”

Tingyun’s expression falls. “Ah, there’s no helping you. Not even Bailu’s most effective herbs and medicines can help that empty head of yours!”

“What?” You narrow your eyes.

“Point is,” Tingyun ignores your comment. “Maybe he just doesn’t wanna see his dearly beloved laughing with just about anyone, you know?”

“Does he?” An awfully familiar voice behind you and Tingyun cuts in.

You two exchange a look before turning around to look at him.

“Ha-ha, General! How… very nice to see you out on a stroll!” Tingyun forces a smile on her face as she stands up with her hands folded behind her back. “But, ah, I’ll have to leave you and [name] to it, alright? Business calls!”

Making her quick getaway, you watch in disbelief as Tingyun disappears into the crowds of Xianzhou Loufu.

Jing Yuan sits in what used to be Tingyun’s spot. “I’m sorry I’m late, love. Yanqing insisted on a few more rematches.”

You couldn’t help the words spouting out your mouth. “So you aren’t mad at me?”

The serene expression on Jing Yuan’s face falters for a moment. He answers, “Why would I be?”

He isn’t answering the question. You decide to test the waters, saying, “You’ve been awfully quiet since this morning and you waved me off when you saw me. I swung by once and you were burying your head in the records. The second time, I was turned away by your guards.”

“…I was? Did they?”

And he isn’t making it any easier for you, either. “You were. And they did.”

“I’m not mad. I couldn’t be mad at you even if I tried.”

“Not mad, then. What about jealous?”

Jing Yuan merely blinks at you.

It doesn’t take long for the silence to blanket the two of you. Then, you call out, “Love.”

“Hm?”

You hesitate a little as you say, “If… If you’re jealous, I want you to know that I love only you.”

With that, Jing Yuan’s expression lightens up and he lets out a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I’ll repeat it as many times as you want me to,” You nod, serious.

“Say it again, then.”

“I love only you.”

“Again?”

“I love only you, Jing Yuan.”

“Ah, again.”

“…You’re just teasing now.”

“I’m not,” Jing Yuan shakes his head with an expression that says that he is. “One more time, please?”

You breathe in and take his hand in yours as you slowly say, “I love you and only you, Jing Yuan.”

The smile on Jing Yuan’s face doesn’t leave for the rest of the day.

[jng-yuan]

no warnings. gn reader. fluff.

-

“Absolutely not.”

The book you had been engrossed in is plucked free from your hands, and your head snaps up so you can gape at Alhaitham.

“Hey—”

“—is for horses—”

“—give me back my book! Alexander was just about to finally confess his feelings for Arta after being in love with him for ten years.” You’re already tearing up and practically swooning just imagining the scene, and you make dramatic motions with your hands in an effort to get your book back. “Stop being a party pooper and give it back.”

“No, it’s late, and not only do you have two exams tomorrow morning, but you also keep me up all night with your incessant gasping, sniffling, and cheers.”

You flash him a sheepish smile as you sink down into the mattress, hands moving to grab a pillow and cradle it to your chest. “Literature fills the void within me. I can’t help it.” You had always liked to read before bed, and when you had first started spending the night at Alhaitham’s, you used to do all your reading in his study as not to disturb him, but he had always slinked into the room, hair tousled and eyes squinted as he ushered you to the bedroom, apparently unable to rest peacefully unless you were glued to his side.

“It’s not that many pages left,” you watch as he sets the book onto a high shelf before going about putting on his night clothes. “It’ll only take me twenty minutes tops—and I’ll be quiet!”

“No.” He deadpans, muscles in his shoulders and back tensing and flexing as he pulls his shirt over his head. He neatly folds it before putting it into the clothes basket, and then he’s shucking his pants off and repeating the process. “We’ve made this exact same deal dozens of times, and you always end up squealing in the dead of the night and kicking at my legs.”

“To be fair, that’s usually because you’re a groper in your sleep and I’m very ticklish, not because of my reading.”

“No books tonight.” He slowly says, and a pout takes up residence on your face as you watch him walk over to the lamp and switch it off, engulfing the room in darkness. The floorboards creak as he makes his way to the bed, and the mattress dips as he takes his place beside you and crawls under the covers.

You’re still sitting up in the bed, pouting into the darkness, and you feel the sharp jut of his chin pushing into the meat of your thigh. “You’re sulking.”

“I am,” you confirm.

“You need a good nights rest to do well on your exams.”

“Layla doesn’t. She’s exhausted all the time and always aces her exams.”

“Let’s not rehash the Layla argument. You are not her— you can barely make a decent cup of coffee when you’re sleep deprived, much less ace an exam.”

“You’re so mean to me. Me and Kaveh—Kaveh and I should just move out on our own so we never have to see you again.” He shifts, and you huff when you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. “That way I could read my books at whatever time of night I wanted and wouldn’t have to listen to your malarkey.”

“Malarkey?” There’s an amused tilt to his voice. “Did one of your characters say that?”

“Yes, actually!” Your grievances are forgotten as you move to lay down beside Alhaitham, scorching forward until your knees are pressed against his legs and you can feel his breath mingling with your own. You can’t see a thing, but you keep your eyes open anyways and train them on what you believe to be his own eyes. “It was from the book I’m reading right now. Arta said it when Alexander revealed that his boyfriend had been cheating on him—with his sister of all people—and Alexander had been so caught off guard by the word, because who really uses the word malarkey in this day and age, that he’d—”

Your lashes flutter when a soft pair of lips press against your own, and you sigh into the kiss, a warm, swirly feeling settling in your tummy. He pulls back from the kiss, and you can’t help the blinding smile that takes over your face.

“Go get your book. Twenty minutes tops—and be quiet.”

[jng-yuan]

*slaps my brain* this bad boy can churn out so much angst. Greetings, i arrive with pantalone x male reader : -- reader + a group of agents are sent on a mission. They're ambushed by the enemies (some rebellion group against the fatui) and everyone is killed except the reader. -- reader begs for their life and agrees to join their side and give out info about the fatui (But in their head, reader just comes up with an improvised plan to use this opportunity to lie and double cross the enemies) -- (un)fortunately, one agent survives... and delivers the news that reader has betrayed the fatui... to both Pantalone and Arlecchino. -- Poor banker man has a short breakdown before realizing that the Knave would be sent out to hunt down the traitor. (ouch) -- Perhaps it was just a few crumbs left of his love and trust for you, that convinced him to take over the duty of hunting you down. Perhaps he just wanted to see you one last time. -- He faces the brunt of Arlecchino's mockery and amused pity when he tells her that he's gonna kill you himself. -- Reader thankfully succeeds in escaping the enemy's headquarters. So imagine their panic and surprise when halfway into returning, pantalone pulls up and aims a gun at their head and demands an explanation (congratulations! both of them have trauma now! Reader is now paranoid in every way to never disappoint Pants every again! Pantalone now has paranoia for betrayal!) -- for roughly a month, reader moves out from their shared bedroom and occupies a guest room(fun!)

Super (un)happy (un)fun times with Pantalone ❤️

── ୨୧：pantalone x reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: an expedition gone wrong as you are attacked by a group of rebels who win only by catching you off guard, they wipe almost your squad out, at least so you thought, and will little other option you decide it's best to choose the humiliating one and get on your knees to grovel and beg for your life like some poor dog

୨୧﹑genre :: angst

୨୧﹑content :: masc reader, mentions of blood, injury, death, reader does technically get kidnapped, the root of their problems is a lack of communication fml

୨୧﹑words :: 7.2k

nom nom nom this THIS this has eaten my brain since it was sent to me, this little thought that I wanted to do right away but was in the middle of Capitano and didn't wanna make that anon wait longer than the like two months they already had which was like two months BUT I SAID IN THAT ARLECCHINO POST that it was coming directly after Capitano so now I am LEGALLY obligated to do it (I have literally put off the Pierro request I said I would do since December) (I just want an excuse)

there may not be a post tomorrow because I'm tired and in pain so if that's the case the requests will resume either Monday or Tuesday

I also just liked that this request was like "These events, this order" cause it's so easy hmu anytime this literally ended up my longest post. also this kinda seems like it could even be the predecessor of the events of the previous post if only for a few details which tbh is an interesting thought

Somewhere along the road, you got to the point where you were surrounded by corpses; those used to be your comrades. You stare through bleary eyes at your weapon tossed aside on the ground. If only you could move freely, you could reach it. You might be ok if that was possible, but it's not. You lay surrounded by enemies who kicked at your comrades' feet to finish off whichever of them wasn't already dead. Quickly you have to think, lest you become the next one to get a sword to the back of the neck.

Ignoring a nasty knock to the head and some shallow scrapes, your health is the least of your worries. You have a splitting headache and a bit of trouble focusing. You can make out your weapon enough to reach for it; it's close enough if you're not mistaken, but if you're wrong, you'll likely end up as a red stain in the snow. 

Your hand finds the hilt of your blade as a boot crushes the backs of your knuckles, barely able to cry out when the weight leaves your head. There's a relentless kick to your ribs, wedging a foot under and flicking you onto your back. The tip of a sword finds your throat, sharp like a prick against your skin; the wielder is clearly not worried about making you bleed as you are.

"Do you believe you've achieved something?" You ask, slowly smiling up at the man who looms over you. His foot rests on your stomach just enough that it doesn't hurt, though you suspect it will change quickly. "Killing only grunts, you're so impressive."

He knows you're mocking him; you can tell he knows as he presses his foot down until you grimace from the pain and then some.

Your ribs still hurt, and they'll probably bruise later.

You just aren't thinking about that because you don't want to die.

You don't understand why you're, for some reason, not as willing to die as you promised you would be. When you set out on this mission, you were prepared for the idea that you would be happy to go out in the name of the Tsaritsa, but...it felt much different when faced with the situation.

It would be the end. Never again would you see anything you love in this world. You would never see your lover or your family. You'd never get to train another new squad of rookies and never go home to eat a warm meal, to feel how stupidly soft Pantalone's hair is, or get to kiss him. You already know you won't see your squadmates again, and they wouldn't see you no matter how shameful you become for the sake of your life.

If nothing else, you would escape, and with all hope of saving everyone else long gone, that much is all you could ask for.

Your dignity isn't worth dying for.

"Wait," you speak out, placing your aching hand around the blade of the sword to stop any sudden movements, not fully registering the choice as strange. "If you spare my life, I'll give you information about the Fatui." You're relieved to feel the sword pull away ever so slightly, though the sting doesn't subside.

The man looks sceptical of you, rightfully so, considering your actual plan. "How do I know your information will be worth sparing you?"

"I'm the captain of this team, I'm very useful."

He appears to consider your offer for a moment before abruptly snatching the sword away, running a shallow cut across your palm, making you once again cry out as that poor hand has seen much better treatment. Immediately it blooms with fresh blood that pours down your hand as you roll yourself over to clutch it with your good hand.

Tears prick at your eyes, your vision blurring, no doubt the result of the cold making your wound hurt like hell.

"I'm not convinced you're really so dedicated to living since you seem to be able to run your mouth so much." Now he's taken to mocking you, wearing a smug smirk like he came here to see a fatuu on his knees kissing his boots for a chance at redemption. He wants to watch while his comrades just watch him pull the poor little fatuu's strings. "Get on your knees and beg for it."

In your mind, you know this is what survival demands, but you resist solely because of your stubborn pride, which tells you that it is not something you are willing to do. You tell yourself this is necessary for your plan to work, for Pantalone to not receive the news that you've been killed in an ambush attack on your squad. If you can prevent even just that, you will gladly get down on your knees in the snow to prove a false promise that you will supply information to them, if only to buy time to find an escape plan.

You push yourself onto your knees, crawling a few feet ahead before placing your forehead to the snow and trying to ignore the burning pain in your palm that tells you to move it now. You can't, so you must endure it with a shaky voice.

"Please spare me… I don't want to die. I'll do anything you ask if you spare me, I swear, I'll betray the Fatui, give you any information you want! Please just spare my life."

someone grabs you by your hair, and when you're jerked up to see who it is, a different person from the man who was previously hurting you, this time a woman. You doubt she's eager to let the chance to beat a poor little fatuu slip away, either. How she smiles down at you so tenderly yet so sadistic tells you so. At the very least, you seemed to please her, and what more could you ask for? If even just one wanted to, they would likely spare you.

"He's so eager to please…." She lets go, and her hand travels down to stroke your cheek, making you fight the urge to pull away. "Let's keep him."

Those weren't exactly the words you aspired to hear when you joined the Fatui; you won't complain now that they're saving your life.

It was only supposed to be a simple mission. Many hours of silence proved that to be incorrect. Some time since your team set out, only one fatuu returns to Pantalone's awful habit of pacing like the floor owes him money. Worse still, that fatuu isn't you. It's not exactly a sight you see every day, Pantalone stuck in discontented thought as he stares blankly through everyone he looks at. You're supposed to be working under him. Why is nobody telling him anything? He doubts that it's as simple as not knowing.

Everyone must be aware of the undeniable fact that, right now, your life is in grave danger. The second thing everyone must know is that you will remain in danger for as long as he is not given the route you took when you set out to— 

"Pantalone, a skirmisher from the expedition team has returned." Pantalone startles, his thoughts interrupted as Arlecchino approaches. She is tailed by a slow and trembling man, freshly home and the victim of severe frostbite. Blood still clings to his clothes from the wounds he bears. She brought him so quickly that he didn't even get a chance to have his condition treated. "He says that the news he came back for is important, so I've spared ending his life for desertion. It still doesn't explain why he chose not to die along with the others."

"Is that important?" a part of him is filled with dread as he knows you would never allow yourself or anyone else to turn tail and run away, meaning it does matter. it's a sign that on the other side of all the chaos, he will likely arrive at the site where this man last saw you all to your bloodied corpse. "Where did your Captain go? He was supposed to be leading this team."

"H-He…" clearly hesitant to explain, Pantalone assumes he's about to say you had died in the heat of battle. "He betrayed the Fatui so the enemy would spare him, and agreed to give up important information in exchange for his life."

Something about that strikes him cold. However, he turns searing hot as the worry sets in like dread, and he realises everything will end here. the Knave will be sent to kill the traitor, and in the end, he will never hear your sweet voice again like music to his ears. It was for nothing to have held out hope you were alive because he was right. In the worst way possible, Pantalone was right. As he stands here pacing in worry, you probably don't care. Rather, you are spilling every secret Pantalone has slipped you about the Fatui he wasn't supposed to. Somewhere out there, you're betraying every ounce of trust he ever put in you as you take advantage of whatever you have to save your skin.

if only he could go back and be there, you probably never would've had to do such a thing, but what if this is the Tsaritsa's gift? To know that you would be willing to betray all that the Fatui stand for? that is a cruel way of thinking. He can't force Arlecchino to unhear that, meaning he can't keep it a secret. Pantalone certainly can't stop this information from getting out as he might've liked to. You will be hunted by the Knave to the edges of Teyvat for your crimes.

"Pantalone." he looks up to Arlecchino's stone-cold glare like she knows the deliberations going on in his head as the more significant part of him questions your innocence. "He's a traitor. Don't spare your thoughts on him, just pretend that he died and I'll bring his corpse back and call him a hero."

"No--" At that moment, Pantalone's voice sounds so strained. he thinks he's on the verge of tears even if it doesn't feel like he is. Pantalone speaks without thinking, and he can't tell if it's because he wants you to come home or to ask you why. maybe he just doesn't want you to die, even knowing you probably betrayed them. "No, I'll go. I'll go, and I'll--" he hesitates momentarily, "kill him." 

he can't even believe he just spoke those words out loud. Something about the entire situation is surreal, though he feels like someone has wrenched his heart from his chest and run off with it. That 'someone' would probably be you, off to present it to a new master on a silver platter. you took a piece of him and stole it, and now only an aching lingers. something in that aching longed for you to pay for your actions, but it also demanded an explanation. that part of him wants to hold you down and wring the life out of you with his bare hands so you can feel the pain he wants you to. it wouldn't be enough to let the Knave kill you, no matter if it was slow, drawn-out torture. he wants to see your face as you die, to watch the life drain from your eyes, and see if you hold any remorse as you see the point you've driven him to. 

worry fades away into anger, frustration too, but mostly anger. 

Pantalone is angry about many things, angry at you. He's angry that you made him fear for your safety. He isn't sure he can ever forgive that you had so carelessly become a traitor. He can't forgive that you would even betray him.

"Will you really kill your own loverboy?" He's angered that Arlecchino would say such a thing. The lilt in her voice makes it painfully obvious she isn't extending her greatest sympathies. "I thought menial work was below you."

he opens his mouth to retort but decides not to dignify that with a response.

it's cold out. it would be far too hard for you to survive without help. Pantalone is accompanied only by the skirmisher who returned from your squad with the news of your betrayal, though unbeknownst to him, he is taking his last steps as he has orders to kill the man once he has fulfilled all of his use. he also betrayed the mantra of loyalty, but perhaps he hasn't realised such a thing yet.

he and Pantalone arrive at the remnants of your last squad, the last place where you were seen alive and where enough blood was spilled to dye the snow red. he sees almost the entirety of your team strewn about and abandoned, only one of the attackers amongst them having succumbed to his injuries as he lay face down and lifeless.

this is far enough. he can die amongst his comrades.

"Lord Harbinger, they went in this direction." Though he has already begun to draw a blade, he turns his attention to see what the skirmisher is crouched before, noticing vague impressions left behind. It's been a little over half a day since he returned alone, meaning these would be your last traces. however, no matter how far you've gotten, he should tend to the bodies first. by the time he attempts to follow those tracks, they'll be covered in a new layer of snow. for now, he must deal with this skirmisher who decided that his fleeing was not a disgrace to the Tsaritsa's name.

Pantalone draws the knife he had tucked away out of sight. In the second it takes to turn around, a deep slash is carved into the fatuu's throats. He topples over himself to the ground, where he lands atop his slain comrades, struck by the shock more than anything. 

"Tsk tsk, and to think this was a mere decoration piece." 

Already another day and a half out, he stumbles upon the camp of rebels, as dead as your squad. They are all just as carelessly tossed aside as the last corpses he found, and much like the last group, only one is missing. it seemed to be the same one missing each time as suspiciously, you're nowhere to be found amongst the people you were betraying him for. gone with the wind just as you were the first time you hadn't come home. moreover, this certainly is not their primary base of operations as it lacks any semblance of permanence. It was put together in a hurry to survive the night without succumbing to exhaustion, not for a long-term stay. there's a freshly lit fire still burning by their sides, surrounded by the people who had likely been sitting by it for warmth before their lives were snuffed out by the sole survivor he knew of.

the cherry on top is that the bodies are still barely warm — you're nearby. You can't get far in that amount of time, and the snow gives you away quickly, even with the night falling. you're so close it's as if he can see you already, as the memory of your presence is left behind In the form of footsteps. most noticeably, however…droplets of blood trail beside those footsteps. 

in the place of your footsteps, Pantalone begins to walk along the trail you make for him, following behind you like a dog that chases the scent of blood to find its master amidst danger. stepping directly into the divots left behind is the only way to feasibly track you in the dark, with no source of light yet coming into view. the wind is picking up, however, and as he focuses closely on the direction he walks, he begins to hear the faint sound of life at last. the singular life who managed to escape certain death not once but twice and who will not be so lucky the third time. 

the glow of a lantern appears in the distance.

somewhere out there, the light ahead of Pantalone glows brighter as the distance between you grows shorter, and the silhouette of a man enters his view.

it's you, carrying a lantern you had likely stolen, bloodied bandages crudely wrapped around your hand, dripping bright red into the snow. more than anything, you seem ready to collapse from exhaustion from how slowly you move.

"Is someone there?" You must hear Pantalone as you turn back, hands shaking audible in the clattering of the lantern, a cut across your cheek.

You make eye contact with the gun he points at you. You are trapped in the middle of nowhere with no backup, little food, and barely any water, but you know it's him. if not for the gun, you might not worry, yet something about it sends chills up your spine just from the coldness of his eyes. You're not used to such a gaze on you. It's like steel and raw feelings cloud together into one terrifying man who feels the most profound form of betrayal a person could know. Even in the line of work of the Fatui, this is something different. Not due to circumstance but because he is a Harbinger. some shivers dance across you, spiking goosebumps into your skin, and you feel like you could collapse, but you know that if you do, all will have been for nothing.

"Pantalone--"

"I want to hear a thorough explanation for the things you've done."

You want to provide one, but…but how do you tell him you still betrayed the Tsaritsa's trust in you to die for her cause when the time came? Every lie that spilled from your lips, masked as information you provided, was shared out of self-preservation, not loyalty. That alone was enough to get you hunted and killed, especially in your position. 

Now you stand small and weakened by circumstance before a man burning with rage, only a lantern slowly draining away as the minutes pass. You can't blame him, only able to imagine how he could've possibly heard that you hadn't returned and what it must've looked like to see you gone so many times from places you should've died. Does he think you killed your squad to desert the Fatui? Or was there someone who told him you had betrayed him? Maybe he just decided that for himself upon seeing the very place where you had thrown away your dignity for him thinking you could do it all alone.

"I wanted to see you…" you try to say, throat rough and voice quieter than you'd like. "I didn't want to die so I lied. I was just coming back, everyone else is dead! Everyone was killed, but there was a way…a way that I could live and come home." Without meaning to, you begin to tear up, met with only unwavering disbelief, not of shock but of an unwillingness to believe you aren't a filthy liar. "I didn't want you to hear the news that I had died." You choke the last part out on the verge of breaking down.

"Was it me you lied to or them? How am I supposed to trust you're being honest now when everyone you've come into contact with has died?" You didn't think you'd ever hear such venom in his voice, but more than that, he was hurt more than you could be by his words alone. You just can't think of a way to prove to him you're being honest, not when you're so tired and worn down and working against what is likely an order to kill you for your actions.

How are you supposed to tell a man overcome with grief and emotion that he's wrong? There's no way he'll see reason.

"You can observe the wounds," you say slowly, unsure if he would buy such a story, "they weren't made by a weapon like mine, and you know what I'm like — hopeless with other weapons." 

will he wait that long? you doubt that, but you can make him wait even a moment for you to explain yourself.

"They were a hopeless rebel group who thought of me like a dog. why would I be loyal to them?" 

"You were supposed to be loyal to me!" like a rubber band pulled to its limit, it's as if something snaps, the boiling anger bubbling over. "I thought we were trying to stop lying all the time; I thought we agreed not to run off and try to do things on our own. Maybe only I had agreed to those things because you seem to be fine doing both of them."

His words anger you, but you know that denying them will only anger him instead. You have spent the past few days lying to him whether you meant to or not, the past few days have been hell, and yet he has experienced greater suffering in the form of overwhelming grief. for the past few days, Pantalone has believed you were dead, then that you had betrayed him in your most excellent schemes. it was what people told him. it was what the evidence pointed to.

But your body, appearing so small and trembling from how cold you are, wrapped in the now tattered clothes you had departed in, tells a different story. Blood spilled over your collar, the furs of your overcoat matted, your hair tangled, and your skin bruised. The sight brings pity to Pantalone for you, such a pathetic little thing still begging for only his forgiveness, not even your own life.

Pity reasons with the side of him that, even now, holds his love for you close. You are closer to his heart than anything else has ever been. He finally asks what should've been an obvious question that whole time: when did he start believing Arlecchino over you?

With the possibility considered, more questions flood his mind: why were you walking closer to where the Fatui gather most if you were betraying them? What use would you find in killing them if they were your accomplices? there would be far more benefit in allowing them to cart you out to the edge of Snezhnaya then betraying them. even you would know that and which direction you were walking before he caught you — back to where you came from. when your shaking form is back in focus, he realises his gun shakes with the faint clang of metals like the bullet rattles in the chamber.

You are returning to Snezhnaya, he realises, you are coming home.

Slowly, he forces his hand to lower alongside his gun. The tension in his body runs high; he's surprised to hear the gun slip and fall to the ground, landing somewhere in the snow with a dull sound that he ignores. there are more important things. Pantalone moves, forcing his feet to comply with what he wants — you are cold and need a warm coat wrapped around you tightly.

Pantalone freezes in place rather quickly, however. He realises you are shaking violently, and not just from the cold. the look on your face spells sheer terror as if you're a little child face with the big scary monster in the dark. you don't know. Unable to hear his thoughts, you have no idea his intentions. Inching back to put some more distance between the two of you for your safety, your sense of self-preservation acting for you. would you believe a word he says if he tries to reassure you? or would you suspect his habit of using flattery to get the things he wants? either is a reasonable assumption on your part.

There is a silence that spells nothing but decisions for both of you, thoughts running wild with possibilities. It drags on for so long that it feels like an eternity before you move. Both of you impossibly still, too afraid to do anything lest you provoke the other with even the slightest wrong move.

the first to act so happens to be you, lips quivering and eyes watering as they sting with tears you've been holding back far too long. The lantern is lost to the snow. You crash into Pantalone's chest, almost toppling the both of you. You finally break, your emotions overflowing before you get a chance to catch up with them. you're terribly upset and worn down, exhausted, anxious and, most of all, more afraid than ever. Still, you are so happy to finally have a single taste of home back in your arms, even if he's gone stiff as a board, and you're scared he'll toss you aside. just a moment, and you'll be satisfied to have your love end then and there in a single gunshot because of your stupid decisions.

However, as soon as the action registers, your embrace is returned awkwardly at first. you soon both relax enough to hug so tightly you might suffocate before you make it home. you would be more than glad to spend your last moments that way, but thankfully that isn't the case. you will go home safe again tonight.

the guest room is a lonely place, even in your own home, but once your wounds were carefully bandaged and placed in front of the fire to warm up, you had more time to think than you should've. each time Pantalone approaches, even just to offer you warm tea and an extra blanket, you would flinch so violently it was as if he still held a gun to your head. 

you tried so hard to spend the first night back in your shared room, but even with all the warmth and assurance you could ask for, you found yourself on edge. you've spent every night of the past three weeks sleeping in the guest room by yourself. can your relationship ever be repaired? from something like that, you're not sure. you desperately want to believe there is something that can be salvaged, even when you have seldom spoken to each other since your return. The two of you exchange little more than curt greetings before Pantalone leaves to carry on his work. Still unfit for active duty, you remain alone in the silence of your shared home. you thought the silence might make it better and give you time to think, but you know at heart that you would much rather be distracted.

You doubt in this state that you could convince even the ever battle-hungry Tartaglia to agree to spar with you and that plants you firmly in bed, unwilling to get up. If you got on your knees and begged, you might be given some paperwork to complete. You choose to ignore the helping of papers on the desk in the corner of your room, blank if not for your name. you were supposed to write a report of everything that happened during your stint as a rebel. spending several days AWOL isn't something the Fatui looks past, even when it's a Harbinger's lover doing it, though it certainly helps to have that kind of reputation.

In your mind, you've had thousands of interactions with Pantalone where you tell him anything and everything. In her fantasy, you say everything you want him to hear and spill all your thoughts and worries. However, when you come face to face with him, you freeze up and choke on your words until he's gone. Pantalone leaves the house earlier than he used to and doesn't return until later. Maybe he's shutting you out to think, or perhaps he's shutting himself away from you to let your physical wounds heal before thinking of your psychological ones. Clearly, only one of you wants to talk, and Pantalone's sudden turn to pulling away only worsens that.

You want to tell him that, but even that conversation gets stuck to the confines of your mind when you can barely say a quiet good morning to him. 

All at once, it seems you've lost everything. First, your team and now your husband; next will probably be your job, and your life will follow suit if that happens. The Tsaritsa's benevolence must include letting those under even harsh scrutiny for their actions get medical care before they die. Otherwise, you're sure you would've heard something horrible about the verdict on that investigation Arlecchino threatened you with. Supposedly you would receive a letter including the conclusion, though you were warned it may take months to conclude. If a letter arrived, you certainly don't know about it.

You're not entirely sure what possesses you to check Pantalone's office. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach like he may have hidden it or innocently collected it and has yet to read the mail from this morning. Both options have you looking through the mail in search of the letter. Is it even there? Probably not. You simply convinced yourself that is it, and now you must find evidence to prove or disprove that idea.

You sort through the stack of envelopes left aside on his desk. You started with the unopened ones, but, finding nothing, you forced yourself to move on to the letters he had most definitely already read. You can tell by the way the ends have been cleanly sliced with a letter opener.

In no particular order, you restack them as you go, thinking there are too many envelopes for him to memorise their order.

Before you know it, you're staring down at the seal used in official — mostly only important — letters from high-ranking officers of the Fatui. You want to open that letter to be a request from the Jester. You'd also settle for a nag for funding from the Doctor or a written apology from Tartaglia for blowing an exorbitant amount of the Fatui's funding during his stay in Liyue.

However, you know that seal too well; it is used only by the Knave. Harbingers have customised variations of the official seal; some you've memorised more than others, as the differences can be slight.

Forget your words. Your breath catches in your throat as you reach into the opening to pull the neatly folded paper out. Please don't be a verdict. Your mind races with dozens of possibilities. As you read through the words as quickly as possible, the worst of your thoughts seems to be coming true. First, details of the investigation, including the validity of your initial testimony being validated by the evidence. Your men were killed by the blades carried by the enemy. Arlecchino then goes on to discuss the logic of your actions and the order the events took place. She mentions the physical state you were found in and examples of your injuries, noting many couldn't have been self-inflicted. She does not entirely dismiss the idea you may have had help, but you can probably work with that mindset.

Finally, however, she notes that, in all likelihood, your version of events is correct.

Arlecchino won't release the final verdict until she's sure, not one to put half-baked conclusions on official paper, but the fact Pantalone didn't even mention this much to you fills you with a rage you didn't expect. How could he hide the most crucial thing since you returned from you? He knows how much you've been fretting over this, even in the absence of proper conversation between you — the few words you managed around him were to ask about it.

You're unsure if your hands shake from weakness or a new influx of emotion you're not ready to handle. It's tiring being shut out; you're sick of being shut out. Even if you did move to the guest room, you still live in the same damn house. You still share everything but the bed you slept in, so why? Why is Pantalone keeping so much from you? Why did he suddenly stop speaking to you? he was the one going on about you lying, so what about— 

"What are you doing in here?" 

a voice from the doorway catches you so off guard that you jump at the sound, looking up to find Pantalone with a nasty look on his face. Judging by the state of your emotions, you imagine the look you're giving him to be equally rotten, pissed off, maybe. You didn't hear him come in; he must've done so quietly.

"The hell's wrong with you?!" Without meaning to, you raise your voice, half due to frustration and half the fault of that pent-up desire to communicate, spilling over in the heat of your breaking point. This is it. This is all you can take. This is where your patience and ability to keep your emotions in stops. "Three weeks! Three whole weeks I have waited for any sign that maybe, just maybe, I won't have my head sliced off my shoulder, and for—" you glance down at the letter to find the date, knowing Arlecchino marks the date of everything she sends as a precaution, "oh, about four days now— guess who has had an idea of how that investigation into his own husband is going?"

You barely even noticed you had blown a gasket until you were done, stood from the chair Pantalone should be sitting at, hands resting on the table. Your palms hurt; you must've slammed them down at some point, as the sting is dull but still there. More than anything, your breath is laboured, and you might start to cry again if you don't get a hold of yourself. You're so mad it makes you feel dizzy, like you might lose your footing if you're not careful. 

Ah. That's not your anger. The realisation hits you hard as you lose your balance and topple back into Pantalone's chair. You got so tense and behaved carelessly, worsening your health. You're not used to being so fragile.

"Don't get yourself too wound up—" Pantalone made his way to your side at some point— "you'll make it worse."

You don't care if you make it worse. You really don't, but you know that throwing a tantrum is childish and solves nothing but making Pantalone worry for you more. It only pushes him further away from you and helps no one.

But Archons, you're just so irritated, your emotions at an all-time high. You've spent three weeks forcing them into a tiny box they don't fit in. You've spoken to nobody about it, said nothing of the kind of thoughts you had stranded out there alone, the only survivor of your squad. An overwhelming abundance of guilt tells you that you should've died along with them; you were a coward for how you acted following their deaths. You're just a filthy coward, aren't you? Cowards are of no use to anyone, let alone the Tsaritsa. Maybe it would be best if it was declared you weren't fit for duty. Arlecchino should just decide you've tarnished Her Lady's honour.

At last, you understand. You understand why Pantalone has avoided you for three straight weeks — you are not the man he married. You are some imposter of that man who would brave even the strongest foes without an inkling of a thought he might lose. You are a cowardly and pathetic excuse for that man. You bury your face in your hands, rubbing harshly at your face in some attempt to outlet that frustration. It seems so stupid you didn't realise it before. It's terrible to divorce an injured man, so he must be waiting for you to recover enough for him to leave you—

"I'm sorry."

Out of all the anticipated responses, that wasn't high on your list. You bite your lip, waiting to hear what comes next, chewing at it nervously.

"I thought if I kept that from you…" he trails off suddenly like there is more. Maybe he lost the words to say it, or maybe he didn't have very nice things to say in the first place. "I thought it would be easier to focus on your recovery if you weren't aware of how far Arlecchino was delving into your private life. I didn't—" 

When you look up, you see a man with a look in his eyes like a kicked puppy, the visible distress you're in like a kick to his gut. He realises everything he's done to contribute to you ending up this way. You need him, truly, more than anything right now.

"You want to divorce me now, don't you?"

What possessed you to say that is far beyond both of you, but it's not any kind of accusation. It's just a question.

"No?" Still, he seems to think that's absurd; the look on his face is nothing short of pure confusion, like you just said the most ridiculous thing he's heard, and you had. "Why would I— No, I don't want a divorce."

"Then why are you avoiding me so much?" You shrink in your place, making yourself small as you were that night, and it raises the same pity in him that he felt then. "Why won't you talk to me? Why aren't you ever home?"

He is terrified. He is terrified to be close to you, even when he knows you need him.

A voice in his head asks what if you're still tricking him? What if this is only an act to gain his sympathy? He knows it's not, but the feeling, the paranoia, rings so clearly in his head he struggles to see you on the verge of tears. He doesn't want to trust you yet, even though he knows any comrades you had on either side are long dead. Even Arlecchino corroborated your story to some degree; she had yet to confirm the rest. So far, however, you were being liberated of any fault piece by piece. So why? Why does he feel so anxious about allowing you back into his home?

You live there; your entire life is in that house. He has built his everything up here, you by his side. It was hard to imagine that a singular mission gone south could cause this amount of damage. Yet, you are curled up in his chair while he stands beside it, taking your bandaged hand to squeeze it tightly and reassure you. He wants so desperately to believe that you told the truth. The nagging voice in the back of his mind constantly pushes the idea that you lied, trying to convince him your words didn't make sense. Everything makes sense. Arlecchino would not lie about that.

On the other hand, you've got such horrible anxiety, unlike the silly little thoughts you had before. It's not about whether Pantalone likes the flowers you get him or prefers silver jewellery or gold. It is about whether or not he secretly plans to divorce you. Your failure and the worry you caused him weigh heavy on your mind, all boiling down into one conclusion. You have caused him nothing but grief for what? A month now? Probably more than that. Who's to say you weren't a bother to him before the mission? What if you've always been a bother, and this is just his excuse to justify it?

That would explain why he pulled away so suddenly. Maybe it is about the flowers and the jewellery, perhaps he preferred flowers your money couldn't buy. You know he's not that materialistic, but it's the only way you can make sense of it. Maybe, for a Harbinger, you will never be enough. Perhaps he expected you would have taken Tartaglia's place as Eleventh before he got the chance. You were content and happy as a measly Captain under Pantalone's sector and never seemed to strive for more. You thought that would take your time away from him, but you also didn't want more than you needed. Were you meant to strive for more than that? Is that it?

Your deliberations are only working you up more, the opposite of what he warned you not to do. The tears start rolling down your cheeks again, warm and unable to be stopped by simply wiping them away as more only take their place. Maybe Pantalone doesn't want a crybaby for a husband. Then what? You would still be failing him even now.

You hiccup your sobs out for a moment, trying to force yourself to breathe so that you'll calm down. "I want you to tell me why you've been avoiding me and why you keep leaving so early and coming home so late." You quickly wipe your tears once again, the roughness of the bandages binding your hand quite unpleasant against your eyes. "Can we just talk? A-And be honest with each other like we promised we would."

Your pleas do not fall on deaf ears. Pantalone wants to listen to everything you have to say and tell you everything as long as you're willing to be as honest as you say you will be. He has faith you will, even with the voice that tells him you won't. If Pantalone never hears you out, then it doesn't matter how much truth you speak, as nothing will save your marriage from him refusing to believe it. If he wants to mend this as you seem to, he has to do his part. It should've been obvious it would be difficult after the heights of emotions you both experienced in a few days. 

The two of you must work through this eventually, preferably sooner rather than later.

"We'll talk for as long as necessary, my darling, and be as honest as possible with each other." Pantalone takes your other hand and brings it to his hands, warm and soft against your skin — just that much puts you at ease. One of his hands brushes your hair from your face and wipes your cheeks, a gentle, affectionate motion that is not lost on you. 

A man that did not want to be married to you would not be so tender toward you, would he? He would be cruel and taunting in your weakest moments. Pantalone is not sympathetic towards those he does not care about, and his idea of feigning it is vaguely veiled mocking. This is different — it's genuine. You nod in agreement.

"I don't want it to end," your words mumbles as you try to keep yourself together, "I don't want to break up over this."

"We won't," his reassurance comes hastily but is not insincere in the slightest, "we'll work through this. I promise we'll talk about it."

With confidence, you can't say everything you both have to say will be said, but you know that you intend to try to get as much as possible out. If that's all you can manage for a day, then that amount of progress is better than none. It's better than pushing and pulling forever; that is enough for you to know it will be alright.